He now had the possibility of fire, so that evening the little cup in the hills held quite comfortable encampment.

Roy had brought down the sledge, and using the swords and their scabbards as supports, had made a lean-to tent against a warm rock out of the strip of shawl. In this he had strewn juniper branches to make a soft bed, and the children could just creep into it. Then they had the marmot, roasted in its skin, for supper, and all the three were too hungry to ask themselves if marmot flesh was as toothsome as rabbit or as bitter as squirrel! And Tumbu ate the bones with an air as if he would say, "It is not bad, but to-morrow I must catch two marmots."

After that there was peace and quiet in the camp, Roy sitting beside the fire and making it blaze up every now and again by putting on a fresh juniper branch. For he knew that since the others had not arrived by daylight, they must either all have perished on the road or else be waiting until the cold of night once more froze the ice-film on the snow. In this case the firelight seen from afar might be a guide.

So the night passed. More than once Roy fell asleep, for despite his care the smoke of the juniper branches could not quite be avoided, and that, every one knows, is terribly sleepifying. He woke every time, however, before the fire was quite out, and hastened to send up a flare of flame. As he did so the last time it was answered by a hulloo from the rocks above, and shortly afterward Meroo, the scullion's, blubbering voice could be heard as he uttered thanks to Heaven.

"And the others?" asked Roy anxiously, as out of the darkness Meroo appeared and cast himself at the lad's feet, bellowing joy.

"They come, they come! They are but a short way back. I saw the fire, and the sight of it warmed the cockles of my heart! Lo! I shall cook once more! I shall not die hungry in the wilderness. Nay! go not," for Roy was starting up. "True! the women are nigh dead, and Foster-father hath his fingers frost-bitten, but—nay, put more flame to the fire, boy! It is the fire they need!"

He was half beside himself, but he was right. As the fresh juniper branches blazed up Head-nurse came tottering and stumbling into its light. Roy sprang to help her, but she pushed him aside.

"The Heir-to-Empire?" she muttered, her lips almost refusing to form the words. "The Heir-to-Empire, the Admired-of-the-World——"

Roy pointed to the little tent. "There! Safe! Well! Asleep!" he cried; and the poor woman with a sob sank as she stood, and lay prone muttering long strings of titles.

Before a minute had passed Foster-father and Foster-mother struggled into the circle of light, and after a word of question and reply, sank down also.

Then there was a long pause, but no sign came of good Old Faithful's tall, gaunt figure. At last Roy spoke.

"Faithful?" he asked in a low whisper. "What of him?"

There was no answer at first; only Foster-father covered his face with his hands. At last he spoke gently.

"He was faithful to death. He was going first, as ever, cheering us all with his sayings of Firdoos Gita Makani. I saw him there one moment turning to tell us words of wisdom—the next the snow bridge had given way beneath his feet and he was gone. We waited on the bank of the awful chasm for a long time, but there was no sound save the roaring of the stream below. Firdoos Gita Makani, his master, had called him. Peace be with them both!"



CHAPTER XV

DEAREST-LADY

For two whole days the little party was too weary even to attempt a move. They had some provisions with them, and Tumbu, as good as his word, brought in more and more marmots; for being unaccustomed to dogs, they were easily caught.

The death of Old Faithful weighed upon the spirits of all, and for the first twelve hours or so the Heir-to-Empire was inconsolable for the loss of his beloved cat; for Foster-father had found it impossible to carry Down farther, and she had remained behind in the snow, protesting piteously. It was a terrible grief, and the child had almost wept himself sick, when, to every one's surprise and delight, Mistress Down was seen walking sedately across the flowers, her bushy tail carried very high, not one hair of her silky white coat awry. She took no notice of anybody, but passed to the fire, sat down beside it with stiff dignity, curled her tail round her paws, yawned and then began to purr gently. It was as if nothing had happened. And she certainly was not hungry, for she turned up her dainty nose at Tumbu's marmot bones.

"Cats," said Head-nurse, who had just awakened from a long sleep of many hours, "are not to be counted as other beasts. Having nine lives, they could afford to lose one; but they never do. They always fall on their feet. It is the way of the world; the more you have the more you get. Still, I am glad she has returned; and I wish there were a chance of others turning up also," she added with a sigh.

The Heir-to-Empire looked up gravely. "But Faithful can't come back, you know. He went to help Grand-dad to help us."

"Hark to the innocent," cried Foster-mother, half in smiles, half in tears, "but it is true. If ever poor mortals were watched over by saints in Paradise, we were; and for my part if ever I get to Kabul, my duty shall be paid to the tomb of Firdoos Gita Makani—on whom be peace."

"Amen!" added her husband devoutly; "but for the memory of that good man we should not be here now."

It was on the third day that leaving Meroo in charge for a few hours Foster-father and Roy set off to explore. They were fortunate in finding some shepherds' huts within a walking distance for even footsore women, and returned ere nightfall with a skin bag of fresh milk.

Early next morning, therefore, they all set off, Roy girding on dead Faithful's sword from the sledge that was wanted no more, and from that moment feeling himself indeed bodyguard to the Heir-to-Empire.

Once they had reached safety from starvation in the shepherds' huts, a great desire for rest came upon them all; and for three whole days they did nothing but eat, and sleep, and rejoice in the early spring sunshine, and the early spring flowers. For the late snap of extreme cold had passed and every green thing was hurrying to be ahead of its neighbour. Bija made endless cowslip balls out of the beautiful rose-pink primulas, while Roy and Mirak, following the shepherds' boys, came back with their hands full of young rhubarb shoots and green fern croziers, which they ate like asparagus. But this sort of thing could not last long, since they were close to the caravan route from Kandahar to Kabul; and sure enough, no sooner had the snow on the uplands melted than travellers began to pass through.

Thus news that the little party had escaped death soon filtered from mouth to mouth, till it reached the Captain of the Escort, and ere long Foster-father found himself and those in his care once more semi-prisoners on their way to cruel brother Kumran; all the more cruel, doubtless, because King Humayon had already begun the siege of Kandahar, believing his little son to be still within its walls.

Now Kumran was a far cleverer fellow than his brother Askurry; but there was in him a love of deceit for deceit's sake, which spoiled all his cleverness, for it made him uncertain what he would do in the end. This indeed is always the case with deceitful people. They know that what they say and do is not straightforward and true, and so they are like sailors without a compass. They have no fixed pole by which to steer.

And, in addition, Kumran liked to be considered clever; so he was always outwardly very courteous, very polite, very charming; but what he was within none could say for long.

Thus Foster-father's heart sank within him, when in the distance, down the rocky ravine through which the Kabul River dashes, and along which the caravan road took its high-perched way, he saw the battlemented wall of the city, cresting the low hills on which the town was built. It was a fully fortified town through which the river ran, and at its extreme end, commanding the wider plain below, stood the citadel called the Bala Hissar or High Fort. To reach this the travellers had to cross the iron bridge and wend their way through the narrow bazaars.

Such wonderful bazaars as they were, too! Crowded with tiny dark arched shops, like caverns, full to the brim with Persian silk carpets, furs from the north, turquoises and all kinds of precious stones from out-of-the-way places with unpronounceable names. And there were such a quantity of cats! Grey Persian cats and white ones, and tabbies and black cats who sat on the balconies and stared at Down as she lay on Horse-chestnut's broad, wavy back. For the Captain of the Escort had found out what an excellent creature the old pony was, and had brought it along with him.

The High Fort was a huge place with great gardens within its battlements and several separate palaces. Here, to Foster-father's unbounded delight, they found that Prince Kumran was himself away, having gone out with a small body of men to the Kandahar frontier, where King Humayon's arrival had aroused loyalty. But what was still more cheering was the news that he had left orders for the Heir-to-Empire and his sister to be handed over on arrival to the charge of Dearest-Lady! Foster-father could hardly believe his ears; for Dearest-Lady (as she was always called by all her family, by all her nephews and nieces, by all her grand nephews and nieces, and cousins, and every one who was lucky enough to belong to her) was simply—Well! what was she not? Wise, and gentle, and good, and clever—all this and more. She was the sort of Dearest-Lady who lived so long in the hearts of those who knew her, that, years after she was dead they would say, if there was any difficult point to be settled—"We wonder what Dearest-Lady would have said?"

She was old, of course, for she was Babar the Brave's elder sister; the sister to whom he had been devoted, who had always been to him also "his Dearest-One." Now, when you come to think of it, boys and girls, that is a nice sort of fame to have—to remain for—let me see how many hundred years?—nearly four—Dearest-Lady, or Dearest-Gentleman to all the world.

This Dearest-Lady was, of course, the Heir-to-Empire's grand-aunt, and the mere sound of her name was enough to calm Foster-father's fears. Even Head-nurse, though she sniffed a little and said she had heard tell that the Khanzada Khanum was a trifle careless of ceremonials, was satisfied. There was no doubt that she was the Highest-Born-in-the-Land.

