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 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!" 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 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 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 passed 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 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 emerged
from 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 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 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, 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 passage of himself and his small troop.

[Illustration: "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 passionate 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 sex. 'From the
beginning of creation God 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!"

"Did you not tell me that Nur Mahal inhabits that portion of the zenana
situate over the Water Gate?"

"Yes; what if she does?"

"While Master Sainton was venting his ire I chanced to turn my eyes that
way. A white scarf fluttered for an instant high above the gate. Ah!
there it is again! Take heed lest some of the others follow your glance!
You are not prone to rash vows, friend, yet I am much mistaken if there
be not a woman in Agra who shall perplex you sorely ere many hours have
passed."

And, indeed, Walter did see a whirl of muslin tremble in the air like a
tiny cloud from one of the many small windows which pierced the frowning
battlements.

CHAPTER XVII

     "Under which King, Bezonian? Speak, or die!"
                    _King Henry IV_, Part II, Act 5, Sc. 3.

When a woman's head governs her heart she is to be feared; and that is
why Providence, meaning her to be loved, ordained that, for the most
part, her heart should govern her head. In the rarer descriptions of the
human clay a woman unites in herself romance and the critical faculty,
as though the Master delighted in blending Aphrodite with Athene.

Nur Mahal, true daughter of the gods, was such a one. Gifted with the
intelligence and cold intellect of an empire-ruler she seldom yielded
to the divine femininity which was her birthright. It was an impulse
of sheer emotion which led her to betray her joy by a signal when
she distinguished Mowbray in the midst of the troop of horse. Not
unnaturally, she interpreted the sudden halt caused by Roger's anxiety
anent the Countess as arising from Mowbray's wish to let her know that
he had seen the fluttering scarf and rightly guessed its owner. If so,
his action was an indiscretion. Who could tell how many pairs of eyes
were watching him from hidden chamber or open battlements?

The departure of Sainton in such furious haste puzzled her exceedingly,
but she was reassured when Mowbray turned his horse's head again towards
Dilkusha. She knew now that the brown-robed stranger who rode so near to
him was not only the friend, spoken of by Jai Singh, for whom the
Englishman had dared so greatly, but that he, too, had observed her
token. So she ventured to thrust forth the gossamer muslin a second
time, and she was sure that Mowbray looked towards her and bowed
gracefully, even raising his hat to show that he was aware of her
presence.

In Agra, during the Mogul dynasty, such was the perfection reached by
the weaver's art, muslin was fashioned of a texture so delicate that a
turban or girdle, if spread out, would sink gently, with surprising
slowness, to the ground. Nur Mahal, though impoverished, still retained
her wardrobe, and this scarf was one of the lightest and most beautiful
in her possession. Nevertheless, a flaming torch thrust into an
oil-soaked beacon could not have kindled a tocsin fire of more furious
significance than those floating folds. Aware of her environment she,
having hastily adjudged Mowbray guilty of imprudence, should have been
prudent herself. But prudence is a negative quality seldom allied with
the magnetic powers which sway men, and Nur Mahal was bold in either
love or hate. Moreover, she despised her enemies.

So it came to pass that the Emperor pleaded fatigue when Mowbray and
Fra Pietro rode to the palace that afternoon, and they returned to
the Garden of Heart's Delight more perplexed than ever by Jahangir's
inscrutable attitude. Of Jai Singh they could glean no tidings. All the
servants in the late Diwán's residence were newcomers and Mahomedans, to
whom the old Rajput was unknown. His fellow-clansmen of the escort had
no later intelligence of his movements than Walter himself, who, though
restored to familiar surroundings, was nevertheless in the position of a
traveler returned to a place whence the well-known landmarks have been
effaced.

Fra Pietro, in his placid way, admired the beauty of the garden, the
elegance of the building, the wealth of roses and flowering plants which
adorned each lovely vista, and then settled down to read his breviary by
the waning light.

"It is a salutary practise," said he quietly, "to turn one's thoughts
heavenward when the world grows dark," and indeed, Walter, confused
by a hundred conflicting issues, found himself regretting the lack of
spirituality in his soul which rendered such solace unattainable in the
present stress of events.

