But Roy's
keen eyes showed--as the peacock's feather fan swept past them backwards
and forwards--like a hawk's as it hovers above a partridge. There was in
them a defiance, a certainty that victory must come.
Suddenly a wicked laugh filled the tent. "Peace! brothers," said a
sneering voice, "Prince Askurry prefers to leave the snake to fight with
his own son in the future."
The taunt told. It was true! Better to scotch the snake now, than to
leave it to be dangerous by and by; dangerous perhaps to his own little
son who was but a few years older than Baby Akbar.
Prince Askurry strode forward drawn sword in hand; but whether he really
meant to use it or not cannot be told, for a very strange thing
happened. Baby Akbar had been listening to the fierce voices just as he
had listened to the angry voices when Adam had refused to salute. And
now he saw some one before him who appeared to have no intention--as
Adam had no intention--of making his reverence; so, remembering the
fine thing he had done when the latter had been naughty, up went the
little hand again, and once more the loud, deep, baby voice said
imperiously:
"Salute! Slave! salute!"
The words were barely uttered when by pure chance Prince Askurry's foot
caught in the ragged carpet, and----?
And down he came flat as a pancake on the floor in the very lowliest
salute that ever was made!
The next moment, however, he sat up, half-stunned, and looked wrathfully
at his little nephew.
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