The only light in her apartment was a small, swinging cocoa-nut lamp. It was like her hope, faint, and barely did it make the darkness more than visible. But its melancholy and flickering rays served, at least, to reveal to her the cheerlessness of her apartment. The only furniture was a native wooden bedstead, covered with matting; a bench fixed to the wall to serve as a table, and two massive, wooden chairs. The walls themselves were plasterless, for the plaster had fallen away with damp and age; and the only decoration, if worthy of the name, was a large native drawing of a hideous idol. It had a dozen arms on each side, and in each hand it held a sort of club. Flora’s eyes had wandered to this picture: she had gazed at it, until somehow it took shape in her thoughts as the “Retributive God” that would arise with its piercing eyes to discover, and its many hands to smite down the cruel and relentless enemy of her country, and the slayer of her kindred. She felt sure that the horrid mutiny could not go on for long. The Great White Hand was mighty in its strength. There were British soldiers who had never yet been conquered; would they not speedily come and destroy the foe, whose triumph could be but short-lived?
Her meditations were suddenly interrupted by the opening of the door, and turning her eyes in that direction, she uttered an involuntary cry of alarm, as they fell upon the dusky form of Jewan Bukht.
“Why do you cry as if a cobra had stung you?” he asked, angrily.
“A cobra would be more welcome than you!” she answered with a shudder; “for it kills only through an instinct of self-preservation, and does not wilfully torture its victims.”
“Umph, you are complimentary,” as he locked the door, and moved near to the shrinking girl. “I have not tortured you.”
“Your very presence is torture to me.”
“Indeed! If your heart and mine were taken from our bodies, and laid side by side, would there be any perceptible difference in their construction? Why, then, should my presence torture you, since my heart is similar to your own? It is because my skin is dark. Were it of the same sickly hue as your own, you would have no scruples.”
“Your words are false,” she answered, quivering with indignation. “An honourable woman, when once she has given her love, is true to death.”
The man sneered scornfully, as he seated himself in one of the chairs.