“Bring me to the test,And I the matter will re-word, which madnessWould gamble from.”Hamlet, Act III, Sc. 4.
“Bring me to the test,And I the matter will re-word, which madnessWould gamble from.”Hamlet, Act III, Sc. 4.
Perchance they had dared the certain death which faced them had not Fateh Mohammed spoken again. Vain as he was, and furious at the thought that a Feringhi should have lorded it over him for days, he was held in leash by the written orders of the Emperor, which, this time, he had really received and read with bulging eyes.
“I am bidden,” he said, “bring you to Agra, alive if possible. Hence, though clemency ill accords with my present mood, I offer you terms. Suffer my men to bind you securely—for none would be such a fool as to trust that Man-Elephant at large—and I will have you carried in litters. Refusal means instant death to both.”
“Hast thou suddenly gone mad, Fateh Mohammed?” demanded Mowbray, thinking, by a display of boldness, to save the situation even at the twelfth hour.
“Aye, mad, indeed, to accept the word of the King of Kings from the mouth of an unbeliever! Oh, thou Feringhi dog, open thy lips again in defiance and I will make thee a sieve for bullets!”
Walter knew that the bubble of his pretense was pricked. Some bolt had fallen from a blue sky, else this subservient rogue would never venture to bluster in such wise if he feared reprisals. Nevertheless, the contempt inspired by the groundling served the Englishman in good stead at a critical moment.
“Thou shalt be most bitterly enlightened ere many days have passed,” he said. “Sainton-sahib and I can do naught at present but yield to your demands, yet I warn thee, Fateh Mohammed, that for each second of ill-treatment meted out to us or to the unhappy people brought from Hughli thou shalt be requited by an hour of torture on thy unwieldy carcass.”
Here was defiance, truly, from one whose capture, living or dead, Jahangir’s couriers, riding hot-foot in pursuit, had demanded an hour earlier when they came at dawn to Fateh Mohammed’s tent. These men carried no tidings save the Emperor’s warrant for their action. They knew, they said, that Sher Afghán was slain—it was even rumored that the companion of the Hathi-sahib was concerned in the deed—and that his widow had gone towards Burdwán with the two Feringhis. As for the statement that Jahangir had charged these latter with a mission, it was manifestly absurd in view of his eagerness to secure their arrest, while it was impossible that anyone so far south could be aware of Nur Mahal’s fortunes at Agra, seeing that they, the messengers, had passed her returning escort privily by night, being urged thereto by the Chief Eunuch, who accompanied her. Indeed, the Eunuch,Ibrahim, was responsible for the Emperor’s action, having sent a private report to Jahangir, by carrier pigeon it was thought.
It was on their advice that Fateh Mohammed had adopted irresistible safeguards ere he summoned the Englishmen to surrender. The bazaar gossip of Agra had invested Roger Sainton with a legendary halo which would daunt the bravest heart. No half measures could be taken with the Hathi-sahib, said the King’schuprassis: he must either be killed or bound as one would tie a wild bull.
Now, it was distasteful, above all things, for men who had been treated with the utmost deference during many days to permit themselves to be led forth in fetters. The bare thought of such ignominy sent the blood bounding through Mowbray’s veins and caused an ominous frown to deepen in Sainton’s face. The big Yorkshireman stood close to the tent-pole; had Walter deferred further speech for another tick of a clock, the tent had been torn from its supports and Roger had either fallen or knocked down a dozen of the waiting musketeers. But he heard his friend say quietly:—
“Hearken to me, Fateh Mohammed. If one of us, speaking in haste, has used injurious words, let them be forgotten. You have your orders—assuredly they must be obeyed. Sainton-sahib and I are already disarmed. You probably disarmed our escort ere you came to us. We, on our part, pledge ourselves to go with you to the fort at Agra. Under no circumstancesshall we seek to escape, and we will counsel all others who may be guided by our admonitions to give the same gage. If you are the wise and far-seeing man I take you to be you will content yourself with this promise, and treat us and the remainder of the Europeans with due courtesy. What say you? Shall the Emperor upbraid you for faithfully carrying out your charge, or do you care to risk the unknown dangers of flaunting the wishes of one who, for anything you or I know to the contrary, may now be Sultana?”
Fateh Mohammed, though naturally distrustful of the honeyed poison of Mowbray’s counsel, felt in his heart of hearts that the Giaour was not only giving him good advice but making a fair offer. Yet, like a cur which cowers and snarls when a determined hand would stroke it, he said sullenly:—
“How am I to place trust in you? You told me—”
“I told you what I truly believed, and still believe, to be the Emperor’s intent,” interrupted Walter, who saw that the fat man was weakened by the bare hint of palace intrigue. “Look back through my words and you will find no single phrase in which I actually represented myself as charged with a mission by Jahangir himself. Nay, be not so amazed. It is true. You may have been misled, I admit, but it was a most fortunate mistake for you. Did I not meet you almost alone? Have we not marched with you daily and slept nightly on the same camping-ground? If Sainton-sahib and I wished to betray you, have we not passed a hundred opportunities?”
Fateh Mohammed was manifestly uneasy. The affair was not so simple as he deemed it. Moreover, by placing a degree of faith in Mowbray, he applied salve to his own wounded vanity. In simple parlance, if he managed things aright now, he would not look such a dupe in the eyes of others as he was in his own estimation.
“Never was man more perplexed,” he murmured. “You may be honest! How can I tell? Certainly, the King of Kings does not say you are to be treated with contumely, yet, what security have I that you will act according to your promises?”
Mowbray resolved to risk all on a final hazard. He turned to Roger.
“Give me the cedar box,” he said.
