"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.
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