As for little Prince Akbar himself, he only opened his big, grave eyes widely when the tall white figure clasped him closely in its arms and kissed his hair softly.

"So like his grandfather," she murmured, "so like! so like!—the very hands, the very feet—so strong, so shapely." And both in turn felt the touch of the soft old lips. "And thou, too, small maiden," she continued kindly, "welcome to one who has never yet let it be said in her hearing that God made women weaker than man! Thou shalt learn here to be proud thou wast born a girl. And you also, Nurse! Bring cooling sherbets, slaves, while she tells me all that has happened."

Then she sat and listened while Head-nurse told the tale of what had happened, and her faded, gay, old face flashed and sparkled and grew grave by turns.

"But where is Tumbu?" she interrupted, "and where is Down? Bring them hither, slaves! Lo! I love all animals, as my dear brother did!"

And she laughed over their doings, and wept over Old Faithful's death, while Bija and Mirak sat cuddled up close beside her, listening also and enjoying the tale of their own adventures as if they had happened to other children!

"Surely," she said softly when Head-nurse ended, "my dearest brother—on whom be peace—must have protected them! Lo! Mirak! and Bija—for I shall call you naught else since they are sweet kindly names, better than fine sounding titles—this very afternoon ye shall come with me to the garden he loved, and where his earthly form lies at rest, and lay flowers on his grave for thanks. Since he loved flowers as he loved everything."

So that evening, about an hour before sunset time, they were all carried in litters to the Garden of the New Year, about a mile beyond the city. It was a most peaceful, lovely spot, right up on the hillside with a splendid view from it of valley and mountain and river. A fresh bubbling spring ran through it, and beneath the Judas trees, whose leafless branches were flushed with pink blossoms, stretched great carpets of spring flowers.

"Pluck him yonder tulips, Mirak," said Dearest-Lady with a smile. "He loved to count their kinds and those—as he wrote—are 'yellow, double, and scented like a rose'!"

And the boy who was to grow to be a greater man even than his grandfather, though he could scarcely be a more lovable one, plucked a posy of the tulips and laid them on the plain marble slab which bore nothing but the words, "Heaven is the eternal home of the Emperor Babar." And when Bija, with many a little feminine ceremonial, had deposited her nosegay of sweet violets, and Head-nurse and Foster-mother had offered up their respects, they all went and sat down on a grassy spot, and Dearest-Lady, who was always full of youthful curiosities concerning all things, began to question Roy, who as a mere lad had been allowed to come with them, as to what he could remember of the time before he was picked up in the desert.

"Hold my hand, child, and think," she said at last, "mayhap it may come to thee then. The touch of kinship has power, and if I do not mistake me, there is that in thy blood that is in mine—royalty!"

So she clasped Roy's slim long-fingered hand and held it tight, and the boy's face changed, his eyes grew startled, he shivered slightly.

"Yea!" he said, "now I do remember. Mother was like you, and she told me I had the mark of Kingship strong enough, for all the rebels might say—" As he spoke, he drew down his loose garments, and there upon the clear olive of his breast, just above the heart, showed a small dark stain.

Dearest-Lady bent close to look at it. "What is't?" she asked.

"Mother said it was the sign of uttermost truth, and that we all had it," he replied, speaking dreamily.

"But who were we?" persisted Dearest-Lady, her kind eyes on the lad's.

Just at that moment, however, Tumbu, who had, of course, accompanied them, burst out with a series of shrill, short barks, and Roy was on his feet in a second, his hand on Old Faithful's sword, lest any newcomer might bring danger to his little master. But as it turned out Tumbu was only excited by a water-rat! All the same the interruption prevented Dearest-Lady's question from being answered, for the spell was broken.

"Yea! thou wilt be true to the very uttermost, of that I am sure," said Dearest-Lady, half pleased, half amused at the young Rajput's quick leap to arms, "and so long as I have charge of the Heir-to-Empire thou shalt be his esquire. So go call the litter-men, boy, it is time we returned. I must remember I am gaoler as well as grand-aunt."



CHAPTER XVI

CRUEL BROTHER KUMRAN

If Dearest-Lady was in truth a gaoler, she was a very kind one, and her prison the pleasantest prison in the world. It would take too long to tell how happily the next four months passed, not only for the two children, but for Roy and Foster-father, Head-nurse and Foster-mother. Even misshapen Meroo, in the kitchen, felt the better for helping to cook the Khanzada Khanum's dinner. For that was one of Dearest-Lady's virtues, she always made people feel contented, and as if they were doing the right thing. So even Prince Kumran, when he returned to Kabul, though he frowned at the big, bold, frank-faced boy who claimed to be the Heir-to-an-Empire which his own fingers itched to have, did not feel inclined to interfere with his aunt. The truth being that, like the rest of the family, he loved and trusted her beyond measure; perhaps more than did any of his brothers, since she had brought him up as a child. And she, in her turn, though she knew his faults, though she not only bewailed them, but resented them, at times most fiercely, could not forget that he had been her nursling, could not forget, above all, that he was her dear brother Babar's son.

Thus all went smoothly in the Bala Hissar, where young Prince Akbar, now close on three years old, looked and talked and acted like one of six. This same strength of his was always getting him into scrapes with people who did not believe he was so young, or, knowing him to be so young, did not believe him to be so strong!

He played a similar trick to the one he had played on cousin Yakoob at Kandahar on his big cousin Ibrahim, Prince Kumran's son. It was about a fine kettledrum all tasselled in royal fashion, with gold and silver, that Ibrahim's father had given him. Being a selfish boy, he would not allow Akbar to touch it; whereupon the Heir-to-Empire, after a brief tussle, carried off the kettledrum and beat it loudly through the palace!

Kumran hearing of this was very angry, for the beating of a kettledrum is a sign of Empire.

"Keep that young fighting cock of thine in better order, madam," he said to his aunt, "or I shall have to find him a sterner gaoler."

Whereupon she flashed out and told him fairly that short of killing the child, and for that crime even he was not prepared, there was no way of preventing the Heir-to-Empire from being what he was, a born king. That was her way of quelling Kumran. By boldly setting aside the thought of murder as impossible, she hoped to make it so; but she was not sure, and after this she kept Mirak and Bija under control.

It was not much good, however, when just as autumn was coming on news arrived from Kandahar that Humayon had at last succeeded in taking the city, and, disappointed in not finding his son in the palace, was preparing to march on Kabul.

Then the worst side of Prince Kumran showed itself at once. Like all deceitful people, he was a coward at heart, and cowardice made him think of immediate revenge upon his victorious brother. Of what use would even two victories be to him if the Heir-to-Empire was beyond recall?

So Kumran's charming polished manner vanished in an instant, and one day, without any warning, little Mirak, playing in the garden, was kidnapped by two stalwart Abyssinian slaves and carried off, howling horribly and fighting with his fists, to the palace where Kumran's wife lived. Tumbu, who was with him at the time, made a gallant show of resistance, and actually bit one of the kidnapper's calves to the bone; but when he found himself confronted with a whole regiment of armed men who ran out to their assistance, he gave up the hopeless fight, and flew off to tell Roy what had happened. And Roy, missing his little master, fled to tell Dearest-Lady. Her face paled, but she did not hesitate.

"My litter! page!" she cried, and drawing her white veil closer round her, she went straight to the audience hall, where Kumran was receiving his nobles; her great age, her great nobility, giving her a right, even as a woman, to appear amongst them.

All eyes turned to her tall, upright, slim figure, every ear thrilled to the tones of her clear voice.

"By what right," she asked, "has Kumran, the nephew I have nurtured, stolen from my care the son of his elder brother, the Heir to that Empire which Babar the Brave gave, dying, into the hands of Humayon, his eldest son? I say there can be no right; and if it be wrong then will God's curse light on the man who undoes his father's work. Lo! he is worse than parricide, for he would kill that for which his father gave his life."

Now this appeal was a very strong one; for the story of how Babar the Brave gave up his own life to save that of his darling son, Humayon, is one of the most touching tales in Indian history, and none of Babar's immediate family could even think of it without strong emotion. So it was Kumran's turn to grow pale.

"August lady," he replied, evading her question, "this is a matter of policy with which women have naught to do. King Humayon hath taken Kandahar, he hath imprisoned and degraded his brother Askurry, and for this, I, Kumran, challenge him!"