The big man reached for his hat. Cunningly tied inside the lofty crown was the gift of Nur Mahal.
“I am a heavy sleeper,” he grinned in explanation, “and I thought none would search there though they might scour my clothes. When waking, I reckoned to hold the gew-gaws whilst my brains were undisturbed, so I kept them under the same thatch.”
“Here!” cried Mowbray, opening the box and handing it to Fateh Mohammed, “these diamonds are worth a lakh and a half of rupees. They shall be my bond.”
To a native of India, such a guarantee was worth a thousand oaths. Fateh Mohammed might be trusted to take this view and none other. The production of a hidden hoard showed that this most enigmatical Englishman was really in earnest. It needed only a glanceto assure him that the gems were worth the sum named, and more. His voice was thick as he answered:—
“Soul of the Prophet! you give me a worthy bail!”
“You think so! See to it that the box and its contents are well cared for. If not I, Nur Mahal knows each stone. And now, if we are to march ere the hot hours, let us eat.”
Promising to observe his part of the compact, Fateh Mohammed withdrew his imposing array of soldiers. Soon, a servant brought them some food, curried chickens and rice, with new milk, eggs, and bread. Not a word did they exchange until they had eaten, for Mowbray was dismayed by the collapse of his scheme, and he dared not seek from his loyal comrade the forgiveness which would be only too readily extended to him. Their fortune as good as lost, their lives in imminent jeopardy, their honor pledged to render themselves up to the spite of an implacable tyrant, and all because he trusted more to the machinations of a beautiful siren than to the good swords of which they were deprived. Truly, the outlook, hazardous enough before, was now desperate beyond description. No wonder Walter ate silently, fearing to trust his gloomy thoughts to language.
Suddenly Roger cried:—
“Gad, these Paradise birds are rare eating!”
“Birds of Paradise, man! They are but common fowls.”
“Never, on your life, Walter! This mun be Heaven,for sure. I heard the gates click when the musketeers cocked their flints.”
After all, that was the best way to take their misfortunes. As Roger said to Fra Pietro, when, later, they told him the news which camp rumor had twisted into grotesque form:—
“It is your turn now, most worthy friar. ‘Fight first and pray afterwards’ has ever been my honored motto, but from fighting I am debarred both by loss of my sword and by perjury of my good name. Pray, then, brother, in every tongue thou knowest, and mayhap the Lord will list unto thee.”
Mowbray sought an opportunity to question Jahangir’s emissaries. Their statements showed that Jai Singh must have passed them in Allahabad. TheKotwalof that city urged them to keep to the road, and inquire at each large town if boats carrying men and horses had passed down stream. In that way they could make sure of intercepting the fugitives.
“How came you to slip so quietly away from the camp of Nur Mahal?” he asked, but to this they replied vaguely, so Mowbray concluded that the Chief Eunuch had bribed them to silence, in which event it were best not to tell them of Fateh Mohammed’s admission.
They said, frankly enough, that had any chance led them to miss the Hughli contingent, the first intimation of the Emperor’s wishes would only have been forthcoming at Allahabad, where the Kotwal must have recognized the sahibs. Walter reflected ruefully that,had he bribed this man to silence, he might have despatched the messengers on a hopeless chase by river. It was now too late. Although so much depended on Jai Singh’s journey to Nur Mahal, he was bound irrevocably to go on to Agra, and must veto the rescue which the gallant Rajput would undoubtedly attempt should matters at court be not to his liking.
It was an inglorious end to an undertaking which opened so auspiciously. The sole consolation Mowbray could derive from soul-wearying thought as to the future arose from the certain relief he had given to the unhappy captives. From the depths of misery the Portuguese were raised to a level of comparative comfort, whilst Fra Pietro had assuredly been snatched from the very jaws of death.
So, at last, Walter resolved to abandon useless gropings against the veil which shrouded the days to come. He made himself as agreeable as might be to Fateh Mohammed, and so played upon the latter’s ambitious dreams that not even the hostile Kotwal of Allahabad was able to disturb the arrangement into which they had mutually entered.
The column crawled up country at a slow rate, for such a mixed company travels perforce at the pace of its most dawdling units. Fifteen miles was a good day’s march, and, where a river barred the road, many hours were wasted in safely transferring men and animals from bank to bank.
And now, for the first time in his life, Roger Saintonfell under petticoat dominance.Buen principio, la mitad es hecha—“Well begun is half done”—says the Spanish proverb, and certainly the Hathi-sahib made a good start.
The Countess di Cabota professed that she never felt safe from the perils of the way unless the big Yorkshireman held her mule’s bridle. He beguiled the hours by improving her English, of which language she already had a fair knowledge; she repaid him by many a bright smile, and displayed a most touching assiduity in mastering the broad vowels and quaint phrases of his speech, for Roger’s slow diction was the pure Anglo-Saxon which yet passes current in his native dale.
They were thrown together the more that Walter sought distraction from troubled reverie in learned discourse with Fra Pietro, and for this sort of talk Roger had no stomach. Once Mowbray rallied the giant on the score of the attention he paid to the buxom Countess, but Roger countered aptly.
“I’ faith,” he said, “she is a merry soul, and not given to love vaporings like most of her sex. She tells me her heart troubled her somewhat before she married, but the fit passed quickly, and now she will be well content if the Lord sends her home to wholesome fare and a down pillow. After that, commend me to a fat woman for horse sense. Your scraggy ones, with saucer eyes, would rather a love philter than a pint of wine, but set down a stoup of both before her Ladyship and I’ll wager our lost box of diamonds that she’ll spillthe potion on the ground and the good liquor down her throat.”
“At last, then, you have found a woman who marches with your humor?”
