The next day ZÓra was sitting in her little court alone, thinking of Maria, and every now and then the tears welled up in her eyes. She was sad, she knew not why, for all around her was bright and beautiful.

"She is thinking of me," she said, "and her thoughts are sad to-day, as mine are. Why doth sadness gather about me, while all are so happy? Coo! coo!" she cried; and her beautiful pigeons, rising from the roof of the little mosque, fluttered down into the court and clustered around her feet. "Say, what message shall I send her who loved you, and fed you every day? Yes, I will tell her you love her still; and I will send her one of your beautiful feathers, Zumrood!" she said to one of the birds; "you know she loved you more than any. Come hither, pretty one!" and she stooped and picked it up. "Now kiss me as you used to kiss her, you faithless bird; and let me take one of your glossy feathers for her whom we have lost. Ah! thou shouldst not peck me, darling; it will not hurt thee. And if it does, what matter? Thou shouldst not grudge pain for one that loved thee. Behold, I suffer pain always now—always, always! and there is no relief for it. Now go;" and she cast the bird fluttering into the air. "Go, thou at least art free. Yes," she continued, smoothing down the feather glowing with bright emerald hues, "this will remind her of her pet, and she will put it to her beautiful white throat as she used to put Zumrood's soft breast, and think of me. Yes, her thoughts will come back to us; and though she is far away among great folks, when she shuts her eyes she can see us all as I see her—me, and the birds and the flowers, and the trees, and even the sick children who loved her so. And now I will write. Ahmed will be here soon, and the letter must be ready;" and, bringing out her writing materials, she sat down in the shade of the fig tree and vine, and began her simple letter, which ran thus:—

"To my sister, beloved in the Lord Jesus and His mother Mary. Greeting, from my heart; and the blessing of Alla, the Most High, and peace be with you.

"I am not used to writing, and my composition and spelling will be very bad. You must forgive them. But I must write, for my heart is full and sad because I have no news of you, which fills my mind with grief. I used not to be sad; but now you are gone I seem not to be here, but far away with you. And yet I am here, and am sitting under the fig tree, and all the pigeons are cooing about me; and I have just taken a feather from Zumrood's breast, where you used to lay it against your white throat and teach it to kiss you. They all remember you, and we all want you so much to be with us; but we cannot go to you, nor can you come to us, at which our hearts are full of grief, and my tears will fall as I write. Abba is well, but he is sad too. 'When will the PadrÉ Sahib return to Moodgul?' he asks very often; but how can I tell him? So we are lonely, and I often lie down and weep; but that is no use, and you will say, 'Oh! foolish child to weep.' I have gone twice to the bastion with Ahmed, and sat there, and remembered all that happened. I would be there every day if I could, but they are beginning to tell me I am too old to go out by myself, and what will all the sick children do if I do not visit them? If you were here, I could go with you; but I look round and see you not. Remember I have no one in all the world but you, Maria; and when Abba dies, according to God's will, I will put on the green dress of my order and beg my way to your feet. It is sad to be alone, my sister, very sad, and more than I can bear sometimes, and I suffered to-day; but you will read these broken sentences of mine and pity me, for I am so lonely. Abba salutes you and your brother, and even old Hoosein-bee. All the village people salute you and pray for you. I hear that Abbas Khan is well, and am thankful. What more is there to write? Behold, I have written you so long a letter that you may be angry; but my love for you urged me on, and I thought you would like to have one of Zumrood's feathers. Do not forget me."

Then ZÓra made up the letter carefully, and enclosed the bright feather, and wrote the address. It was to go by a special messenger whom Abbas Khan had sent with a letter to his cousin, who was to depart in the afternoon, and who would reach Beejapoor in two or three days. He had promised to deliver it to Maria herself, and as Ahmed had now called to her from without, she took her letter and gave it to him with many injunctions to be impressed upon the messenger about its delivery, and a rupee, which she had asked of her grandfather for the purpose. "And, oh, Ahmed!" she said, "return soon and take me to the bastion in the afternoon. I have been writing to the Lady Maria, and my heart is sad; and I would go and sit there a while, for I am always better when I do so. Wilt thou come, or shall I go alone?"

"Not alone," he replied; "not alone. Have you forgotten the panther? and you are getting too old, ZÓra-bee, to go out by yourself. You should have a proper veiled garment on, for you grow too beautiful for the rough soldiers to look on. I must speak to Abba about this."