For never was man more mystified. Clemency, even from a Mogul ruler, was
not altogether a vain thing to expect. But why had Jahangir's grace
taken such form? If the Europeans were to be well received, why had the
Emperor denied them admission to the fort under a trumpery excuse, after
having expressed a wish to see them at once? Where was Jai Singh?
Evidently Nur Mahal, assuming it was she who signalled from the tower,
had definite news of their coming, and it was most unlikely that she
could be so accurately informed save through the medium of her devoted
adherent. What mad adventure was Roger engaged in that he was not come
ere sunset, for he would reach Fateh Mohammed's camp about noon, and he
would surely hasten the Countess's departure, if unopposed, to permit
arrival at Dilkusha before night fell? Yet the shadows cast by the
cypress trees were fast merging with the somber pall spreading over the
land, and not a sound of jingling mule bells or clanking steel came to
the anxious listener's ears.

Darkness fell with the phenomenal rapidity of the vast Indian plain. The
sky was overcast. The winter rains were long due, and heavy clouds were
massed aloft ready to break when the first cold wind swept down from the
Himalayas. But the wind, as Fra Pietro would have it, was only surpassed
in fickleness by woman, and it chose now to linger in the icy solitudes
of the awful hills rather than seek the pasture lands awaiting its
caress. Hence, the atmosphere was oppressive, stirred only by languorous
zephyrs from the southwest, and the silence of the garden was such that
the uneasy perching of a bird or the rustle of a mongoose in the
undergrowth were sounds of import, demanding watchful eyes and strained
hearing.

Mowbray and the friar were lodged in that part of the building which
overlooked the _baraduri_, or summer-house. As frail man, whether
warrior or saint, must eat, the pair partook of a well served meal.
Other things being equal the repast would have provided a grateful
change from the hard fare of the journey up-country. But anxiety is a
poor sauce, and they ate rather because they must than because they
chose. And now, even the Franciscan put aside for the hour his
indifference to matters mundane.

"Our good Roger is belated, I fear," he said. "Unless he cometh soon I
shall offer a prayer in his behalf to St. James, the special patron of
all who travel by night."

"If the result be guaranteed, brother, pray earnestly, I beg you, and,
should your list of heavenly advocates include one noted for his wise
counsel, ask him to guide our steps aright when next we leave this
bewitched abode. In my childhood I was told that the little people who
dwell under the green knolls on the hillsides always lead those mortals
who fall into their power to scenes of fairy beauty. Certes, this garden
is planned for like sorcery. I first entered it a simple trader, but
ever since that day my brains have been clouded and my feet meshed in
hidden snares."

Walter spoke bitterly, else he would not have even hinted at his
disbelief in the efficacy of the apostolic protection. There never was
man of humbler spirit than Fra Pietro, yet he took up the cudgels in
earnest when his companion seemed to discredit the son of Zebedee and
Salome.

"Blame not the Garden of Eden because it held a snake," said he.
"Whether in garden or desert the Lord will listen to my petition, and
grant it the more readily, should it be for the good of my soul, if it
be carried to the foot of the throne by a holy sponsor like St. James.
His mother, some commentators hold, was sister to the Blessed Virgin; he
taught the gospel to each of the twelve tribes; and he was the first
Christian bishop to undergo martyrdom. He is ever portrayed with the
gourd, shell, staff, and cap of a traveler, and it is only reasonable to
suppose that such a pillar of the Church should be in special favor in
that eternal garden where he is receiving the reward of his earthly
sufferings."

The friar's outburst, delivered with much fervor, aroused Mowbray to
some sense of his involuntary error.

"I beseech your pardon, good Brother Peter," he cried. "Not for a moment
would I dare to disparage St. James. Forget my heedless words. My faith,
was it not one named after him who packed me neck and crop into such
wanderings as have not been endured by many of my generation, unless it
be those few countrymen of mine who crossed the Spanish Main with
Hawkins and Grenville? Assuredly, it would ill become me to question the
potency of a James, whether Saint or King, where travelers were
concerned."

