"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 Rajput 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 Rajput's arms.
"What did he say ?" asked the master fireworker, pausing half surprised, half angry.
But the Rajput 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 Rajput, 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.