"Oh! no, no!" cried the girl, "who would harm a Syudanee? I shall never wear a veil. When I put on the green dress I shall not be veiled, Ahmed."

"May the Lord forbid thou shouldst ever wear it, my fairy," said the man, fervently. "Surely a better fate is thine than a Fakeer's life! Touba! Touba! why didst thou say that, lady?"

"I am not lady, Ahmed," she said, petulantly; "I am only ZÓra, the Fakeer; and thou wilt see me go forth in the name of God and the Prophet some day. No one will harm me, Ahmed, and I fear no one."

"Thou hast a brave heart, ZÓra," he returned; "but I pray Alla I may never see the day when thou hast to face the world alone. Ah, do not weep, child. I will take thee to the bastion presently, when I have got my gun; do not attempt to go alone. And this is to be the last time, remember," he continued, shaking his finger at her as he strode away—"the last time, I swear by your feet!"

"Ah, he always says that, poor fellow!" said the girl to herself, "and yet he comes with me all the same. Now let me get my sheet and cover myself. No one shall see me, if he does not like my face to be uncovered. Abba," she continued to her grandfather, who sat thinking in the doorway, telling his beads, "I am going out for awhile with Ahmed, but I will not delay. I have not been out all the day."

"Go, ZÓra," he said quietly. "May Alla keep thee! But do not delay long. My heart trembles for thee sometimes when thou art long absent; but Ahmed will be with thee, and I do not fear."

Ahmed soon returned with his matchlock over his shoulder, and its match lighted; and they set out together, and were soon at the spot so dear to the girl. Ahmed saw that she was sad, and thought she would be better alone, and, telling her so, sat down on the lowest step of those which led up to the bastion, and bidding her be careful as she passed him and went on to her old place. It was a beautiful afternoon. The fleecy clouds were no longer in motion, but were settling down into the west in thin, straight lines. The waters of the river were much diminished, but streams, touched by the sun's light, were sparkling as they descended the rocks of the cataract, and the river bed was full of gentle murmur as the water plashed among the low rocks and shallows of its course. Even the precipices and the foliage glowed with rich colours, and a sense of beauty was more predominant than the terror the scene often inspired. I think we can partly guess the girl's thoughts.

"It would have been better I had never seen them," she said to herself, "or known them as I do, for now I yearn for Maria; and though she told me not to think of him," and a blush spread over her fair face as she drew her covering over her face involuntarily. "But it is as if he were there, when he stood that day and looked kindly on me; and how can I forget him? I cannot forget that night. I may be old, I may wander among the people as one devoted to God, and the world may be hard to me, but I shall not forget."

Hers was an untutored mind, with no experience, filled only by two seemingly painful objects—her friends, for so they had seemed to her, whom she should never meet again; and the life she might have to live were she alone. What refuge, or chance of refuge, had she to look to when her grandfather passed away? And it was clear to her that he grew weaker month after month. The decay was gradual, but it was impending; and when the end came, her battle of life would begin. It was a gloomy prospect, filled with terror, and the girl's tears fell fast and often as she sat alone, while the great river seemed to moan and sob in sympathy. How long she would have sat there it is impossible to say; the place and its recollections were too precious to her to desert; the evening was so calm and balmy, the clouds in the west were becoming golden, and the ravine and the cataract were veiled with a thin, glowing vapour, mingled with spray.

Suddenly a powerful voice from a place high in the rocks above her called out, "Ahmed! Ahmed! Where art thou?" ZÓra knew the voice: it was Johur's, the Nawab's Abyssinian slave, who had often helped her to climb rocks, and gather flowers of the beautiful creepers which hung over them. "Ahmed! Ahmed!"

"I am here," shouted Ahmed, who had ascended the bastion to see who called him. "What do you want with me?"

"The master wants thee; come up: he is angry that thou art not present. Take care, he is in no humour to wait."

"I will take ZÓra home," he replied, "and come to you by the main road."

"That will not do," cried the slave; "come up directly. If I go and say I have seen thee then, and thou wouldst not come, what would happen? Ah, thou knowest too well! Come, I will protect the lady."

"I must go, ZÓra," said Ahmed, "or I shall be flogged. Johur will see thee home. Thou art not afraid of him?"

"No," she said, "I do not fear Johur, he is always good to me." And as she spoke, Ahmed laid his gun over his shoulder, and ran up the narrow pathway to the palace. Meeting Johur, who was descending, he asked, "What does he want with me, Johur?"

