The Great Mogul Part 35

"They are beautiful links, well knit, and of the best workmans.h.i.+p," 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 a great 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 fas.h.i.+on."

Woman-like she glanced hastily around, all aglow with sudden embarra.s.sment, 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!" vowed Roger, 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 Yorks.h.i.+re 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 remarkable _volte-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 pa.s.sed close to the 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 cl.u.s.ter of regal apartments on the river face was the superb Diwan-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 Diwan-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 sh.e.l.ls; 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 fas.h.i.+oned 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 emerged from the cool depths might survey their charms in the s.h.i.+sh 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.s away, but Thy word shall not pa.s.s 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 who seldom 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 the _fons et origo_ of 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 a.s.sured if Nur Mahal supplied his inspiration," answered Mowbray, conscious that Roger's eye was c.o.c.ked 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. a.s.suredly 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 sp.a.w.n 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, this morning, 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 pa.s.sage of himself and his small troop.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Out of my path, swine."]

Now, the high-placed official was vastly offended by Roger's rude and peremptory words, and some little time elapsed before Mowbray's apologies, couched in the most polite Persian, were accepted. There was nothing for it but to credit the Colossus with a touch of the sun, and add thereto a hint of his pa.s.sionate attachment for the buxom Countess.

Even then Walter's difficulties were not exhausted. Fra Pietro, speaking very firmly, said that his place was with his people, and he would be glad if some arrangement were made whereby he could return to them.

"It is not to be thought of," was Mowbray's instant answer. "Not only will Roger create difficulty enough when he encounters Fateh Mohammed, should the latter oppose the departure of the Countess, but I look to you to champion the cause of the other captives at our meeting with Jahangir. A woman may account for my comrade's absence. Such excuse will not avail you."

The friar bowed meekly.

"I would not burthen you with fresh cares," he said, "but I cannot save my own life and leave my flock to perish. Nevertheless, if it be best in your judgment, I will go with you into the Emperor's presence."

Mowbray's resolute features must have shown the irritation which mastered him, for the Franciscan added:--

"Be not angered with your friend. He hath a heart of a size to match his body, and 'tis a man's privilege to protect the weaker s.e.x. 'From the beginning of creation G.o.d made them male and female.'"

"Believe me, brother, I am mostly concerned about my own lack of foresight in this matter. Thank Heaven there is no woman here for whose sake I should be compelled to act, it may be, even more hastily than Roger!"