"And wherefore?" asked Dearest-Lady boldly. "Did not Askurry deserve it? Nay! did he not deserve death? Did he not steal the King-of-Empire? Did he not defy the king? Did he not send the Heir-to-Empire away, instead of returning him to his father's keeping? I tell you, nephew Kumran, that your father, Babar the Brave, Babar the Kindly, Babar the Generous, Babar the Just, whom all men loved for his mercy, would have given death for such faults—and given it rightly. And will you, like a fool, court death also?" She looked round the assembly to see many a sullen, suspicious face, and understood that danger lay close at hand. So her resolution was taken in a moment. "See you!" she went on, "nothing has been done yet to make forgiveness impossible. Well! I—Khanzada Khanum,—old as I am, will go forth to meet King Humayon and plead thy cause. I will ask what boon you wish, and I promise it shall be yours. Humayon will give much in exchange for his son, and none have ever denied me anything. Shall it be so?" Then seeing hesitation she put in a crafty word: "There will be time afterwards for—anything——"

Kumran looked round his nobles, then into his own heart. What he saw there was such a tissue of lies and deceit that he could find no clear decision; so, as usual, he temporised. "It is worth a trial," he murmured. "I might ask for much."

"Ask for all and everything," said Dearest-Lady, who felt she had gained her point; "I make but one condition. The child must remain unharmed until I return."

Again Kumran hesitated. Again he looked in his own heart. Again he found no clear cause for decision there; so he said doubtfully:

"Until you return?"

"Nay! swear it," came the high, insistent voice. "Say before them all, 'By the memory of my dear father no harm shall come to the child ere you return.'"

Half unwillingly Kumran repeated the words and Dearest-Lady gave a sigh of relief. She had gained her point. But now that she had to face the consequences of her offer to go forth and meet Humayon her heart sank within her; for she was very old and not over strong. The journey was long; winter was coming on fast. Still it had to be done, and at once. For Kumran's promise of safety to the Heir-to-Empire was only during her absence, and who knew whether his craft might not claim freedom to do as he chose ere she started!

So she made her arrangements for that very evening, and she had much to do. To begin with she must see the Heir-to-Empire the very last thing, and make certain that he was well cared for. Then she had to arrange for the safety and comfort of Head-nurse, Foster-mother and little Bija, for it was unlikely they would be allowed to be with the little Prince. He must, however, have some one with him to whom the child was accustomed, and Roy, being still quite a lad, might not be considered dangerous. Then his gift of story-telling might make the ladies in the women's apartments more inclined to have him. Anyhow she must try her best to secure his stopping with his young master, and to this end she ordered him some fine clothes and gave him a finely bedizened lute; for since he came to Kabul they had found out that he could play the vina beautifully.

Thus just before sunsetting, leaving poor Head-nurse and Foster-mother in floods of tears, while poor little Bija was sobbing her very heart out, and good dog Tumbu was slowly wagging his tail as his eyes asked sorrowfully if he might not come, too, she started on her journey, going round by the Chief Palace on her way.

Now, Dearest-Lady's visits were considered to be an honour, so she had no difficulty in gaining admittance. And once inside the women's apartments she simply turned to the first attendant and said curtly that she had come to see the Heir-to-Empire and say farewell to him; therefore he must either be brought to her or she must go to him. Boldness succeeded, as it always does, and she was shown into a room where she found little Prince Akbar playing contentedly with Down the cat, who was running about after a ball like a young kitten. She stopped when she saw Dearest-Lady, and giving an apologetic miaow, as who should say, "I was obliged to amuse him somehow," settled herself down on the rug and began as usual to purr. Of course Mirak forgot all about her in his joy at seeing Dearest-Lady and Roy, and it was some time before the former could ask the attendant how the cat had managed to get there.

"Highness," said the woman, "it is impossible to keep cats out if they want to come in. She appeared at the window three times, and three times I put her downstairs. Then I gave in. It is no use quarrelling with cats."

Meanwhile notice of Her Highness Dearest-Lady's arrival had reached Kumran's wife and she hastened to little Akbar's prison room. But once more Dearest-Lady was bold and took the first word.

"I came to bid the boy farewell, content to trust him to thy kind care, my niece," she said; "and also to leave with him this Rajput singer, who has the art of amusing the child—and other folk also. Roy! sing us one of thy tales, that the Princess may hear thee."

And Roy, knowing his part, sang as he had never sung before. "I will sing of how the palm squirrels helped the Great Ram to find his wife, Sita the Peerless, whom the wicked Giant Ravana had carried off. We sing it to the squirrels when we feed them in our country. Perhaps Her Highness does not know what a palm squirrel is. It is tiny, tiny, no bigger than a rat, but it has a bushy tail and four dark stripes like finger marks down its goldy-coloured back. And it never does anything but play, is never anything but happy; and this is why":

Then he smote the strings of the vina till they thrilled again, and began, his high voice warbling and carolling like a summer bird.

"Pretty! Pretty! Pretty! are you there, my sweet, In your leafy seat, where the branches meet? Wasting all the sunny hours Pulling down the mango flowers With your dainty feet.

"Pretty, prettiest thing yawning as you lie Watching with glad eye, busy life go by. Not the tiniest sense of duty In your careless days, my beauty, 'Neath the cloudless sky.

"Happiest, merriest ways, Knowing no gainsays, so the story says, Since the Great Ram loved and blessed you, With his care-worn hand caressed you, In the olden days.

"Then, when he was seeking Sita, peerless maid, By his foes dismayed, Ram, her lover, bade All the beasts and birds and fishes Leave their play to do his wishes, Fight to give him aid.

"And the golden squirrel sprang at his behest, Nestled to his breast, first to join the quest. But Great Ram's grave eyes grew tender, Smiled upon the warrior slender, Braver than the rest!

"'Nay! thou art too pretty! fearless little heart, Thou should'st have no part in Strife's bitter art; Live to show man, worn and weary, One blythe soul for ever cheery, Free from sorrow's smart.'

"Laid his kind hand softly on its golden hair, So palm squirrels bear, where Ram's fingers were, Four dark shadows on them, showing Gladdest life must lose its glowing From the touch of care.

"So the squirrels' birthright is to want for naught, Have no grief or thought, know not 'must' or 'ought.' Yet upon their gold there lingers Shades of care, that Great Ram's fingers For their blessing wrought."

"Wah! Wah!" cried the Queen, delighted. "He can stop if he likes."

Ten minutes after Roy had finished his song Dearest-Lady's litter paused for a moment on a high-perched corner of the road towards Kandahar, to give her a last look of the fair city of Kabul. Her bright old face was bright still, undimmed by care. She was old and frail, she was going a wearisome, trying journey; yet, for the present, she knew that she had saved the Heir-to-Empire's life. That at any rate was secure until she returned—and she might never return! The thought made her smile. "Forward, slaves!" she cried cheerfully, and Kabul, the city she loved so well, was left behind without one regret.

And she was right. She had saved the Heir-to-Empire's life; for at that very minute the door of little Prince Akbar's room opened wide, and Roy starting up found himself face to face with cruel Uncle Kumran followed by two men with drawn swords. And, alas for Roy! he had no sword to draw, for Old Faithful's sabre did not fit the disguise of a Rajput bard. Despite that, he stepped forward boldly, though his heart beat to suffocation. For Kumran's face was cruel indeed.

Still, for one second, the latter's attention was distracted. He had wanted no witnesses to what he meant to do.

"How camest thou hither, slave?" he asked fiercely.

And Roy gave him back the simple truth, no more, no less; but it was sufficient.

"Her Highness Khanzada Khanum brought me hither to be with the Heir-to-Empire ere she left at sunset."

Kumran started back. "Left? Hath she left already?" he asked, his face paling. So he stood for a moment irresolute, the words of his own oath pealing through his brain, "By the memory of my father I promise." That was not one which any son of Babar's was ever likely to break. "Sheath your swords, fools!" he said at last bitterly; "they are not needed. I am not the first man who has been outwitted by a woman."



CHAPTER XVII

IMPRISONMENT

But if Kumran was let and hindered by his oath from actually killing the Heir-to-Empire in cold blood, or, in lesser degree, from treating him so harshly that he might die, he did not feel so bound towards the others; and being cruel by nature, he set to work upon them at once. Foster-father he sent to the State prison, which was down a well in the big courtyard. There were two of these prison-wells, in which the water was reached by a flight of steep steps, and where dark, underground cells opened on to the deep silent pool. They were terribly damp, but here poor Foster-father had to drag out long, miserable days, cut off even from news of the others. Until one day, just when the sentry was eating his mid-day meal, he heard a violent barking, and by swinging himself up by the bars of the tiny shaft of the well he could just get a glimpse of Tumbu on the steps. Why had he come? Perhaps he had been sent; if so he would come again at the same time. All that night Foster-father lay awake, feverishly wondering what Tumbu had meant, and all the next morning, having no means of telling the time, he waited and waited anxiously, until, just as he was beginning to give up hope, the familiar bark echoed down the well, and there was good old Tumbu on the steps! So he must have been sent by some one; and therefore some one must be alive and desire him to know the fact.

In truth, both his wife, Foster-mother, and Head-nurse had been racking their brains how to find out where either the Heir-to-Empire or Foster-father were imprisoned until little Bija had said, "Tell Tumbu to seek for them. If you show him Mirak's cap and say, 'Go seek,' he will go."