Perhaps he had phrased his apology better were he less preoccupied. The
Franciscan, watching him, sighed and murmured:--

"Gratiam tuam quaesmus, Domine, mentibus nostris infunde!"

The hours passed and naught happened, until Mowbray, harassed by evil
forebodings, resolved that further inaction was not to be endured. He
marshaled his Rajputs, of whom there were fourteen, and asked for three
volunteers who would ride to Fateh Mohammed's camp and bring news. He
would see to it that they were allowed to depart from Dilkusha, and
thenceforth they were not to draw rein until they reached the camp,
which they were to enter by such means as seemed best to them. If
Sainton-sahib were there they must return with utmost speed, one or all,
as soon as they had gleaned some explanation of the sahib's detention.

Each man was willing, so he selected three, and one other, whom he
commissioned to search the bazaar and inquire in likely quarters for
tidings of Jai Singh.

There was some difficulty at the gate, but Mowbray's determined air, no
less than the truculent attitude of his men, whose belief in him was
unbounded, soon quelled the scruples of the doorkeeper, and the four
clattered out into the night. It was now ten o'clock, and, in Walter's
opinion, nothing short of force had kept Roger from joining him within
the preceding five hours. He deemed it wise to guard the gate on his own
account, so he selected the oldest Rajput, one Devi Pershad, to act as
lieutenant, while he split up the remainder of his small force into
three watches.

He gave strict orders that thenceforth, until daybreak, none should
enter or leave the compound without his knowledge and sanction, and he
fancied that the Musalman durwán, thus deposed from his duties, smiled
maliciously when he heard the lordly stranger imposing his will on those
who maintained the dwelling for Jahangir.

Instantly the man was put to the test. Ere he could banish the smile
from his face, Mowbray grasped him by the neck, and Devi Pershad held a
lantern close to his eyes while his master bared Sher Afghán's dagger.

"How now, dog!" Walter cried. "Wouldst thou dare to question my
commands?"

The doorkeeper's knees yielded. Here was one who read his thoughts.

"Not so, protector of the poor," he gasped, "but many have come within
the hour, and there may be others."

"Many, sayest thou? There are not twenty servants in the house all
told," and he shook the fellow till his teeth rattled.

"I am a poor man, sahib--and I do as I am bid. Those who come with a
sign--I admit," was the stuttering answer.

"What manner of sign?"

"Some tap once and cry _sufed-kira_ (death watch); others tap thrice and
say _Jai_ (victory), and it was my _hukm_ to admit both without
question."

If the trembling wretch's confession needed evidence it was fittingly
supplied. From without came three slight knocks and a voice:--

"Within there, brother. The word is _Jai_!"

Mowbray released the durwán, sheathed his dagger and drew his sword. He
motioned to the door.

[Illustration: Instantly the man was put to the test.]

"Open, and act as thou wouldst have done were I not here," he muttered.
He and Devi Pershad, with the Rajputs of the first guard, hastened into
the dark interior of the lodge while the man unbound the gate. There
entered a very harmless couple, a _bhisti_, carrying his empty water-bag
of goatskin, and a veiled woman whose simple garb showed that she was of
the same caste, in all probability his wife.

But why had such a pair used a password, and why were two different
passwords in vogue at all that night? Here was a minor riddle of which
a sword-point might find the key. Walter sprang forth and seized the
water-carrier. The woman uttered a slight cry of alarm, but seemed to
regain instant control of herself. The poor _bhisti_ was so taken aback
by the sight of the gleaming blade with which the Englishman enforced
his stern demand for information that he uttered not a word. His jaw
fell and he gazed up at Walter in dumb fear.

Somehow, when the rays of the lantern revealed his features, Mowbray
thought he knew the man. Suddenly, recollection came. This was the
palace servant who warned him and Roger against Jahangir's malice on the
day of the wild beast combats.

But, whatever form Mowbray's questions might have taken, all such
speculations were driven from his brain, and he released the _bhisti_ in
blank amazement, when a well-remembered voice murmured sweetly:--

"Harm him not, Walter. He is a humble well-wisher who escorted me
hither."

