It was a luxurious apartment. Splendid mirrors adorned the walls, and costly silken curtains hung at the windows. Marble statuary peeped from clusters of magnificent flowers and ferns, and some choice water-colour drawings by English artists were suspended on the walls by gold cords. A harp stood at one end of the room. There was also a grand-piano, while a guitar was lying on an ottoman. Tastefully arranged in various corners of the room were gilded stands, and on these stands were cages of gorgeously-plumaged birds, that made the air melodious with their songs.
“This is my prison,” said Zula, as Flora threw herself on to a couch, and burst into tears. “Here his Majesty visits me, and I am happy—oh, so happy. Tral, lal, la, la, la.”
She sat down at the piano, and with light and rapid fingers ran over the keys; and then, in a sweet, well-modulated voice, sang—
“My heart was a garden
Where fresh leaves grew;
Flowers there were many,
And weeds a few;
Cold winds blew,
And the frosts came thither;
For flowers will wither,