There were other objects also which raised feelings of pity in our minds.  During our walks through the streets we caught sight of dozens of cats and tame monkeys on the roofs of the houses, looking at us with most woe-begone countenances, the latter chattering with fear.  These, as well as birds of every description left behind in cages by their owners on their flight, literally starved to death in the houses and streets of the city.  There was no food for such as these, and it is lamentable to think of the torture and suffering the poor pet creatures endured till death put an end to their misery.

Dead bodies of sepoys and city inhabitants lay scattered in every direction, poisoning the air for many days, and raising a stench which was unbearable.  These in time were almost all cleared away by the native scavengers, but in some distant streets corpses lay rotting in the sun for weeks, and during my rides on duty, when stationed at the Ajmir Gate, I often came across a dead body which had escaped search.

On the afternoon of the 21st a most important capture was effected by Hodson.  Shah Bahadoor Shah, the old King of Delhi, was taken by that officer near the city while endeavouring to escape down-country.

Hodson, with his accustomed daring, and accompanied by 100 only of his own troopers, seized the person of the King from amongst thousands of armed dependents and rabble, who, awed by his stern demeanour, did not raise a hand in resisting the capture.  The King was brought to Delhi the same day, and lodged as a prisoner in the house formerly the residence of the notorious Begum Sumroo.  He was guarded by fifty men of my regiment, under command of a Lieutenant; and on the 22nd I went to see him, accompanied by our Adjutant.

Sitting cross-legged on a cushion placed on a common native charpoy, or bed, in the verandah of a courtyard, was the last representative of the Great Mogul dynasty.  There was nothing imposing in his appearance, save a long white beard which reached to his girdle.  About middle height, and upwards of seventy years old, he was dressed in white, with a conical-shaped turban of the same colour and material, while at his back two attendants stood, waving over his head large fans of peacocks’ feathers, the emblem of sovereignty—­a pitiable farce in the case of one who was already shorn of his regal attributes, a prisoner in the hands of his enemies.  Not a word came from his lips; in silence he sat day and night, with his eyes cast on the ground, and as though utterly oblivious of the condition in which he was placed.  On another bed, three feet from the King, sat the officer on guard, while two stalwart European sentries, with fixed bayonets, stood on either side.  The orders given were that on any attempt at a rescue the officer was immediately to shoot the King with his own hand.

[Illustration:  KING OF DELHI AS A PRISONER IN 1857.]

[From a photograph taken from a pencil sketch by Captain Robles, who was placed on guard over him.]