It was Nur Mahal who spoke. Never before had she addressed him by his
Christian name, the sound of which she must have learned owing to
Roger's frequent use of it. Clearly, she had acquired its facile
pronunciation by much private endeavor, for his own mother could not
have uttered the word more accurately.

And what was he to say, or do? Though it was always a likely thing that
Nur Mahal, knowing he was in Agra, would endeavor to reach him, now that
she was actually here how should he shape his course to avoid the
complications sure to result if her visit came to Jahangir's ears? It is
not to be wondered at if his brain whirled with jostling thoughts, nor
that her presence should obscure for the nonce the vital importance of
ascertaining the significance of the passwords, whose mere choice showed
that they represented the rival factions of Mahomedans and Hindus.

"I see that you are not to be taken by surprise, let those plan who
will," she whispered, and she laughed musically, with a certain
frolicsome lightness long absent from her manner. Was the winsome maid
of the Garden of Heart's Delight re-born amidst the sorrows which
encompassed her? Was her rapid descent from high estate the means of her
regeneration, seeing that content oft arrives by the door through which
ambition departs? Who could tell? Certainly not Mowbray, to whose
already grievous load of cares her presence added no inconsiderable
charge.

But, if the man were flurried, the woman was not. She threw back her
veil, being ever disdainful of the ordinance that women of rank and
beauty should hide their faces from the common ken.

"Thank you, good fellow," she said to the _bhisti_. "Get you back to the
fort speedily, and remember that those who serve me without words shall
be paid ten times more than those who talk. Ah!" she continued, turning
to the wondering Rajputs who, of course, recognized her as soon as the
light illumined her animated features, "Jai Singh told me you were
faithful to your salt. It could not be otherwise with men from
Rajputána, yet such fidelity is worthy of reward. It shall not be long
delayed."

The coarse linen _sari_ of the water-carrier's wife had fallen from her
head and shoulders, and even the flickering glimmer of the oil lamp
revealed the fact that Nur Mahal was attired with uncommon splendor. She
not only looked but spoke like a queen, and her way of addressing the
poor retainers at the gate was as gracious and dignified as if they were
court nobles.

"Have you brought no other retinue?" asked Walter, at a loss for more
pertinent question before so many inquisitive ears.

She laughed again, and the silvery note of her mirth was pleasant if
disconcerting.

"All in good time," she said. "Let us go to the house, but first
inquire, if you do not know, who have preceded me. Then I shall tell you
who will come after."

Amidst the chaos of his ideas Mowbray was conscious that Nur Mahal was
rendering him one invaluable service. She brought with her certainty
where all was void. Her words, her air, betokened a fixed purpose. For
all he knew he might be a pawn or a king in the game she was playing,
but, until he was further enlightened, it was advisable to move as she
directed. Then, being a free agent, he might become erratic.

The doorkeeper, brought to the domain of dry figures, whittled down his
earlier statement as to the number of strange visitors he had admitted.
There were two Mahomedans, using the significant countersign "Death
Watch," while no less than eight Hindus, excluding Nur Mahal (herself a
Mahomedan), were of the "Victory" party. He knew none. His orders were
from the Grand Vizier.

"Whither have they gone? Are they secreted in the house?" demanded
Mowbray.

"Enough said," was Nur Mahal's laconic interruption. "Come with me. I
will explain."

She led him into the avenue of cypresses. When he would have spoken she
caught his arm.

"Not here!" she whispered. "I am told you are lodged in the Peacock
Room. Let us converse there in privacy."

"You know so much," he murmured, "that perchance you can tell me what
has befallen Roger Sainton?"

She stopped.

"Why did he leave you?" she asked.

"He went to rescue one whom he promised not to abandon. My fear of
intrigue led him to bring the lady here ere it was too late."

"To bring a woman--here!"

"Why not? If one woman, why not another?"

"Come!" she urged. "We are at cross purposes, but I have no information
as to Sainton-sahib. I had hoped he was with you, for he is worth a
thousand. Silence now!"

