‘Some of it,’ said Moti, appeased, ’and some to my new little monkey—­my talking monkey.’

The fishes darted up for the crumbs greedily, but the monkey was not as grateful for her share as she ought to have been.  She took it, smelt it, wiped it vigorously on the ground, smelt it again, and chattered angrily at the boys; then she went nimbly hand over hand to the very top of the banyan-tree she lived in; and then she deliberately broke it into little pieces and pelted the givers with them.

‘She is not hungry to-day,’ said Moti.  ’Let us take out the falcons.’

Next morning the Maharajah was very much annoyed by the intelligence that all the little red-spotted fishes were floating flabby and flat and dead among the lily pads of the fountain—­there were few things except Moti that the Maharajah loved better than his little red-spotted fishes.  He wanted very particularly to know why they should have died in this unanimous and apparently preconcerted way.  The gods had probably killed them by lightning, but the Maharajah wanted to know.  So he sent for the Englishman, who did not mind touching a dead thing, and the Englishman told him that the little red-spotted fishes had undoubtedly been poisoned.  Moti was listening when the doctor said this.

‘It could not have been the cake,’ said Moti.

But when all was looked into, including one of the little fishes, Dr. Roberts found that it undoubtedly had been the cake.  Scraps of it were still lying about the banyan-tree to help him to this conclusion, and the monkey chattered as if she could give evidence, too, if anybody would listen.  But she gave evidence enough in not eating it.  Everybody, that is, everybody in Rajputana, knows that you can never poison a monkey.  The little prince maintained that the voice he heard was the voice of Matiya, yet every one recognised the jewels to be Tarra’s.  There was nothing else to go upon, and the Maharajah decided that it was impossible to tell which of the two had wickedly tried to poison his eldest son.  He arranged, however, that they should both disappear—­he could not possibly risk a mistake in the matter.  And I wish that had been the greatest of the Maharajah’s injustices.  When the truth came out, later, that it was undoubtedly Matiya, the Maharajah said that he had always been a good deal of that opinion, and built a beautiful domed white marble tomb, partly in memory of Tarra and partly, I fear, to commemorate his own sagacity, which may seem, under the circumstances, a little odd.

The really curious thing was, however, that out of it all came honour and glory for Sunni.  For what, asked the Maharajah, had prevented the poisoning of his son?  What but the shadow of Sunni, which fell upon the cake, so that Moti could not eat it!  Therefore, without doubt, Sunni had saved the life of a king; and he could ask nothing that should not be granted to him; he should stand always near the throne.  Sunni felt very proud and important, he did not know exactly why; but he could not think of anything he wanted, except to learn his own language from the Englishman.