“I’m not one to judge such a matter quickly,” murmured Roger with a dubious frown. “They’re full of guile at the best, yet I vow it pleases me to hear Matilda say ‘Caramba!’ to her mule. It minds me of my mother rating a lie-abed maid of a Monday morning. ‘Drat you for a huzzy,’ she would cry, ‘here is six by the clock already! To-morrow’s Tuesday an’ next day’s Wednesday—half t’ week gone an’ nowt done!’”
“So the lady’s name is Matilda?”
“Aye! She has a lot more, but I fancied the sound of that yen.”
“Surely you do not address her so familiarly?”
“And why not? Gad! she calls me Roger, pat as a magpie with a split tongue.”
“This is news indeed. Yet you tell me she is not inclined to tender passages?”
“Tender fiddle-de-dee! She laughs like a mime if I tickle her ribs with my thumb when the mule stumbles. My soul, Walter, you are grown so used to every woman making sheep’s eyes at you that you think they’ll treat a hulk like me after the same daft fashion.”
“In truth,” said Mowbray, sadly, “my courtships have been all too brief, and threaten to end in aught save laughter.”
“Nay, nay, lad. Let not thy spirits fail. I cannot but think that you and I shall scent the moors againtogether. We have driven our pigs to queer markets; mayhap we shall sty them yet, despite this cross-eyed Emperor and that fly-by-night, Nur Mahal.”
“I have dreamed of home in my sleep of late. Methought I saw my mother weeping.”
“’Tis well. They say dreams go by contrary. Were it otherwise, has she not good cause to greet? By the Lord Harry, when we show our noses in Wensleydale, my auld dam will clout my lugs. ‘Roger, you good-for-nowt,’ she will say, ‘I tellt ye te keep Master Mowbray frae harm, and here hev’ ye led him tiv a pleace wheer t’ grass grows downwards and t’ foxes fly i’ t’ air. I’m fair shammed on ye!’ Eh, man, but I’ll be glad to hear her tongue clack i’ that gait.”
And with this cheerful dictum Sainton strode away to bewilder and amuse the Countess di Cabota with his amazing lingo. Although they were now enjoying the glorious cold weather of India, the absence of wind and the brilliant sun of the Doab served to render the midday hours somewhat sultry. Her Ladyship, being plump, complained of weariness.
“You have a most excellent color,” said Roger, eyeing her critically.
She sighed.
“It may be,” said she, “that as we are near Agra my heart droops. What manner of man is Jahangir? Is he of a generous and princely disposition?”
“If he takes after his father he should be open-handed with other folks’ money. I know him to be a fine judge of a woman, which is a right royal attribute;but he drinks freely, a better quality in a sponge than in a king.”
“Sancta Maria! A spendthrift, a libertine, and a sot! What hope have we of such a one?”
Roger laid a huge paw on her shoulder, and his merry eyes looked down into hers although she was riding a fair sized mule.
“Be not cast down, Matilda!” he cried. “If the sky were cloudy you would not vow the sun would ne’er shine again. I observed it was hotter in coming to the Line than under the Line itself. Here, Got wot, it is hottest of all, yet fear and fancy may be worse bogies than fact.”
For some reason, his hopeful philosophy did not console the lady that morning. She leaned a little against his arm, and glistening tears suddenly dimmed her vision.
“Alas!” she sobbed, “we are all going to our death, and you, good Roger, have risked your life to no purpose.”
“Then shall I die in good company, a thing much to be commended. He that went to the grave with Elisha recovered his breath owing to his lodging.”
She straightened herself in the saddle.
“I like not this talk of dying,” she snapped.
“Gad, it is not greatly to my mind on a fine morning after a hearty meal. When I can strike no longer may I fall handsomely, say I. Yet I thought you were bent on chewing the unsavory morsel, though, to be sure, you mainly use your teeth to vastly better purpose.”
She glanced up at him, clearing her eyes defiantly.
“You make no allowance for a woman’s feelings,” she said. “Did I not know the contrary, I should believe you held women of no account.”
“I’ faith, that would be doing me an injustice. When a woman says ‘Lack-a-day,’ my tongue wags in sympathy. If she weeps, my heart grows as soft as a fuzz-ball.”
“Fuzz-ball! That is a word you have not yet taught me,” she said.
“It much resembles a round mushroom, and when dry, it bursts if you squeeze it.”
“Oh, go to! I never before met your like.”
She laughed, though there was a spice of irritation in her mirth, but Roger gripped her round the waist, for the mule, more perceptive than the man, stumbled at the right moment. To comfort her, he gave her a reassuring hug.
“There is naught of the fuzz-ball about thee, Matilda,” he vowed, and the Countess laughed again. But she blushed, too, and murmured in her own language:—
“After all, the truest romance is more than half a comedy.”
One night, when the cavalcade was halted in the very village whence Nur Mahal had turned northwards with such quick vagary, an owl hooted from the depths of animtree. The weird note thrice boomed unheeded through the air, for all in the camp were weary, but, when the mournful cry rang out for the fourth time,one of Sher Afghán’s Rajputs raised himself quietly from his bed of leaves and listened.
At the fifth hoot he glanced around and saw that none other was disturbed. He rose and sauntered quietly towards the tree, in whose deep shade he was lost for a little while. He returned, and with him now walked another Rajput. The two reached the camp fire around which lay their clansmen, and conversed in whispers with others whom they awakened. Then the newcomer, following directions, strolled towards the tent occupied by the Englishmen. Entering in the dark he was seized by Walter, who was lying sleepless, thinking of the possible outcome had he given Nur Mahal a different answer when they last stood together in the millet-field so near at hand.