His feet crunched the gravel of the path, yet he disdained to walk
stealthily. Nur Mahal's tiny slippers made no noise. She moved by his
side with swift grace, and when he would have made a détour, led him to
the main entrance, paying no heed to those of the house servants
stationed at the door, though they stared as if she were a ghost. It may
be that some among them were aware of her identity, but in any case the
apparition of such a woman, unveiled, in the company of a foreigner, was
sufficiently remarkable in India to create unbounded astonishment.

She swept on through the building, casting aside the cumbersome _sari_
as if its purpose of concealment were at an end. The few lamps which lit
the inner rooms were scattered and dim, but Mowbray could see that his
first impression as to the magnificence of her garments was not a
mistaken one. She had yielded so far to convention, being a widow, as to
wear a purple dress, but the bodice of white silk was fringed with
silver, an exquisite shawl draped her shoulders in diaphanous folds,
diamonds gleamed in her hair, and her rapid movements showed that her
silk stockings were shot with silver. A strange garb, truly, for one
who, according to Jai Singh, lived on a pittance of one rupee a day, and
even more noteworthy when the manner and hour of her visit to Dilkusha
were taken into account.

When she entered the Peacock Room she found Fra Pietro kneeling, with
his face sunk in his hands, near to the _charpoy_, or roughly contrived
bedstead, which, like all Europeans, he preferred to the cushions of the
East. Walter had quitted the room by another door, so the worthy
Franciscan's spellbound look, when he raised his eyes to learn who it
was who came from the interior of the house and saw the radiant figure
of Nur Mahal, would surely, under other circumstances, have brought a
laugh to Walter's lips.

The friar, wishing to read some portion of the daily "office," had
obtained four lamps and trimmed them with some care. Comparatively
speaking, there was a flood of light at his end of the spacious chamber,
and the obscurity reigning in the further part only added to the
bewildering effect of the sylph-like being who, after advancing a little
way, stood and gazed at him irresolutely.

But Mowbray's firm tread broke the spell against which Fra Pietro was
already fortifying himself by fervent ejaculations. A prophet surprised
by the fulfilment of his own prophecy, he rose to his feet, and bowed
with the ready politeness of his race.

"Princess," he said, speaking Urdu, with slow precision, "I greet you!
None but you can resolve our perplexities. You are, indeed, well come!"

The aspect of the friar, with the shaven crown, untrimmed beard,
coarse brown robe and hood, white cords and rough sandals of St.
Francis d'Assisi, was no less astounding to Nur Mahal than was her
regal semblance to him. In her eyes he was on a parity with the
fakirs, thebmullahs, the religious mendicants of her adopted
country. The few Europeans she had seen were soldiers, merchants, or
dignified ecclesiastics of the Jesuit order, but here was one whose
poverty-stricken appearance might well have prejudiced her against
him. Like the Apostle whose name he bore, Fra Pietro had said: "Lo,
we have left all, and followed Thee." Of such renunciatory gospel
Nur Mahal had no cognizance.

Nevertheless, such was the depth of this girl-widow's sagacity, that she
caught instantly from the Franciscan's benign features some glimpse of
his exalted character. She half turned to Walter with her enchanting
smile:--

"I had forgotten the presence of your friend. This, doubtless, is the
priest of whom I have heard, and for whose sake you dared do more than
for mine."

"I owed him my life, and more, for he saved me from unimagined horrors.
Nor is the debt yet paid in full," was the reply.

"Can I speak openly before him?"

"You may trust Fra Pietro, Princess, as you would trust none other."

"Yet I have trusted many to-night. Now list to me carefully, for time
presses. Jahangir dies ere daybreak, and there is much to be done by a
man who shall risk all."

"The Emperor dies! Do you mean that he is to be murdered?"

"Call it what you will, his death is ordained. Nay, frown not so
ominously. 'Tis not of my planning. Those who wish his downfall are not
seeking to avenge my wrongs. If they succeed, and I see no reason why
they should fail, they aim at placing Khusrow on the throne. And who is
Khusrow? A boy of ten! I, a woman, am a mere puppet in their hands. That
is why I am here. You see one who is in the counsels of both parties yet
bound to neither."

