‘Stop,’ said the Maharajah.  ’I will do justice in this matter.  I desire the boy, but I have brought his price.  Where is it, Moti-ji?’

The little Maharajah laughed with delight, and drew from behind him a jingling bag.

‘It is one hundred and fifty rupees,’ said the Maharajah.  ’Give it to the woman, Moti.’  And the child held it out to her.

Tooni looked at the bag, and then at Sonny Sahib, salaamed and hesitated.  It was a provision for the rest of her life, as lives go in Rajputana.

‘Is it not enough!’ asked the Maharajah irritably, while the little prince’s face fell.

‘Your Highness,’ stammered Tooni, ’it is great riches—­may roses be to your mouth!  But I have a desire—­rather than the money—­’

‘What is your desire?’ cried the little prince.  ’Say it.  In a breath my father will allow it.  I want the gold-faced one to come and play.’

The Maharajah nodded, and this time Tooni lay down at the feet of the little prince.

‘It is,’ said she, ’that—­I am a widow and old—­that I also may live in the farthest corner within the courtyard walls, with the boy.’

The Maharajah slipped the bag quickly into the pocket of his blue and yellow coat.

‘It is a strange preference,’ he said, ’but the Mussulmans have no minds.  It may be.’

Tooni kissed his feet, and Sonny Sahib nodded approval at him.  Somehow, Sonny Sahib never could be taught good Rajput manners.

‘The boy is well grown,’ said the Maharajah, turning upon his heel.  ‘What is his name?’

‘Protector of the poor,’ answered Tooni, quivering with delight, ‘his name is Sonny Sahib.’

Perhaps nobody has told you why the English are called Sahibs in India.  It is because they rule there.

The Maharajah’s face went all into a pucker of angry wrinkles, and his eyes shone like little coals.

‘What talk is that?’ he said angrily.  ’His great-grandfather was a monkey!  There is only one master here.  Pig’s daughter, his name is Sunni!’

Tooni did not dare to say a word, and even the little prince was silent.

‘Look you,’ said the old man to Sonny Sahib.  ’Follow my son, the Maharajah, into the courtyard, and there do his pleasure.  Do you understand?  Follow him!’

CHAPTER V

‘Sunni,’ said Moti, as the two boys rode through the gates of the courtyard a year later, ’a man of your race has come here, and my father has permitted him to remain.  My father has given him the old empty jail to live in, behind the monkey temple.  They say many curious things are in his house.  Let us ride past it.’

In his whole life Sunni had never heard such an interesting piece of news before—­even Tooni’s, about the Maharajah’s horseman, was nothing to this.  ‘Why is he come?’ he asked, putting his little red Arab into a trot.