Jai Singh had said that the place was bewitched, and lo, here was Jai Singh himself wriggling in his clutch! As for Roger, the sound of the scuffle roused him, and both Mowbray and he were vastly surprised when the old Rajput gasped:—
“Slay me not, sahib! My throat is sore enough with screeching to deaf ears. Soul of Govind, let go!”
Bad news can be told with scant breath. It did not take Jai Singh long to acquaint them with the dire intelligence that Nur Mahal, although received in great state by Jahangir, had openly defied him. She charged him with the murder of her gallant husband, and, woman-like, even unfairly taunted him with his cowardice in destroying by a trick one whom he dared not encounter in fair fight.
Lashed to rage by her scorn, Jahangir gave instant orders that she should be sewn in a sack and thrown to the crocodiles. But even in that servile court there lingered memories of Akbar’s justice, and the infuriated tyrant was compelled to rescind his cruel mandate before it could be executed.
Some subtle instinct of statecraft told him the better way. He boldly declared that Nur Mahal’s late husband had conspired with others to slay Kutub-ud-din, whilst Sher Afghán had himself fallen a victim to an intrigue between his wife and the Englishman, Mowbray. Ibrahim, Chief Eunuch, proved that his royal master was absolutely in ignorance of the facts until he (Ibrahim) told him certain things he had discovered. Here was actually a receipt showing that Nur Mahal had given the Feringhi jewels worth a lakh and a half of rupees. It was evident that her motive in returning to Agra was to stir up disaffection on the one hand and to purge herself of crime in the eyes of the public on the other. What better excuse could Oriental monarch devise to clear his own reputation and to confiscate the estates of Sher Afghán and the late Diwán? A royalhukm[L]was drawn up forthwith, and one of the richest heiresses in India became a pauper, while pensions were conferred on the relatives of those who had been unjustly slain for participating in the attack on Sher Afghán.
But remorse is an invisible snake whose fangs cannot be drawn, and its venom tortured Jahangir during thefew hours each day that his brain was clear of wine fumes. The prize he had so dearly bought was now within his power, yet he affected to take no notice of her. Nur Mahal was allotted a mean apartment in the seraglio. She was appointed an attendant on the king’s mother at a salary of one rupee a day, and the Dowager Queen Mariam was forbidden to show her any favor whatever. Though this ordinance was not strictly fulfilled, Jai Singh, when he, after much difficulty and with grave peril, obtained an interview with Nur Mahal, found her doing needlework and painting silk, in which arts she excelled, to support herself and the few devoted women who refused to leave her.
Jai Singh delivered this budget in an unconcerned way that did not escape Mowbray’s ear, for, in the gloom, he could not see the Rajput’s face.
“Nur Mahal knows that we are marching to Agra with the Portuguese captives?” he asked, when Jai Singh seemed to invite questions rather than continue his recital.
“Assuredly, sahib. How else could I explain my presence there?”
“Did it need explanation? Was there no knowledge of Jahangir’s intent to capture me?”
The other hesitated, and Mowbray cried bitterly:—
“Tell all thy tale, Jai Singh, or else leave me in peace.”
“Hush, sahib! Not so loud. I swear by Khuda I am party to no device against your Excellency. If I look through glass I can see what is beyond, but ifI look into a woman’s mind I peer at the reflection of my own conceits. I can only tell you of things as they are. When I seek to fathom Nur Mahal’s thoughts I am gazing into a mirror.”
“Forgive my haste, Jai Singh, and speak on.”
“My story is nearly ended, sahib. At dawn you march to the next camping-ground, which will surely be on the south side of a big nullah fourteen miles ahead. While perched in the tree I noted the lie of the camp, and, doubtless, it is the same each night. At the eleventh hour I and threescore followers will cross the nullah. Be ready! Strike fearlessly when you hear an owl hoot three times. If the commotion starts in the center they will think the devil has broken loose when the real attack comes from the flank. There will be led horses in plenty once we ford the nullah, provided you tell me now how many will escape with you.”
“And then?”
“Then we ride to the east and back to the south.”
“Whither bound?”
“To Burdwán. Nowhere else can we obtain shelter until we make our next move.”
“The plan is Nur Mahal’s?”
“You forget, sahib, it is your own.”
“But she approves. What of her? Does she bide in Agra?”
“She bides there, sahib, if that be your wish.”
“Ah! Was that her word to you?”
“Nothing could be clearer, sahib. If you choose tohelp her she will escape from the palace and join you at an agreed place. If your only desire is to make for the sea I am pledged to her on Ganges water to aid you with money and life.”
“But she is poor, you said, obliged to adorn others not worthy to adjust her gown if beauty were alone to wait on the most beautiful?”
“There is money in plenty for the removal of Jahangir,” was the laconic answer.
“Hearest thou, Roger?” said Mowbray, reaching out to touch his comrade’s arm in the dark.
“Aye, lad, I hear,” came the giant’s low growl. “’Tis a pity affairs are ordered differently, else we should see some pretty fighting.”
Jai Singh, too, leaned forward. He thought they were agreeing that he had planned most excellently. Already he could sniff the sacking of Agra fort, in which the accumulated treasure was so great, when Akbar had an inventory made, that four hundred pairs of scales were kept at work five months weighing silver, gold, and precious stones. His breath came thick and fast. His voice gurgled just as it did under the pressure of Mowbray’s hands on his windpipe. A revolt now, properly handled, would mean the loot of a century.
“’Twill soon be sunrise, sahiba,” he said. “I must be going. Remember, the eleventh hour—three hoots—”
“Stay, Jai Singh,” said Walter, quietly. “There must be no attempt at a rescue. If any attack be made on the column, Sainton-sahib and I will strike hard forFateh Mohammed. We have given our bond to accompany him to the very presence of Jahangir. God helping us we will maintain our honor in this matter as in all others. Go you, and tell Nur Mahal what I have said. There is no other way. We are pledged to meet the Emperor face to face as his prisoners, and he must do with us what he wills, or, rather, what God wills.”
