“Oh nev’ mind my bruises.  They’re all right now.”

“And beautiful to behold!” He lightly touched the lump on Roy’s cheek.  “I’d let her dab them, though.  Women love fussing over us when we’re hurt—­especially if we’ve been fighting for them!”

“Yes—­they do,” Roy agreed gravely; and to his surprise, his father drew him close and kissed his forehead.

* * * * *

His mother did not keep him waiting long.  First the quick flutter of her footsteps; then the door gently opened—­and she flew to him, her sari blowing out in beautiful curves.  Then he was in her arms, gathered into her silken softness and the faint scent of sandalwood; while her lips, light as butterfly wings, caressed the bruise on his cheek.

“Oh, what a bad, wicked Sonling!” she murmured, gathering him close.

He loved her upside-down fashion of praise and endearment; never guessing its Eastern significance—­to avert the watchfulness of jealous gods swift to spy out our dearest treasures, that hinder detachment, and snatch them from us.  “Such a big rude boy—­and you tried to kill him only because he did not understand your queer kind of mother!  That you will find often, Roy; because it is not custom.  Everywhere it is the same.  For some kind of people not to be like custom is much worse than not to be good.  And that boy has a mother too much like custom.  Not surprising if he didn’t understand.”

“I made him though—­I did,” Roy exulted shamelessly, marvelling at his father’s cleverness, wondering how much he had told.  “I hammered hard.  And I’m not sorry a bit.  Nor Daddy isn’t either.”

For answer she gave him a convulsive little squeeze—­and felt the crackle of paper under his shirt.  “Something hidden there!  What is it, Sonling?” she asked with laughing eyes:  and suddenly shyness overwhelmed him.  For the moment he had forgotten his treasure; and now he was wondering if he could show it—­even to her.

“It is Tara—­I think it’s rather a secret——­” he began.

“But I may see?” Then as he still hesitated, she added with grave tenderness:  “Only if you are wishing it, son of my heart.  To-day—­you are a man.”

From his father that recognition had been sufficiently uplifting.  And now—­from her...!  The subtle flattery of it and the deeper prompting of his own heart demolished his budding attempt at reserve.

“I am—­truly,” he said:  and she, sitting where his father had sat, unfolded Tara’s letter—­and the bangle lay revealed.

Roy had not guessed how surprised she would be—­and how pleased!  She gave a little quick gasp and murmured something he could not catch.  Then she looked at him with shining eyes, and her voice had its low serious note that stirred him like music.

“Now—­you are Bracelet-Bound, my son.  So young!”

Roy felt a throb of pride.  It was clearly a fine thing to be.