as attractive as it was in reality arch, good humoured, and interesting. She was very plainly, not to say coarsely, clad; but the simple muslin scarf, which passing round her body and head fell over her right arm, was worn with a peculiar air and grace, and the petticoat of cotton stuff was, perhaps, fuller and more womanly than her age required.

She was mistress of her grandfather's house; and the gossips about, though somewhat shocked at her being seen abroad at all, told her she was too old to wear a child's trousers, and they had been discarded. Round her neck she wore a single silver ring, and bracelets and anklets of the same, but hid away in a chest were some gold ornaments and rich clothes. And in regard to these, and to his former life, her grandfather was silent. Some day, he had said, he would tell her all, but she was too young yet, and it was a sad story. All that she knew of him from the neighbours was that, although a Dervish, he was a State prisoner, and the time of his first coming to the fort had been forgotten long ago.

Her mother had died in her infancy, yet Zóra's young life had been a happy one as she grew up. The old man had taught her the rudiments of Persian, and the meaning of words, at first parrotwise, but gradually, and with the aid of a village scribe, she had progressed easily and satisfactorily. Her grandfather usually spoke to her in that language, and she could now write a fair hand, and record what he dictated to her. She had had few companions, except when she was a mere child, for as she grew older her grandfather admonished her against the idle gossip of the little village which lay beneath the fortress, and when she went out with him to lead him where he desired to go, no one, out of respect to the old man, ever addressed her. She had only one attendant, an old woman named Mamoola, who swept the house and cooked their simple meals, and was assisted by Zóra in all other household matters with unceasing skill and interest in her occupation. Who could make the tender hot cakes and the various kinds of vermicelli in which the old man delighted more deftly than Zóra? Who could sew the old-fashioned flowing garments he wore so well as she? And she had learned also to make quilted caps, and embroider them with gold and silver ornaments and spangles, which the soldiers of the fort commissioned, and were sold also in the little weekly bazaar, bringing a welcome addition to their limited means. Zóra's soft, pretty drawer strings, also, were knitted in elegant patterns, and finished with gay tassels, and there was an active demand for them. So, in all respects, the little maiden was ever busy, and any loneliness of life or care had, as yet, never reached her.

Zóra sighed as she looked on the young Khan, so restless in his feverish sleep. Why should he have come to such a pass? Why should the pitiful Alla have thus struck him down in his strength and power of life, and cast him upon the care of strangers? What misery would be his mother's, or his sister's, perhaps his wife's, if they could only see him now, moaning and murmuring in his sleep, and now and again shouting his fierce battle-cry, "Deen! Deen!" and raising his arm to strike. What was war, that men should risk their lives for its dread honours, sudden death or a maimed life? War was, indeed, a common theme even among children of her own age, and there were names of heroes in their mouths. But war had now come to the lonely, secluded fortress of Juldroog. Soldiers came and went, and wounded men were brought in, and her grandfather was often called to them. Ah! it must be pitiful to see thousands of them lying on the bare earth, blistering in the sun, with horrible wounds undressed and uncared for; and the very thoughts made her shiver and draw her scarf tighter around her.

Before her lay a youth whose form was cast in a noble fashion. His muscular arms were bare, and his broad chest, except where it was bound up. When the features were at rest, they seemed to her grand and beautiful; and when he sometimes smiled during his snatches of sleep, a winning frank expression passed over them, and the gentlest smile she had ever seen. Again, in a paroxysm of pain or delirium, the whole was distorted and blurred, and the girl turned away her face with tears and low sobs, which she could only with difficulty stifle. And still she watched, and the old man kept his prayerful vigil, and the cataract continued its monotonous, thundering roar, which seemed at times to fall into a sobbing moan.

"Lie down and sleep, Zóra," said the Dervish, in a low tone. "Thou must be weary of watching, my child, and the night is far spent."

"Not so, Abba!" which was her usual term of endearment for her grandfather; "not so. I am not weary. I cannot sleep; and he needs watching every moment. He will not bear the sheet over his chest, and is ever throwing it off; his lips are dry and parched; and he looks at me sometimes, and points to his throat and head, as if to ask for cool drink and wet cloths, and I have to give them. O Abba! will he die? Surely the good God will spare him. Come and feel his pulse, for he seems hotter and more restless."

"It is as you say, my darling," replied the old man, who had risen and felt his patient all over. "It may be the crisis of the sun fever, and he may be better, or may pass away in death at dawn. Go quietly; bring me of the cooling powders we made a few days ago; they are from a formula of Aboo Sena, of blessed memory, and are potent to check fever like this. Go and bring one."

"Oh that these sightless eyes could see but for a moment, that his face might be revealed to me," thought the Dervish; "names that I have not heard for years have escaped his lips, and Humeed Khan is his uncle! What Humeed Khan? what Ankoos Khan? Eyn-ool-Moolk—is that traitor still living? Even as I sit here, blind and helpless, the old scenes—the noble buildings of Beejapoor, the pomp of royalty and war, are before me—all confused and blurred in my memory with the miserable King Ibrahim and his riotous debauchery. Strange mockery of fate! that when honour and wealth were seemingly in my grasp they should have passed into blindness and this prison. Yet it was thy will, O pitiful Alla! and the old Dervish accepts it reverently. I must be careful," he continued to himself, as the light step of Zóra entered the chamber. "She hath never known, and must not see my weakness. Zóra, hast thou brought the medicine?"

"It is here, Abba," she said. "How am I to give it?" "When he is athirst again, put half the powder into the drink, and watch the result. If his skin becomes moist, give no more; but if in an hour he is still burning, give him the rest. I can do no more, child, but commit him into the Lord's hands. I shall not leave thee, Zóra; but I am weary, and would sleep. If thou art afraid at any time, I shall awake with a touch, and will sit by thee; but where are the Nawab's people? they can take their turn, surely."

"All gone," said Zóra. "With one excuse or other they went away, and I have been alone; but one man lies without who has sat there since the youth was brought in, looking wistful, like a dog which seeks his master. I asked him who he was, and he says he is Runga Naik Beydur, but that he may not come in as he is of low caste. May he come, Abba?"

"Surely, child, surely. True Islam knows no distinction of caste in mercy's service, and thou mayest admit him to watch with thee if thou wilt; and 'tis thus, my brave one," he added, tenderly passing his hands over her face; "'tis thus thou learnest the ways of mercy and pity. See, he stirs and writhes. I hear his movement."

"'Tis but what has happened before," she replied, as she poured some of the sherbet into a small silver cup, and mixed