“Sahib, you know not what you are refusing.”
“Go, nevertheless, Jai Singh, and tell Nur Mahal that I have refused. Perchance, now, she may hasten alone to Burdwán.”
“Hear me, sahib, I beseech you. She rode to Agra meaning to marry Jahangir, but her gorge rose at the sight of him. Do not hold her guilty of deceiving you. It was your memory which forced bitter words from her lips when the Emperor expected her kisses.”
“It may be so. But when you gave your oath by the sacred Ganges you meant to keep it?”
“Until death, sahib.”
“Know then, Jai Singh, that Sainton-sahib and I have given our word to Fateh Mohammed. An Englishman’s word is strong as any vow by holy river. You have discharged your trust most faithfully—would that I could reward you! But I am penniless. Even certain diamonds, concerning which Jahangir was rightly informed, are part of my bond. Leave us, good friend, and warn Nur Mahal that we are, perhaps, less able to help her than she to help us.”
“And when a lady’s in the case,You know all other things give place.”Gay, “The Hare and Many Friends.”
“And when a lady’s in the case,You know all other things give place.”Gay, “The Hare and Many Friends.”
Fateh Mohammed, whose name, literally translated, meant “The Victorious and Praised,” intended to halt his cohort a short day’s ride from Agra, in order to patch its way-worn aspect into some semblance of dignity ere he entered the presence of the King of Kings. Had he ever heard of Falstaff he might well have cried with Sir John: “No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I’ll not march through Coventry with them, that’s flat.” The wear and tear of seven hundred miles had pressed so heavily on the resources of guards and prisoners alike that their clothes and accouterments did, indeed, require some furbishing. In this ragged regiment the Englishmen and their Rajputs alone presented a reputable appearance.
But, stout though he was, and otherwise much resembling plump Jack in his rascally tastes, Fateh Mohammed possessed a fair share of Eastern wiliness, so he took good care to apprise Jahangir beforehand of the curious conditions under which he was bringing to the capital the two men whose presence there was so greatly desired by his imperial master. The recitalnaturally showed that the fat man was a model of zeal and discretion. If the Conqueror of the World regarded the Giaours as malefactors, here they were, ready to be bound and dealt with according to the King’s command, but, should it happen to please the Planet-born to treat them as friends, naught had been done to give ground for other supposition, save in such slight and easily arranged matters as disarming them and holding certain valuable securities for their observance of the pact agreed upon.
Hence, Fateh Mohammed felt neither “victorious” nor “praised” when a high official, accompanied by a glittering retinue, rode out from Agra and greeted Mowbray and Sainton with much deference, inviting them to return with him forthwith and accept the Emperor’s hospitality! They had gone through so many vicissitudes of late that this bewildering attitude on the part of the Mogul monarch left them outwardly unmoved though inwardly amazed. No one could be more surprised than Mowbray, the too successful prophet of the royal intent. Yet he bowed his polite acceptance of the proffered honors, and his manner was discretion itself when Fateh Mohammed, jelly-like in agitation, expressing his regrets with the spluttering haste of water poured from a narrow-necked bottle, hastened to restore not only the cedar box with its contents intact, but also the swords and daggers stolen from the Englishmen while they slept.
Mowbray did not know then that the court official had curtly told Fateh Mohammed he was in grave perilof being hanged on the nearest tree if Jahangir had reason to complain of his treatment of the strangers. It was in vain that the fat man pleaded the Emperor’s written instructions, which were ambiguous certainly, but which must be interpreted by his Majesty’s anxiety to secure the presence of the two Feringhis at Agra.
“If you interpret a King’s wishes you run the risk of making a false translation,” was the chilling response, so Fateh Mohammed was left alternately thanking the Prophet that he had not obeyed his inclinations and slain the Giaours when he learnt how they had hoodwinked him, and shivering with fear lest, after all, Jahangir might find cause to be displeased with him.
Therefore, he groveled before Mowbray, and, like Prince Henry’s sack-loving companion, wished “it were bedtime and all well.”
The mystery of the Emperor’s attitude deepened when Walter learned that Nur Mahal was, indeed, a palace menial. Even the weather-cock courtier, skilled in the art of polite evasion, did not scruple to show his contempt for feminine influences at the best.
“I have seen many such butterflies dancing in the sun,” he said scoffingly. “They are very brilliant until the rain falls, or some hungry bird eats them.”
His orders were to conduct the Englishmen and their followers to Dilkusha, where they would be in the midst of familiar surroundings, and it was Jahangir’s wish to receive them that afternoon. When Mowbray insisted that Fra Pietro should come with them the envoy was dubious at first, but Walter would not yield the point,which was ultimately conceded. As for the others, they were to bide in their present camp until arrangements were made for their disposal.
“Gad!” cried Roger, paying some heed to this statement, “that will not be to Matilda’s liking!”
“Have affairs come to the pass that you may not be parted?” asked Walter, roguishly, his perplexities vanishing for the moment as he pictured the Countess’s agitation when told she was to be separated from her cavalier.
“’Tis to me a matter of no great cavil,” was the reply, “but the poor body will surely miss me when the mule crosses a bad bit of road.”
“Why not bring her with us?”
“Aye. That is to be thought of. There are always more ways of killing a dog than choking him wi’ butter.”
“But you must marry the lady first, Roger. At a pinch, Fra Pietro—”
“The devil fly off with thee and thy pinching! Who spoke of marrying? Thy humor, at times, Walter, is dry as the Swale after a drought.”