And so he did; but it was a long, long time before he found out where Mirak had hidden himself, for he had gone to the big palace in a litter, and so had left no trace. Then little Bija came to the rescue once more.

"You say, Foster-mother, that you feel sure that Down must have gone away to keep Mirak company. Now she can't be prisoned, 'cos cats won't be caught unless they want to be caught, and she doesn't want to be, of course. So she must be going about, so why don't you tell Tumbu to seek for Down; then we should find where Mirak was."

"But we haven't got anything of Down's to show him," argued Foster-mother. And that was a puzzler.

At last Head-nurse said, "I believe all cats have the same smell, else why do all dogs go after all cats? At any rate, it would be worth trying."

So they got a fine, large, handsome white cat in the bazaar, and said to Tumbu, "Go seek!" And then there was the most awful scrimmage that ever was seen. Tumbu was after the cat in a second, and the cat jumped for protection on Head-nurse, and Head-nurse howled, while Tumbu deafened everybody by yowls; for the cat had caught him on the nose! Peace was not restored till pussy had made her escape back to the bazaar through the window.

"That was not a success," sighed poor Head-nurse as she put herself tidy; but after all it was not such a failure, since, either from putting two and two together, or by mere chance, Tumbu appeared the very next day barking and frolicking after his usual fashion when he wanted them to go out, and then led them straight to a lonely corner of the palace garden, whence, looking upwards, they could plainly see Down seated on a narrow window sill. And the next moment, hearing the familiar bark, who should pop his head out of the window but Roy!

"All's well," he whispered rapidly seeing them below him; then withdrew his head swiftly. For he had determined never by anything or in any way to risk being sent away from the little Heir-to-Empire.

But the others were more than satisfied with the whisper.

"Now," said little Bija, who was beginning to manage her nurses, "Tumbu must find Foster-father and tell him." And this, we have seen, he did.

Even so, with the daily content of knowing that all were at least safe, the time passed with deadly slowness, for the days grew to weeks, the weeks to months, bringing no change. Denied, as he was, the outdoor life, the fresh air to which he had been accustomed, little Prince Akbar grew pale and thin. But his spirits did not flag, and he would laugh over the tale of how Rajah Rasalu swung the Seventy Maidens as heartily as ever, though sometimes his little lip would go down and he would say, "If Bija were only here I'd never ask her to tumble down. I would go on swinging till she wanted me to stop."

So the winter came on, but still Dearest-Lady did not return. A letter had come from her saying she had reached Kandahar in safety—that she was staying in the Kar Garden outside the town which her father had planted—that King Humayon was not angry—that he had already forgiven Prince Askurry—that Kumran had nothing to fear if he only kept to his promise.

The prisoners, of course, knew nothing of this letter, but the effect of it showed in a greater freedom. Foster-father was moved to a more comfortable dungeon and Bija, Head-nurse and Foster-mother were allowed to go and see the Heir-to-Empire. Their delight may be imagined, and even Tumbu shared in the joy, for, when he was refused admittance and left down below, he dashed up the stairs, evading the sentries and barked furiously at the door to be let in. And the meeting between him and Mirak was so pretty that the sentry had not the heart to insist on poor doggie going down again. And this, in its way, was a good thing, for it was the beginning of a sort of friendship between the young Prince and this particular Afghan sentry. Sometimes, after he had been relieved, he would come up to the little captive's room for a bit, and listen to Roy's stories, or tell a few in his turn; for he had wandered about, over half India, giving the use of his sword to any one who would pay him well for it.

"Lo! I have not heard that tale since I was in Rajputana!" he said one day after Roy had been singing an old-world legend of fighting days. "It was an old Brahman of Suryamer told it me of the Sun-Heroes."

Roy's face flushed up in a second. "Suryamer is mine!" he said proudly; "I am of the Sun-Heroes!"

Then he started to his feet, pale as ashes. "I have remembered! I have remembered at last," he said almost with a cry. "It is true! I was Rajah of Suryamer! It has come back to me at last!"

Then as suddenly he crouched down again and covered his face with both hands.

"Roy!" said little Prince Akbar gravely. "Why should you cry because you are a King? I don't."

The sentry laughed. "By my word," he remarked, "there is a blessed pair of you Kings!"

"Of course there is," assented the Heir-to-Empire with the greatest dignity. "I have been one ever since I was born, and I always knew Roy belonged to me!" Then in quick impulse he ran over to the Rajput lad and flung his arms round his neck crying, "Oh Roy! Roy! I'm so glad you are my brother!"

"Not so fast, young sir," objected the sentry, who was hugely amused and interested; "what proof can you bring of this, stripling?"

Roy lifted a scared face; then hung his head.

"None, save my memory, and this mark upon my breast. My mother said we all had the stamp of truth over our hearts."

The sentry shrugged his shoulders. "That is not much in this wicked world," he said carelessly. "And anyhow it matters little if either or both of you be Kings, since ye are in cruel Kumran's power."

"Not till my Dearest-Lady returns," dissented little Akbar gravely. "Head-nurse said so; and if cruel Uncle Kumran is to get me, Dearest-Lady won't come back. I know she won't—so there!"

And, as events turned out, the Heir-to-Empire was right!

But a few days afterwards a messenger, bearing a blue handkerchief in his hand—the sign of death tidings to the Royal Family—appeared in hot haste before the nobles assembled in the Audience Hall.

"News! News!" he cried breathlessly. "Cover your heads with dust, ye people, while ye thank the Merciful One that Khanzada Khanum of the House of Babar hath found freedom, that after a long and godly life she hath found rest and peace. Bismillah—ul——"

The long Arabic sentence went rolling through the Hall, while Kumran stood stunned by the suddenness of his aunt's death. And yet it might have been expected; the journey was far too trying for one of her years. And she had risked it—for what?

With a rush Kumran realised that his promise still held good, and for the moment disappointment, anger, savage desire for revenge swept away his regret. Yet even he could not fail to be touched by the letter his brother Humayon had sent him by the hand of the messenger. Dearest-Lady had, he said, pled his, Kumran's, cause well, and he, Humayon, was ready to forgive for the sake of the dead woman who had loved them both, whom they both loved, and who had died with a smile.

But such softer feelings did not, could not linger long in a mind that had no fixed belief in anything. Before a day had passed the feeling that he had been tricked onto an oath he dared not break came uppermost again. Foster-father was ordered back to his damp dungeon, the little Heir-to-Empire and Roy were taken from the Palace and given over to the charge of a man noted for his hardness of heart. Only the women and little Bija, being of no account, were turned out into the streets to beg or starve as they chose.

Then followed a terrible month in which the little party were cut off from news of one another. Only Down, the cat, wandering over roofs and Heaven knows where and how, looked in here and there to settle on some one's lap and purr.

"Cats," said poor Head-nurse, as she sat opposite Foster-mother, grinding for all they were worth at a stone hand-mill in order to gain enough to keep Bija from starving, "are of all God's creatures the most contented; and so little pleases them. Hark! to Down how she purrs, just because she has found us poor miserable women."

"Allah!" replied Foster-mother more cheerfully. "Is love such a little thing? I think not, and Down hath seen my darling. Of that I feel sure; she would not come and purr otherwise."

Still it was silent comfort and there was so much going on; so much that even the "miserable women" could not hear, though they were free to come and go. But one day when Down was purring on Bija's lap in the straw thatch which was all the three had for lodging, a passer-by paused to say:



"That is the cat I used to see with the little King. Have you ought to do with him, sister?"

"I am his sister," replied Bija haughtily, whereat the sentry, for it was he, laughed; but for all that he paused to tell the two women what he knew; though that was not much. It could not be long, however, he said, before news of one sort or another came to them; for King Humayon was, so they said, within a day's march of Kabul, and any time they might hear the guns begin. Then would be his turn. He would fight till all was blue, and then if the outsiders won, turn round and fight for them as hardily, since all he required was plenty of fighting and plenty of food and wine.

He was right in one thing. The very next day about noon, a sudden pouf—bing-bing—thud, told that the first shot had been fired. And after that there was no peace and little safety. Only Foster-father in his dungeon was free even from anxiety; for fever had seized on him and he lay unconscious. And in his close prison room, where there was little air and less light, and where Roy racked his brain for stories wherewith to while away the leaden-footed hours, the little Heir-to-Empire lay listless also, yet not ill. Only weary, weary.

"I want Tumbu," he would say, "I want to run a race with him. I want to be out of doors."

And so while the city was alive with armed men, when there were assaults and repulses and sorties and forlorn hopes going on day after day, Roy would tell Mirak that some day something would happen. Some day the door would open and——

And one day the door did open. And a tall man stood for a second, half-blinded by the darkness. But the next he strode forward and caught the little Heir-to-Empire to his heart, murmuring, "My son—my little son!"

