Ahmad advanced and saluted her with pointed courtesy. He was a tall, powerfully built man, whose swarthy irregular features indicated a mingling of low caste blood. As a whole his face was not unhandsome, though the expression of his mouth and chin denoted cruelty and treachery—the latter, perhaps, an accomplishment rather than a failing to the Oriental mind.
"Greeting, fair Lady," he exclaimed. "Jhansi is won. The Foreigners have surrendered."
She directed a searching glance to read the veiled meaning expressed in his intonation as well as in his manner.
"They have surrendered. Then where are they"? she asked. "Hast thou not brought any of them hither"?
A cruel smile broke upon Ahmad's face as he turned and pointed with the blade of his sword to the open doorway, through which could be caught a glimpse of the surging mob without, uplifting their bloody trophies.
"Aye," he explained, "I have brought some of them here. The rest I have sent to a secure prison."
His gesture was observed by his followers. The shout rose with greater volume than before—
"Deen! Deen! Futteh. Mohammed."
"Success to the Faith of Mohammed."
For a moment the Rani covered her eyes with her hands, as if to blot out the gruesome spectacle. Then she demanded sternly—