“From what I have seen of the Countess I fear that marriage will be the only cure for her affliction.”
“By the cross of Osmotherly!” cried Sainton, hotly, “if that be her malady she will ail a long time ere I give her physic. Marry, forsooth! If ever I seek a wife, which I greatly doubt, I’ll hitch up wi’ a lass from my own dales. Not that Matilda is ill-looking, or, for that matter, as skittish as some I have seen, butmay the Lord help any woman I bring to Wensley afore my mother runs an eye over her!”
“I fear, then, her Ladyship must remain here willy-nilly.”
Sainton, more annoyed than he cared to show, drew his long neglected sword and began to burnish it affectionately.
“Thou hast a toad’s tongue at times, lad,” he growled, breathing on the steel before rubbing it to a fine sheen. “The thing had not troubled me a whit hadst thou not spoken of it, but, now I come to think over bygones, I am constrained to admit that mayhap her Ladyship may have construed my actions amiss. Women are oft prone to look through a chink when the door is open all the time. On my soul I fear to face her. My hang-dog looks will betray me and she’ll upbraid me. Go thou, Walter, and tell her—tell her—”
“That thou hast no mind to wed. Nay, Roger, that would be ungallant, to say the least.”
“Tell her any glib lie that will get me safely away. Samson was half conquered when it was known wherein his strength lay, and my only sure refuge is flight if a woman attacks. Poor Matilda! I would I had the heart to appease her. Yet I am not for matrimony, and no barber can make a wig of a hide that is bald of wool. But I vow you have vexed me by your niceties. Drat the thing! I trust the bit of Latinity our worthy friar gave me yester e’en is sound sense, else I’ll mope for a week.”
“And what was that, Roger?” asked Mowbray, turning to hide a smile from his wrathful friend.
“He spoke to me of certain passages twixt you and Nur Mahal, as he built somewhat on her power despite Jai Singh’s story. Yet he sighed and said: ‘Quid vento? Mulier. Quid muliere? Nihil!’ It tickled my fancy to put the quip into rhyme:—
‘More fickle than windIs woman’s mind;More fickle than womanNaught you’ll find.’
‘More fickle than windIs woman’s mind;More fickle than womanNaught you’ll find.’
Beshrew me! It fitted Nur Mahal all right, but the cap seems to sit awry when worn by my jolly and pleasant-spoken Countess. What! Would you grin at me, you dog, like a clown gaping through a horse-collar? I’ll wager, were the business yours, you'd carry a longer jowl.”
“On my word, Roger, if you trumpet so loudly I must even believe that my Elephant is sore wounded. Why say aught to-day to the Countess? Once we are sped on some new path I promise to write her on your behalf, and in such a strain that any silly notions she may be harboring shall vanish after a day’s fasting.”
“Ecod, you know not Matilda. She would not miss her dinner for twenty men. And that is what draws me to her. A plague on all weddings, I say. They mar a woman and vex a man. What the devil! A nice thing Noah did for the world when he took nowt but pairs into the Ark.”
Nevertheless, though angered by his tardy discovery,Sainton was far too good-natured to steal away covertly from the genial presence of the Countess di Cabota. He cudgeled his brains to invent some reasonable excuse for bidding her farewell. Finally he hit upon an expedient that pleased him greatly, and chased the unwonted frown from his cheerful face.
In view of the expected state visit to Jahangir he had donned his best garments, which, though soiled, were yet free from rents, and never a finer man trod the iron earth of India than Roger that day when, with his four-foot sword clanking against his thigh, he approached the Countess’s camping-place. Already, of course, rumor had been busy. The perturbation of Fateh Mohammed and the haughty curling of Rajput mustaches which followed the advent of Jahangir’s envoy told some portion of the tale to the stealthy-eyed natives. Gossip did the rest. Roger found the Countess all agog with joyous hope.
“Por gracia di Dios!” she cried, clapping her hands, “now that I see you wearing your sword I know that what I have been told is true.”
“I’ faith, Matilda, you are a rare hand at guessing sheep when you smell roast mutton,” was his hearty greeting. “’Tis indeed true that some favoring star hath moved the king to deal with us kindly. Perchance ’tis the moon, which is said to rule certain humans. But my news is stale. I come to take leave of you.”
The Countess’s ruddy cheeks paled beneath the tan of long exposure to the open air, and a spasm of fear dilated her pretty eyes.
“To take leave of me!Mater misericordiæ!What say you?”
“Nay, my bonny Countess, you read my words wrongly. Master Mowbray and I are bidden ride ahead to meet the Emperor. That is all.”
“You will return ere night?”
Roger stroked his chin with dubious calculation. The action enabled him to avoid her startled glance.
“I have my doubts,” he said, and, not so sure now of the simplicity of his errand, wisely added not another word.
“Do you mean that you go on to Agra and leave me here with—with Fateh Mohammed?”
There was a directness, yet a veiled inference, in the question that did not escape him.
“Be reasonable, Matilda,” he pleaded. “We go but to prepare the way. You forget that Jahangir, for some reason not known to any of us, is changing his plans. From fire and murder he hath turned to clemency. It may be that he thinks some quiet talk with Master Mowbray may clear the thorns from his new path.”
“Then let Master Mowbray go to him, and you bide here.”
“That cannot be. It would argue distrust.”
“I think I understand,” said the Countess, quietly, with all a woman’s irritating assumption of the truth when a man would soothe her with a plausible tale.
Roger, whose wit was keen enough when he encountered opposition, was helpless before this passiveattitude. Yet he blundered on, trusting to luck to extricate him. He fumbled with a small package he took from his breast, and swayed from one foot to the other, losing some of his gallant air in an attitude which reflected his mental stress.