It was King Humayon; for Kumran, after pleading for a few hours' truce to allow him to make submission, had taken advantage of this breathing time to make his escape with the more desperate of his followers. Fear had overcome him once more. Having nothing in himself on which he could rely, he could not trust to the generosity of his brother.

So, after more than two and a half years of separation Akbar found his father again.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE GARDEN OF GAMES

And now, for the time at any rate, Prince Akbar's adventures were over, and all the little party prepared to enjoy themselves. Foster-father, taken out of his dungeon, soon recovered consciousness, and the news of King Humayon's victory and the Heir-to-Empire's safety, being the best tonic in the world, he was soon about again.

Head-nurse, at last absolutely restored to her proper position in Court, found, however, that her young charge had considerably outgrown the nursery. To begin with, his father, overjoyed at recovering his son, could not see too much of him, and took him about with him wherever he went.

"Time enough for his education to begin when he is four," said Humayon, when Foster-father pointed out that the boy was old beyond his years and that if he did not soon begin schooling it would be difficult for him by-and-bye.

"Let be—friend, let be!" continued the fond father; "let us have a while to amuse ourselves, now the trouble is over! I tell you I have been in such straits these last four years that I have had no time to amuse myself. Now I mean to show Kabul that life isn't so bad after all!"

So tall, handsome, good-natured, with a vivid love of colour and beauty and a light-heartedness almost beyond belief,—light-heartedness which had carried him through dangers that might have proved too much for one less gay—Humayon set to work to lavish his money on the most magnificent entertainments that ever were seen.

So long as winter lasted these had to be held in the Bala Hissar, where a sound of music and a ripple of laughter was to be heard day and night; but as spring began once more to carpet the barren hills with millions of flowers, Humayon's amusements went further afield. One day he and his Court, a glittering cohort of merry men, flashing with diamonds, and prepared to enjoy everything, would ride out many miles to see the great groves of Judas trees flushed with their pink blossoms; ride out to find a magnificent camp awaiting them, a magnificent repast prepared, and all the best singers and dancers in Kabul ready to amuse them. Then the next day, mayhap, they would all go a-hawking, and at each and all of these diversions Humayon's little son was part of his father's enjoyment, and so naturally, became more and more of a man every day.

He used to ride on Horse-chestnut, and Tumbu was always of the party, getting in consequence rather too fat, by reason of the rich food which was given him.

But despite all this fun and jollity little Prince Akbar was not quite satisfied.

"You took my mother away with you to the hills," he would say to his father. "Why didn't you bring her back with you? I want to see her."

Then King Humayon would laugh—for he was always merry—and bid his little son be patient. His mother would come with the spring. At present she was in Persia, but so soon as the passes were open she would start for Kabul. And then there would be fun! Whereupon little Prince Akbar would smile a dignified smile, and say, of course there would be fun!

Now out of this arose a plan which came into King Humayon's head, as so many other plans came, without very much thought; for he was full of kindly, not over-wise fancies. And this one was that little Prince Akbar should choose his own mother!

It would be rather a hard task for a child who had not seen her for two years and a half, and who was but a baby of less than eighteen months old when he had parted from her! But Humayon was convinced that his son would remember; and anyway, even if he did not, no harm would be done and it would be very amusing. So orders were given for a huge entertainment in the Arta Gardens just outside Kabul. They were the most beautiful gardens, not close cropped and orderly like English gardens, but with wide, bare, marble-paved walks and squares, big marble-stepped tanks full of waterlilies, all set in tangles of widespread roses and jasmine and gardenia. And here Humayon's fancy set up a Mystic Palace of three Houses: The House of Pleasure; The House of Fortune, and the House of Power. Never was such a beautiful Palace. By day it shone with the reflected light of thousands and thousands of looking-glasses, by night it rose outlined in every detail by thousands and thousands of little lamps. Every marble path was spread with priceless silken carpets, the very fountains were scented with attar-of-rose. All the musicians and dancers and acrobats and jugglers of Kabul were commanded to be there, snow came from the higher hills to ice the drinks, and cooks worked day and night to prepare the most wonderful dishes.

"That is what I call a King," remarked the Afghan sentry, whom Roy, going with his little master to see the preparations, found keeping guard at the gate. "None of your skinflints like Kumran. Aye!" he continued, seeing Roy's look of surprise and distaste, "I have done what I said I would—fought for Kumran till there was no more fighting to be done. And now, like His Gracious Majesty King Humayon, I am enjoying myself. I want no more! Ha! Ha!"

Little Prince Akbar, who was standing by, turned on him sharply. "Thou art a slave, fellow, and know nothing of Kingship. Roy and I do. In his country Kings ride and shoot and play polo, and—and do things. Besides," he added, "I want my mother."

"Your Highness will have to choose her then, so I hear," began the sentry almost rudely, and Roy started to rebuke him, but Prince Akbar was first.

"Of course I shall choose my own mother, slave. She is quite different, you know, from any one else in the world. Isn't she, Roy?"

The Rajput lad passed his hand over his forehead. "Mine was, Most Noble! I should know her again if I ever saw her, but I never shall."

"Say not that, boy," said the sentry, who, despite his roughness, had a kind heart and was touched by the sorrow in Roy's voice. "I have an old comrade down Suryamer way and I will speak to him of thee and see what he says; then who knows but——"

Little Akbar interrupted him gravely. "It is as God chooses. Roy always says that. Don't you, Roy?"

"By my word!" said the sentry, saluting, "you are a proper pair of Kings."

There were to be three days festival. On the first, that of Pleasure, everybody was to be dressed in white, on the second day of Power all were to be in scarlet, and on the third, the day of Fortune, the day on which little Prince Akbar was to choose his mother, every one was to wear green. Head-nurse and Foster-mother spent all their time in devising wonderful new designs for their darling's dresses, and Humayon himself added many little fanciful touches, for he had a most wonderful imagination, and this festival, which was to welcome his wife to Kabul and give her back her little son, occupied all his thoughts.

The queen arrived on the first day, but, according to custom, in a closed litter, and she went straight to the secluded balcony arranged for the royal ladies, whence she could see without being seen. So she had the advantage of her little son, who, in a magnificent costume of white and silver, looked such a darling that Queen Humeeda longed to hug him.

"Has my Amma-jan come?" whispered the little Prince to his father, "is she up there behind the lattice of roses?"

"Yea! she is there sure enough, little rogue," laughed Humayon. "So give a good look right through the flowers."

"No!" said little Akbar, "I've got to shut my eyes; then I can see her with my other eyes."

But his father was too busy directing the festival to hear what he said.

So the first day passed on and everybody thought it was the very finest entertainment that ever was seen. But the second day surpassed it. The crowds, all in scarlet, filling the gardens, looked like bright roses amid the green leaves, and the blare of golden trumpets, the scattering of golden coins as largesse, the stately processions of soldiers made it, indeed, a marvellous show of power; and this was increased by the arrival of ambassadors from the Shah of Persia, who had so much helped King Humayon. They brought magnificent presents and hearty congratulations on success. So, nothing was lacking; and at night, lit up by red fires, the scene was one never to be forgotten. But with the dawn everything changed! A thousand servants set to work, and in one short half hour the garden showed green. Green carpets, green trees, green water falling from the fountains like liquid emeralds. And by-and-bye came green crowds, every shade of green mixing and mingling in harmony. And inside the arched pavilion of the house of Good Fortune were green rustlings of silk, green shimmerings of satin as three hundred ladies of the Court, all veiled with green veils, took their seats in a semicircle. Three hundred ladies in green all dressed alike! Which was Queen Humeeda? That, it was the part of a child of four to tell, a child who had not seen his mother for two and a half years!

The crowd outside, pale green, sage green, emerald green, leaf green, were hushed to silence, waiting; but from every thicket of rose and jasmine a chorus of singing birds, deftly concealed in cages behind the leaves, filled the air as Humayon and his little son advanced to take their places. The king was dressed in green also, a fine figure in royal robes embroidered with a thousand allegorical designs. He took his seat on a golden throne.

And little Prince Akbar!

He was the one spot of colour! He was the flower of the whole garden! Dressed in rose satin of various shades, he looked indeed what Head-nurse had called him fondly, thus adding to her string of titles, "The Rose of the World."

And now the great moment approaches! The little fellow takes his stand fearlessly below his father; before him the semicircle of green veiled ladies; a hundred in the first row, a hundred in the second row, a hundred in the third row.

But little Akbar's eyes as he stands there do not wander from row to row. To tell the truth, his eyes are not open at all! He has them fast closed; for so, he knows, he can see his mother.

"Ladies! Unveil!" comes the king's voice. It sounds a little anxious.



There is a rustling of silks and satins, a faint swishing of gauze and muslins, and three hundred faces flash out, like flowers against leaves, from their green draperies.

