No!  Indeed it was impossible to tell what might not happen!

And that is exactly how it turned out.  What really did happen no one knew.  It was Foster-mother who, waking first, let loose a shriek while still half awake.  This roused Head-nurse, who let loose another.  For Baby Akbar was no longer between them.  The Heir-to-Empire had gone—­had disappeared—­was not to be found!

Roy was out of the tent in a second, treading in his haste on Meroo, who was sleeping outside, and who began to howl confusedly.  Old Faithful fumbled for his sword, Foster-father rubbed his eyes as if they must be at fault.

But there was no Baby!  And what is more, both the black dog and the white cat had disappeared also; at least they were no longer on the watch.

Never was there such a commotion.  The rocks resounded with cries and every one searched everywhere; even in the great tall basket panniers in which hill shepherds carry their goods and chattels.

But not one sign of the little fellow was to be found, until—­horribly, dreadfully, near to that awful birch-twig bridge—­Foster-mother seized on a tiny gold-embroidered skull cap that was lying on the grass.

“It is his!” she sobbed, “it is my darling’s!  He hath tried to get to the mountains to his Amma, and he hath fallen from that accursed cats’ cradle.  He is dead!  He is killed!”

Every face, except the shepherds’, who did not, of course, understand what was said, turned pale.  It was indeed possible, perhaps probable, that the faithful little soul, who remembered when others forgot, had tried——­

It was a terrible thought.  But the shepherds, seeing the cap, at once whistled to their dog, and the one who spoke Persian explained that if it were shown the cap it would take up the track of the child at once.

But though they whistled and whistled no dog came.

Then the shepherds began to look grave and mutter among themselves.

“What are they saying?  What gibberish are they talking?” shrilled poor Head-nurse, trying to keep hope alive by being angry.  The man who spoke Persian looked at her cheerfully.

“Only that perhaps the dog has eaten the child.  We keep it hungry that it may chase the wild animals.”

This was too much for the womankind.  They simply rent the air with heartbroken sobs.

But Foster-father, grave and silent, would not give up hope.  Every foot of the ravine must be searched, first downwards, as, had the child really fallen into the stream it must have been carried with it.  Then as a last forlorn hope upwards.  So, peering down carefully from either side, they traced the ravine till, gradually becoming shallower, less steep, it merged into the grassy valley.  But there was no sign.  Then sadly they commenced their upward search, until they were close to the high cliff whence the stream gushed out.  Here they found that the ravine was wider, and at the bottom of it a patch of sand and boulders showed that there was foothold beside the roaring torrent.