She threw back her head, and the circlet of brilliants across her smooth
white brow did not send forth brighter gleams than her eyes. Speaking so
freely of treason and dynastic plots, she smiled as though the whole
affair were some hoax of which she alone knew the petty secret.

"You have met Raja Man Singh and his ally, the Maharaja of Bikanir?" she
continued, coolly, before Walter could decide what shape the tumultuous
questions trembling on his lips should take.

"Yes," he answered, "and they are well aware with what loathing I regard
their schemes."

"It is always possible to change one's mind," she said slowly. "I
cannot, in a few minutes, give you the history of months; the record of
the past few hours must suffice. Since it was known that you and the
Hathi-sahib were returning to Agra there has been naught but plot and
counter-plot. First, those who conspire against the Emperor look to you
to help them, and are even now awaiting you in the _baraduri_ at the
bottom of the garden. Secondly, Jahangir, well aware of their intent,
has resolved to ensnare them and you in one cast of the net. Hence, the
followers of Raja Man Singh and those others who will strike for Khusrow
are gathering silently, some within a stone's throw of the outer walls
of the palace, ready to follow their leader in the attack on the fort,
where the guard of the Delhi Gate will admit them, the remainder among
the trees without. But the forces of the Emperor, ten times more
numerous, will fall on them at midnight, whereas the revolt is timed for
the first hour. Already the traitors inside the fort have been secured.
A few live to delude their friends--most are dead. All this, you may
say, concerns you not. You are wrong, Mowbray-sahib. You are a greater
man than you think. The conspirators count surely on your assistance and
that of Sainton-sahib, whose repute with the common people is worth a
whole army. Therefore, lest aught miscarried, they came to me and urged
me to induce you to head the outbreak. Though I am a weak woman, I might
not have consented had not the Emperor joined his supplications to
theirs."

"The Emperor!" cried Walter, with involuntary loudness.

"Hush! The _baraduri_ is not far distant. Yes, Jahangir still favors me
with his jealousy. He does not know that--that--you are longing for the
sight of some other woman beyond the black seas. Do not misunderstand
me. Jahangir hates me and fears you. Kept well informed by his spies of
all that was going on, he connived at the scheme which brought you and
me to the forefront of the rebellion. Thus, when he stamps it out in
blood, we shall be the chief victims. But that is not all. Raja Man
Singh and his friends are in no mind to kill Jahangir and clear the way
for a foreign intruder. They, too, see how we may serve their ends. Once
the Emperor is dead it will be a fitting excuse to get rid of us on the
ground that we conspired against him."

"'Tis a pretty plot," said Mowbray, grimly. "Hath it any further
twists?"

"Yes, one. Raja Man Singh, Khusrow, and the rest are doomed. Few of them
shall see the sun again. The man who contrived their fate is far more
skilled in intrigue than they. Behind Jahangir and his feud with me
stands the black robe."

"Dom Geronimo! I thought him dead."

"He may be, but he lived to-day," was Nur Mahal's careless answer.
"Living or dead, his hour has passed. Others, too, can think and plan.
Not plotters now, but swords are needed. I would that Sainton-sahib were
here. Why did you let him go?"

"He is hard to restrain when set on anything. But you would not have him
and me, with twenty troopers, fight for our own hand 'gainst all India!"

She came nearer to the listening men. In her eagerness she grasped each
by an arm and whispered:--

"Jai Singh is within call with two hundred. A few determined men
to-night are worth thousands to-morrow. Three hoots of an owl from the
wall behind the _baraduri_ will bring him and them. You have the leaders
of the revolt gathered in the summer-house, whence they will soon send
a messenger to summon you to council. They know I am here and await my
pleasure. Above them--" and now her voice dropped so low that the words
only just reached their ears--"you have Jahangir himself and his
principal minion, Ibrahim, the Chief Eunuch!"

