No one can say whether the cat had _really_ any notion that danger to her young master was abroad, or whether she only wanted to show him her kitten, or whether she wanted it taken care of--for Persian cats, if they kill a rat at night, have often been known to jump on their master's bed and insist on his taking custody of their prize lest it should somehow come to life again if they left it alone--only this was certain, Baby Akbar woke with a rough, red tongue licking his nose, and there, on the quilt, was Down beside the fluffiest, darlingest little kitten that ever was! He made a grab at it with his little fat hands.

Whether this frightened its anxious mother or whether Down really had a purpose in view, who can say?
Only this is sure: she was off the bed in a second, Miss Kitten in her mouth.

A minute afterward Baby Akbar was off it also with a little crow of delight.

But the drugged nurses did not stir; they were away in the Land of Dreams.

And hark! what was that curious noise outside the window, as if something was slipping down the wall?
Perhaps it was _that_ that frightened Down once more; for just as Baby Akbar's hand reached out to lay hold of the kitten, which she had set down by the fire, Down snatched it up again and was off with it back to the charcoal bunker, with Baby Akbar after her, his face full of solemn resolve.