What moved in those eyes? The Queen could not tell. But despairing, she rose and went to the silent monk, leading the Prince by the hand. Swiftly he stripped the child of the silk pasoh of royalty, swiftly he cut the long black tresses knotted on the little head, and upon the slender golden body he set the yellow robe worn by the Lord Himself on earth, and in the small hand he placed the begging-bowl of the Lord. And now, remote and holy, in the dress that is of all most sacred, the Prince, standing by the monk, turned to his mother and looked with grave eyes upon her, as the child Buddha looked upon his Mother--also a Queen. But Dwaymenau stood by silent and lent no help as the Queen folded the Prince in her arms and laid his hand in the hand of the monk and saw them pass away among the pillars, she standing still and white. She turned to her rival. “If you have meant truly, I thank you.” “I have meant truly.” She turned to go, but the Queen caught her by the hand. “Why have you done this?” she asked, looking into the strange eyes of the strange woman. Something like tears gathered in them for a moment, but she brushed them away as she said hurriedly: “I was grateful. You saved my son. Is it not enough?” “No, not enough!” cried the Queen. “There is more. Tell me, for death is upon us.” “His footsteps are near,” said the Indian. “I will speak. I love my lord. In death I will not cheat him. What you have known is true. My child is no child of his. I will not go down to death with a lie upon my lips. Come and see.” Dwaymenau was no more. Sundari, the Indian woman, awful and calm, led the Queen down the long ball and into her own chamber, where Mindon, the child, slept a drugged sleep. The Queen felt that she had never known her; she herself seemed diminished in stature as she followed the stately figure, with its still, dark face. Into this room the enemy were breaking, shouldering their way at the door--a rabble of terrible faces. Their fury was partly checked when only a sleeping child and two women confronted them, but their leader, a grim and evil-looking man, strode from the huddle. “Where is the son of the King?” he shouted. “Speak, women! Whose is this boy?” Sundari laid her hand upon her son’s shoulder. Not a muscle of her face flickered. “This is his son.” “His true son--the son of Maya the Queen?” “His true son, the son of Maya the Queen.” “Not the younger--the mongrel?” “The younger--the mongrel died last week of a fever.” Every moment of delay was precious. Her eyes saw only a monk and a boy fleeing across the wide river. “Which is Maya the Queen?” “This,” said Sundari. “She cannot speak. It is her son--the Prince.” Maya had veiled her face with her hands. Her brain swam, but she understood the noble lie. This woman could love. Their lord would not be left childless. Thought beat like pulses in her--raced along her veins. She held her breath and was dumb.