Though this garden was comparatively small, being only about two acres in extent, the first hour spent there revived the drooping spirits of the poor girl. The ground had been planned, and laid out under the superintendence of an English landscape gardener. And with the aid of the tropical trees and plants which he found ready to his hand, he had turned the place into a perfect paradise. Palms and cocoas threw a grateful shade over almost every part. Gorgeous flower-beds, arranged in a novel style, and beautiful sweeps of emerald green sward, presented a magnificent picture, while the other senses were lulled by the delicious fragrance of the orange and citron trees, and the gem-like birds that flitted about in thousands and filled the air with melody. Flora very soon felt grateful for this increased freedom, and a desire for life came back. Day after day as she strolled about she endeavoured to find out if any means of escape presented themselves. But, alas! She was hemmed in on all sides. Steep banks, crowned with hedges, formed the boundary of the grounds, and at various points, on the summit of the banks, Sepoy sentries were stationed. These fellows often eyed the young Englishwoman with jealous and revengeful feelings, and they wondered amongst themselves why the King wished to keep such a “white-faced doll.” Not a few of them would have liked to turn their muskets on her and shoot her down.
But Flora knew nothing of the demoniacal feelings which stirred the breasts of these men. Her walks were always companionless, excepting when occasionally Moghul Singh forced his hateful presence upon her. This man grew more and more familiar in his conversation. And it was evident that it was not solely on the King’s account that he paid her so much attention, and guarded her so jealously. On the contrary, he looked with contemptuous pity on the imbecile representative of the House of Timour. But to him he owed his position, and to oppose his wishes was to court his own downfall. Yet, notwithstanding the risk, he daily allowed himself to be tempted from his allegiance by the pale, but beautiful, face of the Englishwoman. His passion got the better of his judgment, and he ventured at last to make advances to her on his own behalf.
“You look better since I obtained permission from his Majesty for you to use the garden,” he said one day as he conveyed some flowers to her room.
“I am better,” she answered. “Increased freedom has made my existence slightly less painful; but still life seems little better than a mockery.”
“That is because you are morbid. Life has plenty of enjoyment if you like to extract it.”
“How,” she cried, “how am I—a wretched prisoner in the hands of my country’s enemies, and separated from friends and relations—to extract enjoyment from such a miserable existence as mine?”
“Pshaw,” he answered. “You would sacrifice yourself to no purpose. Why not adapt yourself to circumstances? Your people are fond of talking about the ‘philosophy of resignation.’ Why don’t you act up to it now? You are a captive. You cannot alter that condition. You are reserved for the King’s plaything. That may not afford you much pleasure to contemplate. Moreover, I may tell you this—his Majesty intends in a few days to hand you over to one of his sons, and you will be conveyed away from here.”
Flora started with alarm as she heard this, and her face blanched.
“Never,” she cried; “I will throw myself over that parapet before I will suffer such an indignity.”
Moghul smiled.