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.
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