So there arose such a hubbub, which was only calmed by Baby Akbar being allowed to do as he chose.
"Poor! Poor!" he said as his little hand touched the sharp prickles and no one found out, till Foster-mother came to put him to bed, that he really _did_ scratch himself.

There was quite a little runnel of blood on the palm; but Akbar, even when he was a baby, was proud.

He knew how to bear discomfort and punishment when it was his own fault.
They were all rather merry that night, for they had roast porcupine stuffed with pistachio nuts for supper.

And afterward Roy sat by Baby Akbar's pile of quilts and sang him to sleep with this royal lullaby: "Baby, Baby-ling, You are always King; Always wear a crown, Though you tumble down; Call each thing your own, Find each lap a throne; Dearest, sweetest King, Baby! Baby-ling!" When the child had fallen asleep Roy sat at the door of the tent and looked at the stars, which shone, as they do in the East, all colours, like jewels in the velvety sky.

They seemed so far away, but not farther than he seemed to be from himself.