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.