The child had slipped it onto his little forefinger.
A dignified, gracious-looking image with forefinger held up in the attitude of kingly command; and on that forefinger—what?
The Signet of the King!
The Ring of Empire!
It was unmistakable! Askurry must have found it in his fugitive brother's tent. He must have concealed it. Uncertain what part he meant to play in the end, he must have worn it on his person until the child—the true Heir-to-Empire——
The chiefs looked at each other furtively. There was a pause. Then suddenly an old, thin voice—the voice of the old mountain chief, who remembered Babar the brave—rose on the silence.
"God save the Heir-to-Empire!"
It gave the lead, and from every side rose the cry:
"God save the Heir-to-Empire!"