Come and see."
Dwaymenau was no more. Sundari, the Indian woman, awful and calm,
led the Queen down the long ball and into her own chamber, where
Mindon, the child, slept a drugged sleep. The Queen felt that she
had never known her; she herself seemed diminished in stature as
she followed the stately figure, with its still, dark face. Into
this room the enemy were breaking, shouldering their way at the
door - a rabble of terrible faces. Their fury was partly checked
when only a sleeping child and two women confronted them, but
their leader, a grim and evil- looking man, strode from the
huddle.
"Where is the son of the King?" be shouted. "Speak, women! Whose
is this boy?"
Sundari laid her hand upon her son's shoulder. Not a muscle of
her face flickered.
"This is his son."
"His true son - the son of Maya the Queen?"
"His true son, the son of Maya the Queen."
"Not the younger - the mongrel?"
"The younger - the mongrel died last week of a fever."
Every moment of delay was precious. Her eyes saw only a monk and
a boy fleeing across the wide river.
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