Which is Queen Humeeda's?

For an instant the child stands silent, his lips trembling, his face flushing. Then his eyes open and he sees something.

What is it?

Is one face less smiling than another?

Where is it? In the first row, or the second row, or the third row?

What matter? There is a glad cry of——

"Amma-jan! My Amma-jan. There you are!" And a little flying figure in rose-coloured satin has dashed across the floor to fling itself into the arms of—Queen Humeeda.

Little Akbar has found his own darlingest mother, and there is not a dry eye in the whole assemblage.



CHAPTER XIX

BETWIXT CUP AND LIP

Now it may indeed seem that all our little Heir-to-Empire's troubles were over; but there is still somewhat to tell of our young hero. To begin with, Queen Humeeda was a wise woman, and she saw that it was not good for the little lad to be always at play. She knew that as a King's son in the East, he would have small time after he was ten for schooling, and as he was now close on four that did not leave many years for teaching.

So a tutor was found for him; but it is to be feared that he was by no means an industrious scholar. Indeed, we hear of such dreadful things as playing truant, so that when a day was fixed for an examination by learned men as to how the Heir-to-Empire was getting on with his studies, "at the master moment it was found that the scholar, having attired himself for sport, had disappeared!" Then his first tutor was dismissed because he encouraged his pupil in pigeon flying, and we read of his applying his thoughts more to dog-fancying and Arab horses than to his books. Still he did learn one thing, and a good thing, too.

The day he was four years and four days old he was taught, as all little Mohammedans are taught, to understand what he was, what the world about him was, and to recognise that neither he himself, nor the world he lived in were the Beginning and the End of all things. It was a stately ceremonial, not beautiful, and lavish, and expensive like the Festival of the Mystic Palace, but one which left its mark for always on the mind of the child.

Despite his dislike to books as the only way of learning to be wise, he never forgot the day in the Great Mosque, when, before all his relations, he had to stand up dressed in his simple every day clothes and take the Holy Book from the hands of the high priest. And he never forgot the high priest's words:

"Read in the Name of Him who hath made all things in Heaven and earth, and Who hath given men power to be wise."

"Bismillah!—Irruhman-nirruheem!" he had answered as in duty bound, which means, "Thanks be to Him who is merciful in this world and merciful in the next world."

In this way young Prince Akbar learned that every man has power to be wise, and that the great mystery of birth and death is a merciful mystery.

Thus the summer passed and in early autumn King Humayon, who had now wasted nearly a whole year in amusement, found it necessary to quell rebellion in a neighbouring province.

So the governorship of Kabul was made over to a trusted noble of the Court, one Shurruf Khan by name, who was made as it were Regent for little Prince Akbar, who was left with his attendants in regal state at the palace in the Bala Hissar, while Queen Humeeda went back to India, taking Bija with her, on a visit to her mother's relations.

Roy, whose story had become known in the Court, was now made equerry to the young prince, and very handsome he looked in his chain armour, with the noonday sun all rayed and shiny in gold on his breast, in token that he claimed to be a Sun-hero. As, indeed, seemed likely, since the Afghan sentry's old Suryamer friend had a tale about a young Rajah who had been kidnapped and, it was supposed, left in the desert to die. But whether Roy was the young Rajah or not, who could tell? They might send the story to Suryamer and see what befell. Meanwhile Roy was happy, and little Akbar and he became more and more like elder and younger brother. How much in after years the prince owed to the companionship of this friend of his childhood it is impossible to say. Perhaps it accounts for the marvellous way in which the Great Emperor Akbar ruled his Hindoo subjects.

Humayon had expected to return in a month's time, but luck was against him. A King cannot waste a whole year in amusement and so let wicked men have time to hatch plots without suffering for it. And Humayon did suffer. He had to march and counter-march with winter coming on apace, until he was struck down by sudden illness. At first the news caused no alarm, for he was known to be strong and healthy; but there came a day when folk began to whisper that the King was said to be lying unconscious, that death might come any moment.

The news stirred the whole city of Kabul to its depths. It had but lately passed into the hands of Humayon. There were not wanting many who preferred Kumran, and Kumran was in exile waiting an opportunity.

And that came with the suddenness of a summer storm. One night the gates of the town were closed by the Regent Shurruf Khan in Humayon's name; the next dawn saw the Iron Entry, after a brief scuffle, opened in the name of Kumran! There was a rush of armed men through the streets of the town, a murder or two of loyal men in high authority. And then?

Up at the Bala Hissar, Foster-father roused from his sleep, went in haste to the Regent, expecting to hear bugles, to find troops gatherings for defence; but the gates of the Fort were open!

Shurruf Khan was traitor! He had gone over to the enemy. Ere an hour was over Kumran, scowling, walked up and down the royal apartments, a King once more; but biting his lips and frowning over something that stood between him and perfect revenge!

Foster-father, good old fool, was back in his dungeon in the well, where this time he would rot. The women, as a change, were walled up in a tiny room, where, bread and water being thrust in to them, they might eat and live, or starve and die as they chose.

But the Heir-to-Empire? What of him? Ah! fool that he had been to make that promise to a crafty old woman who had died in order to spite him. Kumran's anger rose fierce; he would have given anything to break his oath; but he could not. He was not strong enough; even his wickedness was not real.

But, short of death, the young heir should have no shelter. Kumran flung him into a miserable cell close to the Iron Gate and thought no more of him. And now, but for faithful Roy, Akbar would indeed have been in sorry plight. They had barely enough to eat, but Roy stinted himself, eating nothing but the hard half-burned crusts of the coarse hearth-cakes and excusing himself from even touching the miserable mess of pease-porridge on the ground that he did not like it. So he grew thin and his brown deer-eyes had a startled look. Indeed, he hardly slept at all, but watched and dozed beside his little master all night long.

Yet he was always cheerful. Always ready with stories and songs. When he could not remember any new-old ones, he took to inventing tales of people who were always in dangers and difficulties, but who took no notice of them, who went on their way trusting in the Truth.

"For! see you!" he would finish gravely,

"He who has Truth Need fear no ruth."

So, ever and always his hero came out of his trials scathless.

And, by degrees, this faith in final good grew deep into both the boys' hearts, and showed in their very faces.

"By my word!" said the Afghan sentry, whom chance one day sent to guard them. "Ye be a precious pair of Kings!"

He could admire them, though he did not seem in the least ashamed of having yet once more turned his coat; for he was again on Kumran's side.

How time passed none of the prisoners cared to count. But one day the sudden roar of a great gun told them that the city was once more besieged. In truth, Humayon hearing, while still on his bed of sickness, the fatal news of Shurruf Khan's treachery, had strained every nerve, ill as he was, to come to the rescue of his little son. It was midwinter, the passes were blocked with snow, he and his troops had to meet endless hardships; but at last they were before Kabul once more. Camped on the Arkaban hill, opposite the Iron Gate, the artillery were brought into position, the first shot fired.

It would take too long to follow all the varied incidents of the siege. But one thing was constant. Night after night recruits from inside the town managed to scale the walls and join King Humayon's forces. They were getting tired of Kumran, who, unable to satisfy his cruelty on the little Heir-to-Empire, vented it on all and sundry. And day by day as the number of the besieged dwindled, bit after bit of the town fell into the besiegers' hands, until at last only the Bala Hissar remained. But the Bala Hissar is a town in itself, and many a time has it withstood a siege successfully.

Now, however, it was near to the death. There could be no more talk or thought of escape. Kumran, ever half-hearted, tried it one night and failed, losing many followers in the attempt.

After that his face hardened. He went about dreaming of revenge—revenge on Humayon, even revenge on Dearest-Lady, who had tied his hands.

"Till I return!"

No! Dead folks can never return to the worldly. Even their memory comes seldom, save to the pure in heart.

And one night he hit on a plan. The fort was almost at its last gasp. All day Sumbal Khan, Humayon's famous artillery general, had been pounding away at the Iron Gate with deadly aim. A few more well-sent shots would leave the bastion crumbling, and then——

Then would come the assault through the breach, and Kumran knew he could not face it. His force was too small.

So about midnight the door of Akbar's prison room was opened and Kumran with a few armed men stood within.

Roy, startled from a doze, was on his feet in a second.

"What want ye?" he challenged fiercely.

"Let the Hindoo fool alone," said Kumran to those who would have seized on the Rajput lad. "All we want is the child. Take him, slaves, and be quick about it."

Ere the words were out of his mouth a stalwart man bent to lift the sleeping Heir-to-Empire. Roy's sword flashed the same second, but, held back by sneering men, he was helpless.

"What want ye with him? I say, what want ye with him?" panted the poor lad as he struggled madly.

Kumran paused at the door to turn an icy cold look of cruelty upon him. "What! Thou wouldst know? Then thou shalt have it, young idolater. It may cool thy hot blood. I will dress him in dust colour like the walls of Kabul and hang him over the battlement at dawn as a mark for my brother's artillery. Then we shall see the breach in my citadel made! Then we shall see my revenge—but it will not be of my making! His father shall kill him."

