having got a hold of the hilt, would not
let go. And to Old Faithful's huge delight he pulled and pulled till the
sword came out of the scabbard.

"An omen! An omen!" cried the old man. "Like his grandfather, he will
fight battles ere he be twelve!"

Then there was Roy, the Rajput lad, whom the royal fugitives had found
half dead from sunstroke in the wide, sandy Rajputana deserts, and whom,
with their customary kindness, they had succoured and befriended,
putting him on as a sort of page boy to the little Heir-to-Empire. He
was a tall, slim lad for his twelve years, was Roy, with a small,
well-set head and a keen, well-cut face. And his eyes! They were like a
deer's--large, brown, soft, but with a flash in them at times.

For the sunstroke which had so nearly killed the lad had left his mind a
little confused. As yet he could remember nothing of what had happened
to him before it, and could not even recollect who he was, or anything
save that his name was Roy. But every now and again he would say
something or do something which would make those around him look
surprised, and wonder who he could have been to know such things and
have such manners.

After him came Meroo, the misshapen cook-boy. He was an odd fellow, all
long limbs and broad smiles, who, when his time arrived, shambled
forward, cast himself in lowliest reverence full length on the ground
and blubbered out his delight--now that the princely baby could really
eat--at being able to supply all sorts of toothsome stews full of onions
and green ginger, to say nothing of watermelons and sugar cane. These
things, strange to say, being to little Indian children very much what
chocolate creams and toffee are to English ones.

So far all had gone well, and now there only remained one more salute to
be made. But little Adam, who was Head-nurse's own son, and who had
hitherto been Baby Akbar's playmate, refused absolutely to do as he was
bid. He was a short, sturdy boy of five, and nothing would induce him to
go down on his knees and touch the ground with his forehead. In vain
Meroo, the cook-boy, promised him sweets if he would only obey orders;
in vain Old Faithful spoke of a ride on his old war-horse, and Roy, who
was a most wonderful story-teller, promised him the best of all,
Bopuluchi. In vain his mother, losing patience at such a terrible piece
of indecorum, rushed at him and cuffed him soundly. He only howled and
kicked.

And then suddenly Baby Akbar,