The women, as a change, were walled up in
a tiny room, where, bread and water being thrust in to them, they might
eat and live, or starve and die as they chose.
But the Heir-to-Empire? What of him? Ah! fool that he had been to make
that promise to a crafty old woman who had died in order to spite him.
Kumran's anger rose fierce; he would have given anything to break his
oath; but he could not. He was not strong enough; even his wickedness
was not real.
But, short of death, the young heir should have no shelter. Kumran flung
him into a miserable cell close to the Iron Gate and thought no more of
him. And now, but for faithful Roy, Akbar would indeed have been in
sorry plight. They had barely enough to eat, but Roy stinted himself,
eating nothing but the hard half-burned crusts of the coarse
hearth-cakes and excusing himself from even touching the miserable mess
of pease-porridge on the ground that he did not like it. So he grew thin
and his brown deer-eyes had a startled look. Indeed, he hardly slept at
all, but watched and dozed beside his little master all night long.
Yet he was always cheerful. Always ready with stories and songs. When he
could not remember any new-old ones, he took to inventing tales of
people who were always in dangers and difficulties, but who took no
notice of them, who went on their way trusting in the Truth.
"For! see you!" he would finish gravely,
"He who has Truth
Need fear no ruth.
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