But the others were more than satisfied with the whisper.

“Now,” said little Bija, who was beginning to manage her nurses, “Tumbu must find Foster-father and tell him.”  And this, we have seen, he did.

Even so, with the daily content of knowing that all were at least safe, the time passed with deadly slowness, for the days grew to weeks, the weeks to months, bringing no change.  Denied, as he was, the outdoor life, the fresh air to which he had been accustomed, little Prince Akbar grew pale and thin.  But his spirits did not flag, and he would laugh over the tale of how Rajah Rasalu swung the Seventy Maidens as heartily as ever, though sometimes his little lip would go down and he would say, “If Bija were only here I’d never ask her to tumble down.  I would go on swinging till she wanted me to stop.”

So the winter came on, but still Dearest-Lady did not return.  A letter had come from her saying she had reached Kandahar in safety—­that she was staying in the Kar Garden outside the town which her father had planted—­that King Humayon was not angry—­that he had already forgiven Prince Askurry—­that Kumran had nothing to fear if he only kept to his promise.

The prisoners, of course, knew nothing of this letter, but the effect of it showed in a greater freedom.  Foster-father was moved to a more comfortable dungeon and Bija, Head-nurse and Foster-mother were allowed to go and see the Heir-to-Empire.  Their delight may be imagined, and even Tumbu shared in the joy, for, when he was refused admittance and left down below, he dashed up the stairs, evading the sentries and barked furiously at the door to be let in.  And the meeting between him and Mirak was so pretty that the sentry had not the heart to insist on poor doggie going down again.  And this, in its way, was a good thing, for it was the beginning of a sort of friendship between the young Prince and this particular Afghan sentry.  Sometimes, after he had been relieved, he would come up to the little captive’s room for a bit, and listen to Roy’s stories, or tell a few in his turn; for he had wandered about, over half India, giving the use of his sword to any one who would pay him well for it.

“Lo!  I have not heard that tale since I was in Rajputana!” he said one day after Roy had been singing an old-world legend of fighting days.  “It was an old Brahman of Suryamer told it me of the Sun-Heroes.”

Roy’s face flushed up in a second.  “Suryamer is mine!” he said proudly; “I am of the Sun-Heroes!”

Then he started to his feet, pale as ashes.  “I have remembered!  I have remembered at last,” he said almost with a cry.  “It is true!  I was Rajah of Suryamer!  It has come back to me at last!”

Then as suddenly he crouched down again and covered his face with both hands.

“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!”