"Wah! Wah!" cried the Queen, delighted. "He can stop if he likes."
Ten minutes after Roy had finished his song Dearest-Lady's litter paused for a moment on a high-perched corner of the road towards Kandahâr, to give her a last look of the fair city of Kâbul. Her bright old face was bright still, undimmed by care. She was old and frail, she was going a wearisome, trying journey; yet, for the present, she knew that she had saved the Heir-to-Empire's life. That at any rate was secure until she returned—and she might never return! The thought made her smile. "Forward, slaves!" she cried cheerfully, and Kâbul, the city she loved so well, was left behind without one regret.
And she was right. She had saved the Heir-to-Empire's life; for at that very minute the door of little Prince Akbar's room opened wide, and Roy starting up found himself face to face with cruel Uncle Kumran followed by two men with drawn swords. And, alas for Roy! he had no sword to draw, for Old Faithful's sabre did not fit the disguise of a Râjput bard. Despite that, he stepped forward boldly, though his heart beat to suffocation. For Kumran's face was cruel indeed.
Still, for one second, the latter's attention was distracted. He had wanted no witnesses to what he meant to do.
"How camest thou hither, slave?" he asked fiercely.
And Roy gave him back the simple truth, no more, no less; but it was sufficient.
"Her Highness Khânzâda Khânum brought me hither to be with the Heir-to-Empire ere she left at sunset."
Kumran started back. "Left? Hath she left already?" he asked, his face paling. So he stood for a moment irresolute, the words of his own oath pealing through his brain, "By the memory of my father I promise." That was not one which any son of Babar's was ever likely to break. "Sheath your swords, fools!" he said at last bitterly; "they are not needed. I am not the first man who has been outwitted by a woman."