Then he looked round on those others--Head-nurse, Wet-nurse, Old
Faithful, Roy the Râjput, and Meroo the cook-boy--not much of a
bodyguard for the young prince, and yet, since force would be useless,
perhaps as good as any other, if they had a head between them. But the
nurses were women, Faithful nothing but an old soldier, and the two
others were mere boys. Some one else must be left. Who? Then he
remembered Foster-father, Foster-mother's husband. He was the man.
Solid, sober, clear-headed. So, as Queen Humeeda was being hurriedly
wrapped in a shawl by the two weeping nurses, he gave them a few
directions. They were to stay where they were, no matter what happened,
until Foster-father returned from showing the fugitives a path he knew
to the mountains, and then----

King Humâyon could say no more. Only as, after a hurried, tearless,
hopeless farewell to his little son, he paused at the tent door to take
a last look, his half-fainting wife in his arms, he said suddenly in a
sharp, loud voice:

"Remember! In your charge lies the safety of the Heir-to-Empire."

The words sank into the very hearts of those who stood watching the
group of hurrying figures making its way rapidly toward the hills.

"Pray Heaven," muttered Old Faithful anxiously, "that they be over the
rise before those who follow see them."

So they stood fearfully watching, watching. And Heaven was kind, for
though one great blue blaze of lightning showed the fugitives clear
against the sky line, when the next came there was nothing but the
rugged rocks.