So with a mirthless laugh he followed his men, who were bearing away the Heir-to-Empire, still but half awake.

Roy stood for one second like a stone, too horror stricken for full belief; but the echoing laugh convinced him; with a wild cry he rushed to the narrow window and shook fruitlessly at its iron bars like a wild animal when it is newly caged. But they were immovable.

Yet something must be done—something—something——

The thought of dawn was too dreadful. The beautiful, calm, peaceful April dawn, shadowy grey! Just light enough to see the outline of the Bala Hissar, just light enough to begin upon the breach once more; but too dark to see what was in the line of fire.

Yes! Something must be done, and done swiftly. Not four hours left before the eastern hills would begin to show dark against the coming of day.



CHAPTER XX

ESCAPED

Once more Roy felt helpless and hopeless before the great task which seemed to be laid upon him. He alone out of all the little Heir-to-Empire's guardians knew the dire danger he was in. Yet how could he, a poor, prisoned Rajput lad, save the young prince?

Still he had to be saved; he must be saved; and there was no time to be lost. At dawn the firing would recommence from the Arkaban hill; at dawn the helpless child would be in the half-breached bastion exposed to that fire!

Yes! He, Roy, must get out somehow. If he could only loosen one bar of the window so that he could squeeze through, then he might be able to let himself down by a rope twined out of his long waist-cloth and turban! Thus he might be able to get out of the fort! He might be able to gain the camp on the Arkaban hill before dawn! So he might be able to warn the guns not to fire on the bastion; might be able to tell them that the Heir-to-Empire hung there!

What a number of "might be ables"; but would he be able, even for the first task?

He took up his sword and began forthwith on the iron bar; but the mortar was hard, he could scarcely make a mark upon it. Still, it must be done. In order to free his arms better for the work he took off all his clothes save his flimsy, sleeveless waistcoat and the loin-cloth that was girt about him, and buckled down steadily. But when more than an hour had passed the bar seemed as firm as ever. As he crouched down on the window sill he could see through it to the flat roof of the neighboring palaces; for it was a bright moonlight night still, though the moon must be nigh to her setting. So the thought crossed his mind that if he could only squeeze through he might be able to reach one of those roofs; since, if he remembered aright, a wide cornice ran just below. He paused for a second in his labour to see if this was so, craning his head through the crossbars. Yes, the cornice was there! Scarcely wide enough for a cat to walk, but if he got through in time he would risk it. He must risk it!

But would he get through in time? He set to work again feverishly until suddenly a familiar sound reached his ear from outside; the sound of a cat purring!

Could it be Down? She had not found them out in their new prison, but if she had happened to be on the roof when he looked out of the window she might have seen him or smelled him—yes! There was a white cat on the cornice, and the next moment Down was on the sill, arching her back and purring away contentedly.

So she had found them at last—no! not them, for the Heir-to-Empire was not there—he had been stolen away! Roy could have leaned his head on Down's soft fur and cried his heart out in despair at his own helplessness, but he set his teeth instead and dug harder with the sword point.

Would the bar never loosen? So the minutes passed without a sound save the grating of the eager sword and the soft, soothing purr of the cat as she sat beside him watching him indifferently. Then suddenly the latter ceased and Down leaped swiftly to the floor of the cell. Doubtless she heard something. Cats hear so many things humans do not hear, and they seem to know so many things humans do not know, so perhaps she heard a mouse far down the arched passage, or even in the next cell. Anyhow she marched straight to the door and stood by it, miaowing to be let out. Ah! if he only could let her out! If the door were only open, thought poor Roy, as he worked away at the still immovable bar.

"No! Down, no! I can't," he murmured bitterly as the cat miaowed more and more insistently.

But still the miaowing went on. Down became quite plaintive, then ill-used; finally she leaped onto Roy's shoulder, licked his ear with her rough red tongue as if to coax him, and was back again at the door asking to be let out.

Why was she so set on it? Roy turned to look at her half stupidly and for a moment forgot his task; forgot how rapidly time was passing; forgot everything save that Down was asking to be let out. So wearily he passed to the door, and scarcely conscious of what he was doing, laid his hand on the latch.

"I can't, Down," he said; "I can't open—" He broke off hurriedly.

For the latch yielded, the door opened!!

It could never have been locked!!

Had they forgotten, or, having secured the Heir-to-Empire, had they not cared what became of the henchman? The latter, most likely, for there was no sentry in the arched passage along which Down had already disappeared.

Another second and Roy, sword in hand, had disappeared down it also, remembering as he ran a certain little fretted marble balcony which gave on the gardens below. For Roy, of course, knew every turn of the Bala Hissar. This balcony opened onto an unused gallery room. To gain this, bolt the heavy door behind him, and so, secure from interruption, set to work twining a rope from strips torn from his turban and waistband did not take long; but it was a good twenty minutes before he had knotted all fast; though while he worked he thought of nothing else; of nothing but somehow reaching the garden. Once there he would face the next difficulty. One was enough at a time. And then, when he had made the rope fast to one of the marble pillars and slid down it, it proved too short. He swung with his feet just touching the topmost branch of a blossoming peach tree. There was nothing for it but to let go, snatch at the branches as he fell and trust to chance for safety. He found it; and dropped to the ground amid a perfect shower of shed peach petals.

So he stood for an instant to consider what must come next. A gate! Aye! but which? The farthest from the point of attack would be the best, as there would be less vigilance there. That meant the Delhi gate, and meant also a long round; yet he must be quick, for already there was a faint lightening of the eastern sky. But the moon had set and the shadows, always darker in the hour before dawn, lay upon all things.

And luckily he knew every turn of the Bala Hissar garden, knew every point where danger might be expected. So he began to make his way carefully. He dodged more than one sentry by creeping on through the bushes while the man passed away from him, and crouched among them, still as a mouse, while the measured march came toward him. And once he had to run for bare life from a shower of arrows which a company of soldiers sent into the darkness after a suspicious rustling in the bushes. But mostly the men on duty had too much to think of outside the walls to trouble themselves much about the things inside them.

So with doublings and turnings he came at last on the Delhi gate, a small, round, flat-roofed building pierced by a high archway. It was too dark for him to see its outline, but he knew it well, and paused against the outside wall to consider what he had to do next. The place seemed almost deserted, but a glimmer of light from the archway and the even tramp of a sentry's footstep told it was not all unguarded.

What was he to do? It would be useless for him to try and steal past the sentry, as the gate beyond must be locked, or at any rate bolted and barred. He must either, therefore, try and overpower the man or else try to gain the flat roof by the stairs—of which he knew the position—and, trusting to find a rope or something of the sort in the upper room of the gate, let himself down into the ditch outside.

Now, Roy was a well-grown lad of nigh fifteen, tall for his age, and with his light, youthful sinews of iron might well be a match for many a man, especially as his purpose was like steel, and that is ever half the battle. But there was the chance of other soldiers being within call, and that might mean failure. Now, that must not be. Roy had to succeed—he must!

Therefore the roof was the wiser, safer plan; he must make for the stairs, trusting to escape notice when the sentry's back was turned. Till then—silence!

But even as he settled this in his mind Fate was against him. As he crouched in the darkness something cold suddenly touched his face, and the next moment a clamour of excited yappings and joyful barks arose, as something warm and furry and cold and slobbery flung itself all over him.

Tumbu! It could be nothing but blundering, bumbling Tumbu! He made one useless effort to still the dog, then rose to his feet feeling himself discovered, prepared to run for it. But it was too late. A sentry, lantern in hand, roused by the commotion, barred the way. All seemed lost, but a ray of hope shone when the familiar voice of the Afghan sentry, the unrepentant turncoat, was heard as the lantern waved in Roy's very face.

"By my word, one of the Kings! How come you hither at this time o' night, friend?"

The voice was a little thick, as if the owner, finding the quiet of the Delhi Gate wearisome, had sought amusement in a skin of wine.

Roy gave a gasp—he was too confused for thought. "The dog—" he began.

"Aye! The dog that was yours and is mine," jeered the sentry. "So he nosed you out, did he? Knows his duty—good dog, Tumbu! Knows his master now! Knows who saved him from starvation when he was lurking about in the gutter. Eh! you brute!"

He lunged a kick at Tumbu, who retreated a step, looking from the new to the old master, feeling, in truth, a trifle confused. For the Afghan sentry had certainly found him homeless, friendless, and the dog had stuck by him, feeling that here at least was something vaguely connected with the past life. But now he stood doubtful, expectant, his little ears pricked, his small eyes watchful.

"Well," continued the sentry with a half-drunken laugh, "dog or no dog, you've no business here, so come along with me, my King."

