“Oh, my poor sister in misfortune!” cried Flora, as she threw her arms round Zula’s neck, “this is very, very terrible. No doubt this monster of iniquity is deserving of such a fate, but will it not be better to leave him to the retribution that will speedily overtake him, and let us try and effect our escape to the British lines?”
“Escape is impossible,” Zula answered; “our enemies have become too wary. I have given up every hope, except the one that I, a weak, dishonoured, miserable woman, may be able to strike the imbecile King down. If it had not been for this hope I would have ended my own life long ago. If the King were dead, his army would become demoralised, and Delhi would fall. But while he lives, I fear the city will never be reduced, and thousands of brave English soldiers must be sacrificed in the futile attempt to gain an entrance. Therefore, I feel that it is a duty I owe to my country!”
“Alas! Zula, you speak truly, however fearful it may be to have to cherish such a feeling; but the atrocities committed since the mutiny broke out have been enough to unsex us, and turn even our women’s hearts to steel.”
“You would say so, if you had seen the sights that I have seen. My blood curdles, and I shudder as I think of them!”
She paused, for the key was being turned in the lock.
Flora sank on to the couch again as the door opened. On the threshold appeared the King, Moghul Singh, and several Sepoys.
“So, you she-dog,” the King hissed, addressing Zula, “you would have my life, would you? Thanks to the fidelity of Moghul, who has overheard your plot, that trouble will be saved you. The Prophet is good, and watches over the faithful. I shall live, and you shall die.”
He made a motion with his hand, and four Sepoys entered and seized the unfortunate Zula. Flora screamed and fainted, but, beyond a deadly paleness, the doomed woman betrayed no signs of emotion.
“Treacherous wretch,” continued the King, “I little believed that you were playing a double part. I have been blinded by your deceitful ways.”