“There’s nowt to make sike a pother about,” he growled. “We haste to Agra, you follow more slowly, and that is all there is to it. But you are in sad plight, Matilda, after these weary days of travel, without a stitch to your old clothes, so to speak, or means to buy new ones. Now, a lady of your condition should be garbed more reputably. Though I doubt not Jahangir will treat you generously in his altered mood, I would not have you wholly dependent on his tardy grace. I have no money, but here is money’s worth, and it can never be put to better use than in purchasing the wherewithal to adorn you.”
So saying, and thankful that the concluding sentence, which he had concocted with some care, had not escaped his memory, he dropped Sher Afghán’s magnificent gold chain into her lap, for the Countess was sitting on a saddle outside the tent.
She bent forward, as if to examine the present, passing each of the fine turquoises with which it was set mechanically through her fingers. She managed so well that her voice seemed to be under control.
“You are very kind and thoughtful,” she said in a low tone. “I am, indeed, much in need of repair.”
“Gad! I would smite sorely the man who said so. I spoke of the husk, not of the kernel.”
“And I shall value the gift highly,” she continued.
“Stick out for the last rupee. These Agra goldsmiths are thieves. If not the whole, you might sell a portion.”
Her head drooped a little more.
“They are beautiful links, well knit, and of the best workmanship,” she said, “and I have never before seen such stones. ’Twould be a pity to sunder them. They will be pleasant to look upon long after the flimsy silks they would buy are faded and threadbare.”
Resignation, not to say hopelessness, was a new phase to Sainton in woman’s varying humors. Had the Countess di Cabota stormed, or protested, or even broken down utterly, Roger, though profoundly uncomfortable, might have survived the ordeal. But the merry-eyed lady was crushed. She who was wont to toss her curls so saucily when he tried that excellent specific of a thumb in the ribs now sat before him with hidden face. And Roger was terrible only in war. Let him have his way he was easily swayed as a child; but to-day he was a child perplexed by a new problem.
“If you are not minded to use the gaud in that way,” he growled hesitatingly, “I must devise some other manner of meeting your wants.”
“I am greatly beholden to you,” she murmured. “Mayhap I may not see you again, so, should you succeed in sending me some money, let your messenger bring a parchment, and I will write an order on a certain house in London for your repayment.”
This was unbearable. Roger stooped, placed agreat hand under her chin, and raised her unresisting face. His unlooked-for action caused pent-up tears to tremble on her eyelashes, while there was a suspicious quivering in the corners of her red lips.
“Are you bent on plaguing me, Matilda, or is it that you truly believe I am seeking some pretense to go away under a false flag?” he demanded fiercely.
“I cannot tell you, Roger. You know best yourself. Why should I complain? I owe my life, and many days of happiness, to you and to your good friend. Whether you go or stay may the Lord watch over you, and bring you safely to that pleasant home in the North of which you have so often spoken to me! I think I have seen it in my dreams, and the notion pleases me.”
She caught his hand and would have pressed it to her face, but he was too quick for her. Before she well knew what was happening she was lifted to her feet, and Roger had kissed her heartily on the lips.
“That is a quittance for the chain,” he cried. “When I want another for the money I shall bring thee, be not surprised if I discharge the debt in like fashion.”
Woman-like she glanced hastily around, all aglow with sudden embarrassment, to learn if others had observed his action. Certainly the eyes of some of the Portuguese captives were turned curiously towards them. Making a tremendous effort, she laughed gaily.
“Your English leave-taking is very nice, but somewhat unusual to our ideas,” she cried. “Nevertheless, I am glad to have your promise to return.”
“I swear it, by the cross of Osmotherly!” vowedRoger, and with this mighty oath the Countess was satisfied, though, as a good Catholic, she might have been surprised if she knew that the giant’s favorite expletive only referred to a crossroad on the summit of a Yorkshire hill, where King Oswald is supposed to lie buried by the side of his mother, whence the name Osmotherly: “Oswald-by-his-mother-lay.”
There was some dubiety among the remaining Europeans when they saw the Englishmen ride off with Fra Pietro and the Rajputs. So might sheep feel in a wolf-infested land, if the shepherds and dogs were withdrawn.
“What is to become of us,” they asked, “and why have our protectors taken the friar alone?”
But the Countess bade them be of good cheer.
“They will come back,” she said, calmly. “They have promised; and those men never say what they do not mean.”
Yet one of the pair reflected ruefully, as he jogged towards Agra, that he had said a good deal more than he meant to say. Mowbray, noting his comrade’s introspective mood, forbore to question him as to his farewell interview with the Countess, and Roger quaked at the thought of putting into words his recollections of the scene. So Walter chatted with Fra Pietro, seeking that grave counselor’s views as to the possible motives which inspired Jahangir’s remarkablevolte-face.
To reach the Garden of Heart’s Delight the cavalcade crossed a ford of the Jumna and followed a road along the left bank of the river. Thus, they passed close tothe royal palace, being separated from it only by the width of the stream. Its lofty red sandstone walls, high piled towers and threatening battlements, topped by the exquisite spires and minarets of the white marble buildings within, made a resplendent and awe-inspiring picture in the vivid sunlight. Dominating the cluster of regal apartments on the river face was the superb Diwán-i-Khas, or Hall of Private Audience, which stands to this day “a miracle of beauty.” Mowbray knew it well. Behind its inlaid walls lay the garden in which Akbar chaffered with the ladies at the fair, and on the south side was the broad terrace whence Roger heaved the great stone onto the tiger.
