And then?
Then he sat dumbfounded, his face flushing to a dull, dark red, for he
saw in a moment what the thing that had happened would mean to those
others--the audience before him--the men he had summoned to listen to
his half-hearted words.
Yet it was a very simple little thing. Baby Akbar, tired, doubtless, of
his uncle's speechifying, had found amusement in a slender gold chain
which hung round his uncle's neck; had traced it to a secret pocket in
his inner waistcoat, and so had drawn out from its hiding place a golden
signet ring, set with an engraved emerald. A toy indeed! So after
playing with it for a bit the child had slipped it onto his little
forefinger, which he held up the better to admire his new-found
treasure. So it came to pass that as Askurry's smooth, oily voice went
on and on, those who listened could see a little image sitting on his
knee.
A dignified, gracious-looking image with forefinger held up in the
attitude of kingly command; and on that forefinger--what?
The Signet of the King!
The Ring of Empire!
It was unmistakable! Askurry must have found it in his fugitive
brother's tent. He must have concealed it. Uncertain what part he meant
to play in the end, he must have worn it on his person until the
child--the true Heir-to-Empire----
The chiefs looked at each other furtively. There was a pause. Then
suddenly an old, thin voice--the voice of the old mountain chief, who
remembered Babar the brave--rose on the silence.
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