"Thou art right, my lad," she said slowly, looking curiously at Roy,
from whose face the flash of memory seemed to have passed. "Thou art
right. In royalty lies safety. The Heir-to-Empire must receive his
enemies as a King! Quick! slaves! Close the tent door and let us bring
forth all we have, and make all things as regal as we can. There is no
time to lose."
And they did not lose any. The result being that when, quarter of an
hour afterward, Prince Askurry, bitterly disappointed at finding that
his real quarry, the King and Queen, had escaped, strode with some of
his followers into the tent where he was told Baby Akbar was to be
found, he paused at the door, first in astonishment and then in
amusement.
It was really rather a pretty picture which he saw. To begin with the
tent had been lit up with the little rushlight lamps they call in India
_chiraghs_--tiny saucers which can be made of mud in which a cotton wick
floats in a few drops of oil--and a row of these outlined the mule trunk
throne. Then Meroo's misshapen limbs had been hidden under a chain
corselet and helmet, so he made quite a respectable fellow to Old
Faithful, as the two supporters stood bolt upright with drawn swords one
on either side, while beneath them, on the ragged old Persian carpet
which had been spread to hide the dirty tent drugget, crouched
Head-nurse and Foster-mother, their faces veiled with their best gold
embroidered veils.
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