He reached out a heavy hand, and Roy shrunk from it. As he did so there came a sound which sent the blood to Roy's heart with a spasm of instant hope, of possible escape. It was Tumbu's low growl as he realised that some one wanted to touch his old master and that his old master did not want to be touched.

"At him, Tumbu! At him, good dog!" The words came to Roy in a flash, and like a flash the great, powerful dog leaped forward, his fur a-bristle, his white teeth gleaming, and the next instant, taken by the suddenness of the attack, the sentry lay on his back half stunned by the fall, while Tumbu, on the top of him, checked even a cry by a clutch at his throat. A soft clutch so far; but one that would tear through flesh if needful.

Roy was on his knees beside the fallen man.

"Hist! not a sound or the dog shall kill you. He can. Give me the keys. I want to get out of the gate! The keys, do you hear?"

The sentry tried to struggle, but warned by the weight of the dog on his breast and those sharp teeth ready to close upon his throat, murmured hoarsely, "It is only barred, but the bolts are difficult. If you will let me get up and call off your dog——"

But Roy took no heed of his words. "Keep him there, Tumbu," he whispered as he ran to the gate.

Bolted and barred it was, and in the darkness of the archway it was hard to see, for the lantern had gone out in the scuffle. But there was no time to lose, for already beyond the archway it showed faintly light. One bar down! The sentry made a faint effort to stir, that was answered by an ominous growl from Tumbu.

Only one more bolt now!

Roy's long fingers were at it—his whole strength went to it—it creaked—groaned—slid, and with a sob of exultation Roy felt the fresh air of dawn in his face as he stood outside the Bala Hissar.

But he had still much to do. The city must be skirted, the hill of Arkaban gained, and already a faint primrose streak in the eastern sky told of coming light.



CHAPTER XXI

DAWN

Upon the Arkaban hill the artillery men were already at work. In those days guns were not what they are now, quick loading, quick firing.

It needed a good hour to ram the coarse powder down, adjust the round ball and prepare the priming; to say nothing of the task of aiming. So, long ere dawn, the glimmering lights were seen about the battery, which, perched on a hill, gave on the half-breached bastion. Between the two stretched an open space of undulating ground. Sumbal, "the master fireworker," as he is called in the old history books, was up betimes seeing to his men, and with him came a grave, silent man, who, though he had no interest in the quarrels of Humayon and his brothers, was as eager as any to get within the walls of Kabul and find what he sought—a Rajput lad of whom word had been brought to a little half-desert Rajput state lying far away in the Jesulmer plain.

For the grave, silent man, who showed so much knowledge of warfare, who was keen to see everything new in weapons and the handling of them, was a messenger sent by a widowed mother to see if indeed it could be her long-lost son, of whom a certain old trooper had spoken on his return from Kabul.

"See you!" said Sumbal, who was a bit of a boaster, "give me time to aim and I'll warrant me 'Thunder of God'" (that was the name let in with gold on the breech of the gun) "will hit the mark within a yard every time. Thou shalt see it ere-long. There is a sort of pigeon place on the face of the bastion where I will aim, and thou shalt see the splinters of it spin!" He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked piercingly into the shadows. "'Tis too dark to see it yet, but so soon as it shows I will let fly, and then——"

And then?

Roy, who had never stopped for a breath yet in his headlong race, was at that very moment rounding on the bastion, and looking up, saw what he had feared to see—a little figure bound hand and foot to a framework of wood that hung close to what Sumbal had called the pigeon place, seeming to form part of it. The child was not crying. Perhaps he was past that. Perhaps he had never cried, but had taken this last and urgent danger as he had taken others, with grave dignity.

All we know is that he hung there on the wall, and that before his very eyes the light was growing in the east, and over in the hill battery a dozen men were sweating away to bring the "Thunder of God" into position. Roy gave a gasp. Should he call to the little Heir-to-Empire and let him know that a friend was near, that help might come? No! perhaps he did not realise his danger. It was better to let be.

So gathering all his forces for a last effort, he dashed into the open for the final five minutes' run. And there could be no dodging here. Every loophole of the bastion was, he knew, crammed with the matchlocks of many marksmen. And there was now, worse luck, little darkness to cover him!

"Three minutes more, friend!" said Sumbal boastfully, "and thou shalt see what thou wilt see. Slave! the port fire, quick. I will give the signal. Lo! What is up?"

A rattle of musketry rose on the still air of dawn, and an artillery man leaned over the low embrasure to see better into the intervening valley.

"Some one escaping," he said with a yawn, for he had been up half the night. "Lo! he runs like a hare! But they will have him, for sure."

"Quick," called Sumbal, "we will silence their noise. The portfire, I say. I will fire old Thunderer myself."

The man carrying the flaming flashlight handed it to his superior, but in so doing by some mischance it dropped, and in the dropping went out!

"Fool!" cried Sumbal passionately. "Are we to stand insulted here without reply while thou fetchest another? Put him in irons, sergeant, and bring light at once!"

But the grave, silent Rajput was watching the runner. "He is but a boy," he said slowly, "yet see how he runs. And they have hit him, for he staggers. Yet he comes on. He must bring news, friend, for sure!"



"News!" echoed Sumbal contemptuously; "we have half a hundred such runaways coming in every day. It is no news that King Humayon is better liked than Kumran. Lo! hast thou it at last?" He snatched the portfire from the sergeant and went toward the gun.

"Stay one moment, friend!" said the grave and silent man with sudden command in his voice. "A moment's hastiness may bring disaster. Discretion is better than valour. Yonder boy brings news—he waves his arms—he shouts! Stay at least till we can hear what he says."

Sumbal laughed. "Bah! But, see you, I stay my hand while I count ten—no more."

"One! two! three! four!"

The artillery men, amused at the race, leaned over. "He runs well!—He will win!—He will lose!—He climbs like a hill cat!"——

"Five! six! seven! eight! nine!"

And now, unintelligible from sheer breathlessness, Roy's voice is heard. The grave, silent Rajput leaps out to meet him.

"Ten!"

Sumbal's hand swings the portfire to the breech.

Roy sees it, throws up his arms wildly, and with a cry—

"The bastion! The bastion! The Heir-to-Empire!" falls headlong into the Rajput's arms.

"What did he say?" asked the master fireworker, pausing half surprised, half angry.

But the Rajput was too busy tearing aside Roy's flimsy, bloodstained waistcoat to answer.

"Something about the bastion and the Heir-to-Empire, master!" said the sergeant doubtfully. "Mayhap 'twould be as well to wait till we can see more clearly. Kumran," he added in a lower voice, "would stick at naught——"

Sumbal hesitated, then put down the portfire and walked over to the fallen lad, beside whom the stranger was kneeling.

"He is not dead! He is not dead!" said the grave, silent Rajput, looking up, his face working, the tears streaming down his bronzed cheek. "My master is not dead!"

"Who?" asked Sumbal, uncomprehending.

"I knew it must be he!" went on the man exultantly, even in his grief. "None could do that sort of thing save a Sun hero! My Master! my King! See, here the race mark on his breast! The sign of uttermost truth! My Master! My King!"

But Roy did not hear himself called thus. He did not even know for days afterwards if he had succeeded or if he had failed; for a wound just above the heart, close to the sign-mark of his race, very nearly carried him off into the Shadowy Land where all things are remembered, yet all are forgotten.

But he had succeeded. He had saved the Heir-to-Empire's life that dawn, and a day or two afterwards Kumran, daily more hated for his cruelty, had escaped, and the soldiers, rejoiced to get rid of him, flung open the gates of the Bala Hissar, thus ending Prince Akbar's adventures.

But when Roy came to himself Mirak was sitting beside him and Down was purring on Bija's lap; Bija, who had just returned from India with Queen Humeeda in time to console the Heir-to-Empire for all he must have suffered during the few days he was left alone with cruel Uncle Kumran. How much he had suffered no one knew, and the little fellow refused to say anything about it. It was a way he had when the luck went against him. So, just as he had remarked when he had fallen down the ravine, when the white cat and the black dog first came to him, that he had "tumbu-down," so now he simply said that it wasn't "very comfy," but that Tumbu had come to see him more than once. And this was possible, for you may be sure that once he allowed the Afghan sentry to rise, Tumbu, being a wise dog, never went near him again. Therefore he had to find his old master.

And Foster-father, Foster-mother and Head-nurse were all there, the latter greatly subdued for the time, and in her gratitude to Roy inclined to give him some of the titles she was wont to bestow on little Prince Akbar.

For there was no doubt whatever that the lad was the rightful Rajah of Suryamer, whom wicked rebels had exposed in the desert to die, who had been found and kept alive by wandering goatherds and had finally been discovered when unconscious from sunstroke by the royal fugitives.

And out of this arose the only sadness of the happy May days when the little party once more journeyed out to Babar's tomb towards evening to sit under the arghawan trees and watch the sunset.

THE END