“Moghul, you need not remain,” she said, addressing Singh, who lingered in the doorway. “I have an hour in which to convert this weeping beauty—and I will convert her, never fear. Convey my respectful salaams to his Majesty, Moghul, and ask him if he will deign to honour me with his presence at the end of that time, to see what progress I have made.”
Moghul withdrew, and as he closed the door, he turned the key in the lock.
Flora was still sitting on the couch, with her face buried in her hands.
Zula sprang to the door, and listened for a minute; then she hurried across the room, and seized Flora’s wrist.
“Why do you weep, woman?” she asked, in a hurried and low tone.
Flora looked up in astonishment, struck with the sudden change in the manner of her companion.
“Who are you?” she asked, “and what are you doing here?”
“I am a wretched, miserable, broken-hearted woman,” answered Zula.
“Ah! is that so?” cried Flora; “then you do but act your part?”
“That is all. I arrived in Delhi but a few short months ago from Calcutta. I came with my husband, who was in business here. He had gone to Calcutta to make me his wife. We were married and happy, and came here. I saw that husband butchered before my eyes, when this awful mutiny broke out in Delhi. But I was spared and brought to the Palace. I made the King believe that he had won my love. It was in the hope that an opportunity would occur for me to avenge my husband’s cruel murder, and rid India of a monster. I have here a small stiletto, and I have made a vow to plunge it into the heart of the King. I have won his confidence; he believes me to be true to him. Hitherto, he has seldom been alone when he has visited me, but he is becoming less cautious, and I pray Heaven that I may have the strength and courage to execute my purpose.”