by Flora Annie Steel. It depicts artillerymen. An excerpt from the surrounding text:
"News!" echoed Sumbal contemptuously; "we have half a hundred such runaways coming in every day. It is no news that King Humâyon is better liked than Kumran. Lo! hast thou it at last?" He snatched the portfire from the sergeant and went toward the gun.
"Stay one moment, friend!" said the grave and silent man with sudden command in his voice. "A moment's hastiness may bring disaster. Discretion is better than valour. Yonder boy brings news—he waves his arms—he shouts! Stay at least till we can hear what he says."
Sumbal laughed. "Bah! But, see you, I stay my hand while I count ten—no more."
"One! two! three! four!"
The artillery men, amused at the race, leaned over. "He runs well!—He will win!—He will lose!—He climbs like a hill cat!"——
"Five! six! seven! eight! nine!"
And now, unintelligible from sheer breathlessness, Roy's voice is heard. The grave, silent Râjput leaps out to meet him.
"Ten!"
Sumbal's hand swings the portfire to the breech.
Roy sees it, throws up his arms wildly, and with a cry—
"The bastion! The bastion! The Heir-to-Empire!" falls headlong into the Râjput's arms.
"What did he say?" asked the master fireworker, pausing half surprised, half angry.
But the Râjput was too busy tearing aside Roy's flimsy, bloodstained waistcoat to answer.
"Something about the bastion and the Heir-to-Empire, master!" said the sergeant doubtfully. "Mayhap 'twould be as well to wait till we can see more clearly. Kumran," he added in a lower voice, "would stick at naught——"
Sumbal hesitated, then put down the portfire and walked over to the fallen lad, beside whom the stranger was kneeling.
"He is not dead! He is not dead!" said the grave, silent Râjput, looking up, his face working, the tears streaming down his bronzed cheek. "My master is not dead!"
"Who?" asked Sumbal, uncomprehending.
"I knew it must be he!" went on the man exultantly, even in his grief. "None could do that sort of thing save a Sun hero! My Master! my King! See, here the race mark on his breast! The sign of uttermost truth! My Master! My King!"
But Roy did not hear himself called thus. He did not even know for days afterwards if he had succeeded or if he had failed; for a wound just above the heart, close to the sign-mark of his race, very nearly carried him off into the Shadowy Land where all things are remembered, yet all are forgotten.
But he had succeeded. He had saved the Heir-to-Empire's life that dawn, and a day or two afterwards Kumran, daily more hated for his cruelty, had escaped, and the soldiers, rejoiced to get rid of him, flung open the gates of the Bala Hissar, thus ending Prince Akbar's adventures.
