It was the Colonel
himself, then only a young captain, who had heard the piteous wailing cry
issuing from a side apartment. He had rushed in, and there a sight greeted
him which engraved itself on his memory for ever. The place was almost in
darkness, save that at the far end two torches had been lit on either side
of what seemed to be a throne--a beautiful golden chair raised from the
floor by ivory steps. Here, too, at first all had seemed death and
silence; then the cry had been repeated, and they saw that a tiny child
lay between the high carved arms and was watching them with great,
beautiful eyes. Around his neck had hung a hastily-written message:
"This is my son, Nehal Singh, whose life and heritage I intrust to my
conquerors in the name of justice and mercy."
And he had taken the boy in his arms and borne him thence as tenderly as
if he had been his own.
Since then twenty-five years had passed. The throne had been given to the
tiny heir under the tutelage of a neighboring prince, and the spirit of
forgotten things brooded over the wreck of the tempest that for over a
year had raged about Marut. But the Colonel remembered as if it had been
but yesterday. Others had forgotten the little child, but, perhaps because
he had no children of his own, the memory of the dark baby eyes had never
been banished from his mind. He caught himself wondering, not without a
touch of emotion, what sort of man had grown out of the minute being he
had rescued; but curiously enough--and typically enough of the
contrariness of human sympathy--from the moment he caught sight of the
tall figure advancing to meet him from the steps of the palace, all
kindly, gentle feelings died out of him, and his old prejudice of race
awoke.
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