The news stirred the whole city of Kabul to its depths.  It had but lately passed into the hands of Humayon.  There were not wanting many who preferred Kumran, and Kumran was in exile waiting an opportunity.

And that came with the suddenness of a summer storm.  One night the gates of the town were closed by the Regent Shurruf Khan in Humayon’s name; the next dawn saw the Iron Entry, after a brief scuffle, opened in the name of Kumran!  There was a rush of armed men through the streets of the town, a murder or two of loyal men in high authority.  And then?

Up at the Bala Hissar, Foster-father roused from his sleep, went in haste to the Regent, expecting to hear bugles, to find troops gatherings for defence; but the gates of the Fort were open!

Shurruf Khan was traitor!  He had gone over to the enemy.  Ere an hour was over Kumran, scowling, walked up and down the royal apartments, a King once more; but biting his lips and frowning over something that stood between him and perfect revenge!

Foster-father, good old fool, was back in his dungeon in the well, where this time he would rot.  The women, as a change, were walled up in a tiny room, where, bread and water being thrust in to them, they might eat and live, or starve and die as they chose.

But the Heir-to-Empire?  What of him?  Ah! fool that he had been to make that promise to a crafty old woman who had died in order to spite him.  Kumran’s anger rose fierce; he would have given anything to break his oath; but he could not.  He was not strong enough; even his wickedness was not real.

But, short of death, the young heir should have no shelter.  Kumran flung him into a miserable cell close to the Iron Gate and thought no more of him.  And now, but for faithful Roy, Akbar would indeed have been in sorry plight.  They had barely enough to eat, but Roy stinted himself, eating nothing but the hard half-burned crusts of the coarse hearth-cakes and excusing himself from even touching the miserable mess of pease-porridge on the ground that he did not like it.  So he grew thin and his brown deer-eyes had a startled look.  Indeed, he hardly slept at all, but watched and dozed beside his little master all night long.

Yet he was always cheerful.  Always ready with stories and songs.  When he could not remember any new-old ones, he took to inventing tales of people who were always in dangers and difficulties, but who took no notice of them, who went on their way trusting in the Truth.

“For! see you!” he would finish gravely,

    “He who has Truth
    Need fear no ruth.”

So, ever and always his hero came out of his trials scathless.

And, by degrees, this faith in final good grew deep into both the boys’ hearts, and showed in their very faces.

“By my word!” said the Afghan sentry, whom chance one day sent to guard them.  “Ye be a precious pair of Kings!”