"Roy!" said little Prince Akbar gravely. "Why should you cry because you are a King? I don't."
The sentry laughed. "By my word," he remarked, "there is a blessed pair of you Kings!"
"Of course there is," assented the Heir-to-Empire with the greatest dignity. "I have been one ever since I was born, and I always knew Roy belonged to me!" Then in quick impulse he ran over to the Râjput lad and flung his arms round his neck crying, "Oh Roy! Roy! I'm so glad you are my brother!"
"Not so fast, young sir," objected the sentry, who was hugely amused and interested; "what proof can you bring of this, stripling?"
Roy lifted a scared face; then hung his head.
"None, save my memory, and this mark upon my breast. My mother said we all had the stamp of truth over our hearts."
The sentry shrugged his shoulders. "That is not much in this wicked world," he said carelessly. "And anyhow it matters little if either or both of you be Kings, since ye are in cruel Kumran's power."
"Not till my Dearest-Lady returns," dissented little Akbar gravely. "Head-nurse said so; and if cruel Uncle Kumran is to get me, Dearest-Lady won't come back. I know she won't—so there!"
And, as events turned out, the Heir-to-Empire was right!
But a few days afterwards a messenger, bearing a blue handkerchief in his hand—the sign of death tidings to the Royal Family—appeared in hot haste before the nobles assembled in the Audience Hall.