All the musicians and
dancers and acrobats and jugglers of Kabul were commanded to be there,
snow came from the higher hills to ice the drinks, and cooks worked day
and night to prepare the most wonderful dishes.
"That is what I call a King," remarked the Afghan sentry, whom Roy,
going with his little master to see the preparations, found keeping
guard at the gate. "None of your skinflints like Kumran. Aye!" he
continued, seeing Roy's look of surprise and distaste, "I have done what
I said I would--fought for Kumran till there was no more fighting to be
done. And now, like His Gracious Majesty King Humayon, I am enjoying
myself. I want no more! Ha! Ha!"
Little Prince Akbar, who was standing by, turned on him sharply. "Thou
art a slave, fellow, and know nothing of Kingship. Roy and I do. In his
country Kings ride and shoot and play polo, and--and do things.
Besides," he added, "I want my mother."
"Your Highness will have to choose her then, so I hear," began the
sentry almost rudely, and Roy started to rebuke him, but Prince Akbar
was first.
"Of course I shall choose my own mother, slave. She is quite different,
you know, from any one else in the world. Isn't she, Roy?"
The Rajput lad passed his hand over his forehead. "Mine was, Most Noble!
I should know her again if I ever saw her, but I never shall."
"Say not that, boy," said the sentry, who, despite his roughness, had a
kind heart and was touched by the sorrow in Roy's voice.
Pages:
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161