"As if I knew," was the reply. "It is some message to be taken somewhere. Go and see for thyself, and be quick," and Ahmed hurried on; while Johur, calling to ZÓra, bid her wait, for he was coming to her as fast as he could. He had two other slaves with him, but she did not fear them. She had risen as he approached her, with a humble reverence, but sate down again. Her thoughts were now blurred and indefinite; her thread of meditation and enjoyment had been broken, and she seemed unable to renew it in any form. The negro had seated himself a little distance from her, on a stone, and appeared to look at her with sad eyes; and gradually a gloom as of apprehension began to steal over her. She was about to rise, and was drawing her sheet about her, when she heard a low sob from the man, and saw tears trickle down his face.

"What is the matter, Johur?" she asked kindly, as she advanced a step towards him; "has the Nawab punished thee? Is he angry with thee?"

"It is for thee I weep, lady," he said. "I have to take thee to him; but I wish I were dead."

"Me!" exclaimed ZÓra, shivering with fear; "me! to him! Oh, thou wouldst not do this evil, Johur? Hast thou not carried me over rocks, gathered flowers for me, sat here with me, and treated me like thine own child, Johur? Dost thou remember? Oh, it is not true! Tell me it is not true, and I will kiss thy feet. Take me to Abba, and he will reward thee; but do not this cruel evil in the sight of God to a Fakeer's child."

"If I speak to thee I shall fail," the man answered between his closed teeth. "If I do not take thee I shall be beheaded; my life is in thy hands, lady. Come quietly with me, I will not hurt thee."

"To him?" shrieked ZÓra; "to him, the merciless? O Alla, take me!" she cried, with an exceeding bitter cry of despair, as she rushed to the low parapet of the bastion, with intent to throw herself over; but Johur caught her in his arms in time to prevent her.

"Are you mad?" he cried; "nay, if thou art, I cannot help thee. Only forgive me, ZÓra-bee, for I must do this deed or die! Do not struggle so, child, you will but hurt yourself, and I shall be blamed. Ho! Abdulla, come up, quick! There, swathe her sheet round her, while I hold her; now thy blanket, Jaffur. So, now, hold it out, and I will put her into it, and walk by her side. Go gently down the steps, while I hold her."

What could the girl do. In Johur's powerful arms, strong and active as she was, she felt a very child. There had been no chance to run, else the fleetest of the three might not have overtaken her; and now, swathed as she was, and her hands tied to her sides, what could she do? It was in vain that she besought Johur to let her go; in vain appealed to his pity, to his good, kind heart, or adjured him by his mother, by his sister, and by Alla and the saints, to let her go. It was all in vain. Nor could her piteous shrieks be heard among those grim rocks, or attended to by the men who bore her on at the utmost speed the rocky path would admit of. In her agony she bit her lips till the blood flowed.

Her incessant cries grew hoarser and hoarser, her hair had become loosened, and hung dishevelled over her face, and her throat and eyes were parched and burning. Her piteous cries had dwindled into low moans, of which "Alla! Alla! Alla!" was all that could be heard; and under the shock of seizure, and the horrible anticipations which it involved, the free, active life of the girl, perhaps, only preserved her senses.

At last she was sensible of having reached level ground, and saw that a door was opened, which, as the men carried her in, was shut behind her and bolted. Then two of the palace eunuchs, whom she knew by sight, took her, as she was lying in the blanket, across the court to another door, Johur remaining by her side, blubbering like a child, and praying her to forgive him, but she could answer nothing. She could not then collect her thoughts to speak even a word; but they returned to her as two women advanced as she arose from the ground where she had been deposited, one of whom took her in her arms, and then cracked her finger-joints against her own temples.

"Welcome!" she cried, "O bride. Welcome, in the name of Ibrahim and Zapoora; welcome to thy lover's house, where thou hast gold, and jewels, and dignity, and a noble love awaiting thee."

ZÓra looked at the speaker with her great eyes distended by terror and outrage, and would have flown at her like a young tigress had not the other woman intervened.

"Do not speak to her, MÁma Luteefa; be quiet!" cried Shireen-bee. "Don't you see she is mad? Is this a time to speak of jewels, and riches, and a lover? Be quiet, I say. Come, my lamb, my dove, my pretty bird, come; do not be afraid; drink some cool water, and sit down and rest, thou wilt recover presently; come!"

