pectable fellow to Old
Faithful, as the two supporters stood bolt upright with drawn swords one
on either side, while beneath them, on the ragged old Persian carpet
which had been spread to hide the dirty tent drugget, crouched
Head-nurse and Foster-mother, their faces veiled with their best gold
embroidered veils.

A great pile of cushions had been placed on the muletrunk, and in the
centre of these sat Baby Akbar, the Royal heron's plume of his turban
waving gently in the breeze caused by the slow dignified sweep of the
Royal fan which Roy, who stood behind his young master, was swinging
backwards and forwards.

But it was not the prettiness of the picture which made Prince Askurry
pause. It was the child's open fearless face which reminded him at
once--as King Humayon had hoped it might--of that dear, beloved father
whose memory, even in their worst wickednesses, was ever a good
influence in the lives of his sons. Babar the Brave! Babar of the
Generous Heart! the Kindly Smile! Who could forget him?

But behind Prince Askurry were others who did not remember; who were
eager to kill and have done with Humayon and his son for ever.

And when they saw Prince Askurry pause, they were quick with advice.

"It is unwise to spare snakes' spawn," said one.

[Illustration: _Prince Askurry ... strode ... into the tent._]

"The boy is father to the man," said another. "He who is wise kills
young rats as well as old ones."

And still Prince Askurry paused while poor Head-nurse and Wet-nurse went
sick with fear under their veils at what might be going to happen, and
Old Faithful's hand clasped the hilt of his sword tighter, since come
what may he meant to strike one blow for his young master. But Roy's
keen eyes showed--as the peacock's feather fan swept past them backwards
and forwards--like a hawk's as it hovers above a partridge. There was in
them a defiance, a certainty that victory must come.

Suddenly a wicked laugh filled the tent. "Peace! brothers," said a
sneering voice, "Prince Askurry prefers to leave the snake to fight with
his own son in the future."

The taunt told. It was true! Better to scotch the snake now, than to
leave it to be dangerous by and by; dangerous perhaps to his own little
son who was but a few years older than Baby Akbar.

Prince Askurry strode forward drawn sword in hand; but whether he really
meant to use it or not cannot be told, for a very strange thing
happened. Baby Akbar had been l