“A chip of the old block,” said an ancient mountain chief, who had known his grandfather Babar, and many others nodded assent.  Then Prince Askurry began a set speech, little Akbar seated on his knee the while.

It was a very clever, crafty speech, that could be taken two ways, and Prince Askurry was so much interested in it, and making sure that he was neither too disloyal or too loyal to his unfortunate brother, the King, that he did not notice what was passing on his knee until a sudden lack of attention on the part of his audience made him follow their eyes, and look down at the child upon his lap.

And then?

Then he sat dumbfounded, his face flushing to a dull, dark red, for he saw in a moment what the thing that had happened would mean to those others—­the audience before him—­the men he had summoned to listen to his half-hearted words.

Yet it was a very simple little thing.  Baby Akbar, tired, doubtless, of his uncle’s speechifying, had found amusement in a slender gold chain which hung round his uncle’s neck; had traced it to a secret pocket in his inner waistcoat, and so had drawn out from its hiding place a golden signet ring, set with an engraved emerald.  A toy indeed!  So after playing with it for a bit the child had slipped it onto his little forefinger, which he held up the better to admire his new-found treasure.  So it came to pass that as Askurry’s smooth, oily voice went on and on, those who listened could see a little image sitting on his knee.

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!”

[Illustration:  The child had slipped it onto his little forefinger.]

Prince Askurry’s face fell.  He had not meant to rouse loyalty, but he was quick and clever, so he saw that it had been roused, and that now was not the time to try and stifle it.  So his frown turned to a smile as he caught the child to him and rose, holding him in his arms.

“The rogue, my lords,” he said lightly, “has forestalled me.  I meant to place the ring upon his finger myself before you all, in token that he does in truth represent our King, but praise be to Heaven! he has saved me the task.  Long live the Heir-to-Empire!”