Her eyes blazed with the intensity of her emotion. Great though her
power of self-control, she quivered slightly, and the action, trivial in
itself, told that this woman was the nerve-center of an empire. She
waited no comment. The moment long looked for had come at last. India,
with all its potentialities, was within her grasp.

"Doubt not, but act!" she murmured, passionately, seeing the incredulity
in the men's faces. "In the roof of the _baraduri_ there is a secret
chamber, contrived there, for their own purposes, by Akbar and my
father. From it, in fancied security, Jahangir and Ibrahim can see and
hear all that passes beneath. I took care they should know of it. 'Twas
too good a bait to pass, and they swallowed it. What joy can equal the
Emperor's when he hears his enemies plotting with you and me to place us
on his throne, knowing full well that ere many minutes have passed we
shall be slain or, far better, captured, so that he may glut his
vengeance on us? Come with me! Let a Rajput give the signal to Jai
Singh. Without any fear of failure, almost without a blow, you will have
both Jahangir and Khusrow's adherents in your power to do with as you
will."

They could not choose but believe her. Here was a counter-stroke,
worthy indeed of the daughter of one who entered India a pauper and died
Prime Minister. Walter's head swam, and Fra Pietro shook as if with a
palsy.

"There is no other course open," she murmured, vehemently. "It is your
death and mine, or Jahangir's. Decide quickly! Do you flinch from the
ordeal?"

"No," said Mowbray, recovering himself. "If such be the alternatives,
may God prosper those who are in the right!"

Nur Mahal released them. Walter would have sent for Devi Pershad, and in
a few fateful seconds the irrevocable step must be taken which should
plunge India into an era of turmoil and bloodshed. But a tumult of alarm
among the household servants, and the clatter of hurried footsteps in
the interior of the house, betokened some new and unforeseen commotion.
Then the door by which Nur Mahal and Mowbray had entered the room was
flung open and Roger appeared, carrying in his left arm the apparently
lifeless body of the Countess di Cabota. His long sword was dripping
blood, and his clothes were rent by cuts and lance thrusts, but his
genial face, never downcast when a fight was toward, broke into a broad
grin when he saw Walter.

"By the cross of Osmotherly!" he roared, "I have had the devil's own job
to reach thee, lad. I have fought every inch of a good mile, and been
ambushed times out of count. Poor Matilda fainted at the last onset. I
had to hug her with one arm and slay with the other. Gad! it was warm
work. She is no light weight!"

He deposited his inanimate burthen on a _charpoy_ and cleared his vision
of blood and perspiration, for he had been wounded slightly on the
forehead. Then he set eyes on Nur Mahal.

"Oh, ho, my lady, art thou here?" he said. "Small wonder there were such
goings on without! By gad, thou art the herald of storm on land as the
petrel is at sea. Walter, my lad, give us a grip of thy hand! I'm main
glad to meet thee again. But Matilda needs tending. Bid this glittering
fairy see to her. Whether Portugee or Hindee, I suppose women are much
alike in such matters!"

CHAPTER XVIII

     "Gregory, remember thy swashing blow."
                    _Romeo and Juliet_, Act I, Sc. 1.

But there were matters of graver import afoot than the Countess's
fainting fit. Already the conspirators in the summer-house, alarmed by
the commotion, must be devising means to protect themselves, and the
Emperor, ensconced in a hiding-place after the fashion invented by
Dionysius of Syracuse, was probably doubting the wisdom of his
Haroun-al-Raschid escapade. For Roger, bursting through the hostile
cordons like an infuriated blue-bottle fly caught in the outer strands
of a spider's web, had applied a premature spark to a gunpowder train.
The silence of the night was jarred into fierce uproar. The imperial
troops, thinking the revolt had broken out before its appointed hour,
were hurriedly closing in around the rebels. The latter, strenuously
opposing Sainton's passage up the hill leading to the Garden of Heart's
Delight, communicated a panic for action, which is the next worst thing
to a flight, to those of their comrades who knew not what was happening.
In a word, the left bank of the Jumna was ablaze, and sharp encounters
occurred wherever the Emperor's men met those who fought for his
would-be supplanter, Khusrow. At the gate Devi Pershad and the Rajputs,
manfully aided by the house servants, were even then resisting the
efforts of the rebels previously hidden in the wood to break open the
door and go to the aid of their leaders within. Indeed, Roger had barely
ceased speaking, before a sowar, one of his own small escort, ran in and
breathlessly announced the desperate nature of the attack on the
gateway.

