The Ranee's voice--a stern note that Quorn had never heard before--the high priest answering, and all the Brahmins echoing him in chorus--promises, Quorn supposed--agreements, to be broken when the time came. Pity she couldn't hang 'em all. He sat down, more stunned than he had realized he was, his head so swimming that it was several seconds before he recognized Bamjee with a big ax in his hand. "We win, I think," said Bamjee, "both of us! I chopped the door down while the prince was slaying dragons--six men at least! Oh, my God! I chopped with all that going on behind me--think of it! But it was I who released her from the cell--can she forget that?" Then the Ranee's voice, the Ranee's sweet young face amid a sea of others that persisted in whirling around in a circle. Somewhere in the whirl Blake's monocle and a glimpse of Blake cleaning an automatic with his handkerchief. "I thank you, Sirdar Benjamin Quorn. Do you think you could make Asoka understand how much I thank him?" And then Blake's voice: "Gad! I don't know, Quorn--I might--you never know--I might be able to persuade our government to recognize that title. Do my best, old fellow--do my best for you at any time!" THE END.