A Noble Queen. Taylor Meadows

find peace in this poor house, and Zóra will love thee, and watch thee. That soft silky hair of thine is not of Hind, but of Europe, and thou wilt tell me of thy sweet country."

      Maria had removed her hood, and her fair, silky hair was clustering about her neck and shoulders. She had never looked more lovely than at this moment; the rich complexion glowing with excitement and pleasure; her fair white throat rising out of her kerchief of fine white muslin, as she stooped down to receive the old man's blessing of welcome; and as he put Zóra's hand into hers, he said, "Take her, and guide her, for she is alone."

      "Come, lady!" said Zóra, "I will show thee where thou wilt live. Long ago, they say, my grandmother and my mother lived there; but the place is too large for me alone, and my old servant and I live in a room apart, near my grandfather. Come and see!"

      They passed through a room, which was used as a kitchen, and entered a small court, which had low cloisters all round, from which doors opened to apartments within. The whole was small, but exquisitely neat and pure; and in the centre was a plot in which were some purple amaranths, marigolds, and other common flowers, and some bushes of several kinds of jessamine.

      "These are my flowers," she said, "and I love them so; and yonder is a vine, which gives us grapes in the cool weather; and one fig-tree, which shades me from the sun; and I love to sit here and read, and feed my pigeons and the birds that come to me. And they know me so well now, even the parrots and mynas, though they are wild. Coo! coo!" she cried, raising her voice, as a flock of beautiful pigeons flew in, and alighting, pressed round her. "They belong to the mosque, you know, lady, and no one molests them."

      "Call me Maria now," said the lady. "There should be no veil or restraint between us."

      "But I am only a poor orphan," she said.

      "As I am also," Maria returned, sadly, "and a widow, too."

      "Thou a widow, and so young and so beautiful?" said the girl. "May I love thee, and serve thee? See! the pigeons are not afraid of thee, nor am I."

      "We will love each other," said Maria, gently stroking the girl's head. "And if we stay——"

      "Oh, you will not depart," said Zóra, pitifully, "and leave me alone again! I have seen you only to love you, and without you all would be dark. I have had no world but this to live in, and I was happy; but now you are come from a far country, and brought with you a joy my heart has never known. Ah, yes, the Mother Mary would not take you away from Zóra! And now see," she continued more gaily, "here are your brother's rooms, and a door to go out by to the mosque, if he wishes, and whithersoever he pleases; and a room for your servants, which can be your kitchen. No one will come near you, and you can do as you please."

      The apartments were indeed ample for all purposes, and when the priest had got up their few possessions, and the two old servants, Pedro and Joanna, had arranged them and their own, the rooms lost the bare, uninhabited look they had had at first, and became cheerful and comfortable. Zóra's old servant had prepared an ample repast of omelette and kicheri, to which the travellers did justice after their night journey.

      The morning had been oppressively hot, and indeed all day the sun's rays had beaten down upon the narrow valley and its bare granite rocks with an intensity of heat hardly supportable, yet the court had remained refreshingly cool. In the evening, however, the radiation from the rocks increased the heat, and the brother and sister betook themselves to the terrace of the court and looked around them. Heavy clouds were gathering overhead, and flashes of lurid sheet lightning every now and then seemed to spring from their depths and rush across the sky, lighting up the grim fort for an instant, and again leaving all darker than before. Low mutterings of thunder came down the ravine, accompanied by fitful gusts of wind, which again ceased, and all was still; but the darkness grew more intense, till not even the fort or the rocks could be seen.

      Maria was no coward of the elements, and she and her brother watched the sublime progress of the storm which was evidently approaching, with intense interest, hardly speaking. A few large plashing drops of rain fell on them, and warned them to retire, but they only rose and gazed around. The low moaning of the cataract above came down in the still silence, and the river murmured with a kind of measured plash among the rocks; there was not a breath of wind to stir the flame of the small lamp which burned below, and the very suspense was fearful.

      Suddenly a heavy shower fell, with an almost sulphurous odour, forcing them to retire, when, and as if that had been the signal, a stream of forked lightning burst from the clouds which hung, as it were, immediately over their heads, illuminating in a ghastly manner the fort, the town, the river, and hills beyond; yet but for an instant only, one which was never forgotten, for thunder crashed above them. Peal after peal broke over the ravine of the fort, and was re-echoed among the rocks and wild hills with tremendous and deafening roar, which for a time was almost continuous.

      Brother and sister performed their evening devotions, thankful for the shelter they enjoyed; and when Francis had withdrawn to his room, Maria sat long, meditating over the events at Moodgul and their consequences, grateful for having escaped violence, the cause of which, but for Dom Diego's uncontrollable passion, she would not have been aware; thankful, too, for shelter in their trouble to both.

      Whether they were to be prisoners, or whether guests, she knew not; but at least they had found friends who seemed real and sincere, and anything, even a prison, would be welcome rather than the ordeal of the Inquisition, or the dangers of her own once happy home. What the end might be, whither she might be led, she had no thought, for all the future was dark; but she could rest her hopes on Jesus and his Holy Mother, and in sure faith in both, she knelt down before her crucifix and prayed fervently.

      As she prayed she heard the door open softly, and amidst a glare of lightning which soon ceased, the terrified face of Zóra appeared, pale and anxious. "Forgive me," she cried, as she entered, "but I was frightened by the thunder and lightning, and have come to thee. Abba sleeps soundly, and I was alone; may I stay here with thee till the storm is past?"

      "Thou art welcome, child," said Maria, gently; "lie down on my little bed, and I will be with thee presently. It is truly a fearful night, but God protects us. When I have finished my prayer I will come to thee."

      Then Zóra lay down, and covered herself closely at first, but now and again peered out, her large eyes distended with wonder as she watched the Christian lady's simple devotions. "She prays," she thought, "and yet men say Christians are godless and infidel; but they are false and wicked who say so."

      After a little while Maria rose, combed out her silky hair, divested herself of her upper garments, and after her usual ablution, kissed the child, and lay down beside her; and though the thunder still roared and the lightning flashed, sleep came to them as they lay locked in each other's arms: thus they rested peacefully, while the thunder clouds passed away down the river to the east, dispensing their cooling and fertilising influences far and wide, and the stars shone out with a dewy brilliance over the fort, the river, and the ever-moaning cataract. It was the opening of the monsoon.

      In the early morning they awoke. Zóra raised herself on her arms, and looked with earnest eyes on her companion. "How beautiful thou art, Maria," she said, as she smoothed the soft hair from her brow; "and how fair, and thy cheek like a pale Oleander flower. Alla pity thee, and protect thee!"

      "I have rested well," said Maria, smiling; "I do not think we awoke for all the thunder, and now 'tis calm and fresh. When it is time, if thou wilt, we will go abroad for awhile. I am used to do so, alone at Moodgul, for I had many sick people to look after who expected me. Thou art not afraid?"

      "Oh, no!" returned the girl. "I, too, have sick people in the village, and I will show them to thee. I am not afraid, and everyone is kind to me, even the rough soldiers salute me; and I had such sweet dreams, Maria. Angels of Paradise seemed to be tending me, and there were flowers around me, and all because I lay in thy arms like a child."

      "Would thou wert a child of hers, Zóra," and Maria pointed to a little picture she had hung beneath the crucifix; "but go now, and when thou art ready come for me. See, there is my old servant to help, and I will not delay. And how hast thou passed the night, Joanna?" she asked. "A good day to thee."

      "We