But ZÓra pushed the woman fiercely away, dashing the silver cup of water to the ground, rushing to a corner, where she crouched down like a wounded animal, drawing the scarf round her head and body. The women were afraid of her. Her utterly dishevelled hair hung in wild masses about her breast and neck; her lips were white and dry, flecked with blood and foam, which had dried there; her cheeks were already hollow and sunken, and of an ashy grey colour, while her eyes seemed sunk in their sockets, and flashed with the angry glare of a panther.

"Mercy on us!" said MÁma Luteefa, trembling, "she looks as if she would spring on us like a wild cat, and tear us to pieces. What is to be done with her? Yet she is beautiful, Shireen-bee, most beautiful in her passion. Hush! here is the Nawab; what will he do?"

As the woman spoke, Osman Beg entered the apartment. "What have ye done with her?" he said, sharply. "Johur told me she was here."

MÁma Luteefa pointed to the corner, which was somewhat dark. "There she is," she said, rising. "We cannot get her to speak; she will not drink water, and sits there growling like a wild cat. We are afraid of her, Nawab Sahib."

"Afraid!" he said, savagely; "afraid! Why 'tis thy trade, MÁma Luteefa, to fit brides for their husbands. Afraid!" and he stepped hastily across the room, and seizing ZÓra by the arm, dragged her to her feet. "This the beauty they promised me?" he said scornfully, flinging away the girl's hand.

"Do not fling away thy destiny, my lord," said MÁma Luteefa. "Behold she is beautiful, more lovely than I ever thought for. That is no low-born maiden; but whoever she is, she hath blood as good as thine, Osman Beg."

The action of the Nawab had roused all ZÓra's dormant energy. "Let me go! let me go!" she cried, passionately. "Let me go! Abba is waiting for me. He will die if I do not go to him! For the love of Alla, let me go! Thou wouldst not insult a Syud's child? By your mother's honour, stay me no longer, and I will pray for thee during thy life. By the honour of and life of Queen Chand I implore thee to let me go, or I shall die, and Abba will die. How often hath the old man been kind to thee; how often sent thee medicine when thou wert ill." She had brushed aside the hair from her face mechanically as she spoke in broken words, and stood before him with her face flushed and her eyes blazing. "Insult and dishonour to me, to a Syud's child!" she continued, indignantly; "it cannot be. Nawab, if thou hast ought of justice and mercy in thy heart, have the door opened and let me go free!"

"Ha!" returned the Nawab, in a low, hissing voice, "let thee go? No, a thousand times no! Thou art very beautiful, ZÓra," he continued, almost tenderly, "and I accept my destiny. For good or for evil, for honour or dishonour, I accept it as it was sent. Thou shalt be my wife, ZÓra, whether thou wilt or no. Need I, Osman Beg, ask permission of a wilful child? Go to! be not a fool, ZÓra! Riches and jewels may not tempt thee, but I will have thy love, if it be only to trample it in the dust and fling it away. Dost thou hear? Who defies Osman Beg perishes; yet thou mightest live in honour, and have children about thy knees, and thy grandfather living in peace until he died. Choose, then, what thou wilt. Once thy grandfather rejected me with scorn, now my turn has come."

ZÓra had been tottering as she stood; and as she watched the horrible expressions which followed each other over the Nawab's face, she became terrified, and sank fainting to the ground.

"Do not kill her, Nawab Sahib!" said MÁma Luteefa, rising to support ZÓra, as did also Shireen. "Do not terrify her to death. If anyone had said such words to me, and looked so fierce, and twirled his moustachios as you did, I should have died outright. It is well if this child be not dead already. Look up, my sweet, and drink. Good! now thou wilt be better." But ZÓra was not better; as the water had touched her lips she fainted again.

"Instead of all your violence," said Luteefa, drawing herself up, "you should have approached her with blandishments, filled her mouth with sugar-candy, and put a string of pearls round her neck, and greeted her with a blessing. Instead of which, Alla defend us! you have terrified her out of her wits; and she is but a tender child;" and she took up the girl's head and laid it on her lap, smoothing away the dishevelled hair and wiping the dry lips with a moistened handkerchief. "Look how lovely she is, my lord, and bless Alla and me that she is thy destiny."

"MÁma Sahiba," returned the Nawab, with a sneer, "thou knowest the old saying, 'Pigeons mate with pigeons, and hawks with hawks.' I am no pigeon, nor is she; we are hawks, and will live in our own fashion. She hath ever been free and wild, with no control; now she will find she hath a master, like the young colt who rears and plunges when he feels the bit and the spur, but soon discovers that it's best to go quietly. Take her up, and put her on a bed; bathe her and soothe her; put on any clothes ye will. To-morrow the Nika will be performed, and the old man will submit to what he cannot avert."