Standing boldly out in the angle formed by the Diwán-i-Khas and the terrace was the Golden Pavilion, so called because of its roof of gilded copper, and nestling close to this glittering apex of the zenana was the fairy-like Jasmine Tower. No strange eyes might dare to rest on that imperial sanctuary save from a distance. Yet Mowbray, from description oft repeated, could tell the Franciscan some of its glories; how the marble pavement of its inner court represented a pachisi-board, on which the Sultana and her ladies played a clever game with shells; how the lovely lattice-work of the window screens was cut out of solid slabs of marble; how trailing devices of flowers and fruit were fashioned in pietra dura with carnelians, agates, turquoises, and all manner of bright colored or sparkling gems; how fountains made music where marble baths were sunk in the floor, while the dripping naiads who emergedfrom the cool depths might survey their charms in the Shish Mahal, or Room of a Thousand Mirrors, wherein a cascade of rippling water fell over a tiny terrace artificially lighted with colored lamps. These and other marvels did he pour into Fra Pietro’s ears, until the friar piously crossed himself and said with a smile:—
“Yet a little while and these glories shall be forgotten. ‘Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was; and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.’”
“But you will grant, good brother, that a man only lives once on earth, and it would be scarce credible, did we not know it, that with all our Western wit we have naught in London or Paris to match the skill of these barbarians,” cried Walter.
“I have seen in old Rome the crumbling fragments of palaces for which the proudest hall in Agra might serve as an ante-chamber. Brethren, more traveled than I, and learned men withal, have told me of the still more wondrous works of ancient Greece and forgotten Babylon. Of what avail are the vain efforts of man! ‘Lord, a day in Thy courts is better than a thousand. Heaven and earth shall pass away, but Thy word shall not pass away.’”
Though the friar spoke Latin when he quoted the Bible, Walter followed his thought closely. Here was a man wholly unmoved by the pomp and vanity of the world. Fra Pietro paid more heed to a budding shrub as a manifest sign of the Creator than to all the transient splendor of the Mogul capital. Yet he was one whoseldom mixed religion with his conversation, and it is reasonable to suppose that his utterances would have taken a less abstract form had he known that the bright eyes of Nur Mahal were even then fixed intently on the cavalcade from the recess of a small apartment over the Water Gate of the palace. Perchance the subtle mesmerism of her glance was more potent with his gentle spirit than with the hardier soul of the young Englishman, for his sedate mule had not gone many paces by the side of Walter’s mettlesome Arab ere he spoke again:—
“Forgive me, friend,” he said, “if I broke in on your discourse with solemn reflections. One must be boorish, indeed, to deny a just meed of praise to the designers and builders of yonder superb pile. Tell me, as you seem to know its ways so well, in what quarter does Nur Mahal probably dwell?”
“There!” and Mowbray pointed straight towards the Water Gate.
“Ah! That is the very heart of the fortress. It will be difficult to reach her.”
“Difficult indeed, dangerous for a native and wholly impossible for a European. But why do you ask?”
The Franciscan’s remark took his hearers by surprise, and Roger, who listened silently to their talk, smiled for the first time during five hours.
“Hola, my chuck,” he muttered to himself, “now it is thy turn to be roasted while a woman turns the spit.”
“I think she is thefons et origoof all that has occurred,” said the friar. “Whether exalted or lowly,such a woman will ever be the yeast in the leaven of a man like Jahangir. He may neither believe nor admit that this is so, yet I incline to the opinion that the character of your reception is due to the promptings of a higher intelligence than that with which the Emperor is endowed.”
“I would rest assured if Nur Mahal supplied his inspiration,” answered Mowbray, conscious that Roger’s eye was cocked at him. “But remember there is a chance that my arch-enemy, Dom Geronimo, may have survived the Emperor’s edict against the Christians. In the East one perforce looks for guile, and I fear that the smooth seeming of Jahangir’s actions may prove a snare for our undoing. I account in that way for the desire to separate us from the others. It is idle to say that this great city could not house us without preparation. And now you have my secret mind as to your presence here. If Jahangir means evil, Roger and I, knowing his methods, may defeat him. Assuredly you are safer with us than with the poor souls who remain in Fateh Mohammed’s custody.”
Then Roger swore so violently that Fra Pietro turned and looked at the fort again.
“By all the fiends!” he roared, “why didst thou not tell me thy secret mind, as thou callest it, earlier? Here have I left Matilda with yon spawn of Old Nick, and kept her content only by a pledge to return with proper haste.”
“Roger, Roger! never before hast thou addressed me with such unreasoning heat. Who asked thee, thismorning, to bring the lady with us? Who asked me to make thy excuses to her? What of my dry humor, my toad’s tongue? Who was it that grinned like a clown through a horse-collar because he would not lie glibly enough to suit thy purpose?”
Sainton gulped down his wrath, but Mowbray was disturbed by the expression of ox-like stubbornness which suddenly clouded his face. Roger, wearing such aspect, was hard to control.
“I mun go back,” he said. “Look for me ere midnight, Walter.”
Without another word of explanation he bared his sword and wheeled his powerful horse.
“Make way, there!” he bellowed. “Out of my path, swine! Quickly, ye sons of pigs, I am not to be stayed!”
Thinking the Hathi-sahib had gone mad the troopers who rode with Jahangir’s emissary scattered right and left. Mowbray, though vexed by the untoward incident, promptly endeavored to rob it of grave significance by ordering half a dozen of his own Rajputs to follow Sainton-sahib and help him if necessary.
Before the nawab who headed their escort quite realized what was happening, Roger had vanished. The last glimpse Mowbray obtained of his gigantic countryman was when Sainton, sitting bolt upright on his charger and holding his sword aloft like a steel torch, disappeared in the cloud of dust created by the passage of himself and his small troop.