throne. Then Meroo's misshapen limbs had been hidden under a chain
corselet and helmet, so he made quite a respectable 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 Humâyon 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 Humâyon 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._]