"To-morrow!" cried the women, in a breath. "Do you think we can prepare her by to-morrow? Weeks might pass before she consents."

"I have said it," he replied; "and did I wait for her consent, I should not fulfil my destiny. I cannot recall spoken words. See ye to what ye have to do; why need she know? When the Moolla has spoken the Nika, she is mine, and cannot escape. See ye to it!" and he went out haughtily.

"What can we do? what can we do?" cried MÁma Luteefa, whimpering, and wringing her hands. "If it were known in Moodgul that I had any hand in this violence, I should lose all my practice, and my honour, and my respect"—and she counted these upon the tips of her fingers—"and my wealth, and my reputation. Yes, I knew they were five. But I never had a hand in anything like this before; and I will tell it in the bazaars; I will cry it from the house top; yea, I will sit in the gate of the mosque and cry it to the faithful as they go to prayers," exclaimed the dame, by way of climax. "I will even go to Queen Chand's feet, and tell it there. What do I care?"

"Beware! MÁma Luteefa," said Shireen-bee, with her finger on her lips; "those unblessed eunuchs are always prying about, and might hear thee. Let us take the girl in from this cold place; and, I think, if we sent for Goolab-bee, who knows her, she might be of use; ZÓra would speak to her!"

Now Goolab-bee was the seller of pÁn. Her husband kept the only shop in the village. Of course she knew ZÓra perfectly. It was her hour for coming, too; she never failed, for she must deliver her parcel before sunset, that she might get home again before dark.

ZÓra had recovered from the faint, and had sat up, looking wildly about her. Her mouth was so parched that she now drank with avidity the water that was offered to her, and held out the cup for more. She would not speak, but covered up her head in the sheet that had been thrown over her. MÁma Luteefa, thinking that a familiar name would rouse her, said kindly, "Do not fret, my fairy, Goolab-bee will be here directly, and you can talk to her."

"Goolab! where is she? Oh! bring her to me if ye have any pity!" cried ZÓra; and, almost as she spoke, the voice of the woman was heard without, and she was called in as she entered. ZÓra rose from the bed, and rushed into her arms. "Oh! save me, mother! save me!" she cried; "take me away, they have brought me here by force, and I shall die!"

No one in the village had yet heard of the outrage; the old man only fretted that his child was away so long.

"ZÓra," said the woman, bursting into tears, "thou here! My child! my child! this is no place for thee. Come away with me. Abba will be missing thee, and grieving sorely."

"She cannot go," said MÁma Luteefa, grimly. "She is to be the Nawab's bride. This is only the usual shyness, and thou canst explain all to her."

"Leave us alone, then," said Goolab. "I wish to hear all from her own lips;" and the others, thinking this but reasonable, left them alone.

And ZÓra told all—how she had been carried off by the slaves; how the Nawab had threatened her, and how she feared the worst. "The two women are kind," she said, "but I cannot trust them. How can I escape, mother? he is merciless."

"There is no hope from him; but do not live without hope, my child. Alla, the Most High, protects the orphan. I will go to my husband, who is a wise man, and can advise us. I will take him to thy grandfather, and tell him too. If he consent, all may be well."

"No! no! no!" cried the girl. "I would sooner die!"

"Wait, then. I will persuade MÁma Luteefa to put off the Nika, and I will come to thee early to-morrow. Thou art quite safe to-night; but eat nothing. As you live, do not trust them. Here is some parched rice. As I left the shop I filled my pocket from the basket, to eat as I came up the hill. There, tie it in the end of the sheet; there is enough to stay hunger till I come again. And now I must go, and I shall need a torch as it is. Fear not, my child; you have more friends than you wot of."

"Oh, tell him all, mother!" sobbed the girl, as she clung to Goolab's neck. "Indeed, indeed, I had no thought of this! Oh, mother, I had no thought! I was taken unawares, and tried to leap from the bastion into the river; but Johur held me, and I had no strength to escape. Tell Abba all. I have no wish to live: my honour is gone, and I can but die; and even the river is kinder than he is, for it will hide my shame."

"No! no!" sobbed the woman. "Wait, and put thy trust in the Lord, and do not think of death."

"Have you pacified her?" asked MÁma Luteefa, anxiously. "Will she be quiet?"

"Yes, if you do not meddle with her," was the reply.

"And you will come to-morrow?"

"I will," replied Goolab, and hastened away.