Sainton, of course, knew nothing of the real cause of all this riot. Nor
was there time to tell him. Mowbray grasped the excited soldier.

"Canst hoot like an owl?" he cried.

"Aye, sahib, that can I," was the reply, for the man guessed the portent
of the question.

"Come, then, Roger! Thou knowest the summer-house? Smite any man who
leaves it! Nur Mahal, bide you here till I return! Fra Pietro, bolt the
doors and open only to me or Roger!"

"One word, brother, ere thou goest," cried the friar in English. "A
chosen ruler, be he Christian or heathen, is the Lord's anointed. 'Curse
not the King, no, not in thy thought.'"

Walter, hurrying forth, darted a single glance at the speaker. Somehow,
the Franciscan's words gave ordered sequence to a project which flitted
vaguely through his mind as he listened to Nur Mahal's thrilling
recital. It seemed to him that this beautiful woman, "who offered
herself twice to no man," harbored a certain spite against Jahangir
because of the treatment he had meted out to her. Once she had vaguely
hinted at bygones as between Mowbray and herself; otherwise her
utterances were those of unsated and insatiable ambition, and the style
of her raiment alone showed that she had quitted the palace that night
prepared to fill the stage in whatsoever part fortune allotted her.

Now the two Englishmen were in the garden, running towards the
summer-house, which, it will be remembered, stood on an island in the
midst of a small lake, and was approached by four narrow causeways, each
at right angles with its neighbors. There never was a darker night. It
was barely possible to distinguish the tops of the trees against the
sky; beneath, they passed through a blackness so dense that they could
not see each other.

Under such conditions rapid progress was impossible. Mowbray called
a halt, and bade the Rajput use his skill in imitating owls. Thrice
the long-drawn ululu vibrated in the scent-laden atmosphere; at the
third screech came an answering hoot, lanterns twinkled of a sudden
at the farther end of the lawn, and Jai Singh, with his rabble of
swashbucklers, perched expectantly on the wall, tumbled pell-mell into
the garden.

"We come, sahib!" they heard his exultant cry. "Every man carries a
light and wears a black turban. Spare none other!"

"Ecod!" said Roger, "that is good talking. Jai Singh is thin in the
ribs, but he hath the liver of a bull. Yet there seemeth no urgence for
killing. What is toward, Walter? 'Smite,' say you. 'Spare not,' yelps
Jai Singh. Nur Mahal shoots lightning from her eyes. Even the good
friar points a moral with a text on cursing the king. Who hath cursed
him? Whose throat is to be cut? My soul, there's battle in the very
air!"

Sainton was appealing to unheeding ears. The _baraduri_, being a roofed
entablature supported on slight columns, became vaguely silhouetted
against the dim glow of the advancing lantern-bearers. Walter saw
several armed men rushing towards the house along the nearest
_chaussée_. It went against the grain to strike any man who came to him
trustingly, no matter what the ultimate intent, and among the foremost
he thought he recognized Raja Man Singh.

"Back, there!" he shouted. "We are for Jahangir! Back to your covert and
lay down your arms!"

There could be no mistaking his meaning. The conspirators, dumbfounded
by the discovery that he whom they reckoned an ally was a declared foe,
stopped, hesitated, and then broke, left and right.

"They must not escape!" said Mowbray to his companion. "After them, Jai
Singh!" he vociferated to the Rajput, and forthwith there was a scurry
in which several fell. Nevertheless, two, at least, got away through the
trees and scaled the wall. Raja Man Singh remained, gasping his life
out, but he of Bikanir and one other reached the reinforcements outside.

Hastily despatching Jai Singh and his followers to defend the main gate,
Mowbray retained only two men of his own little troop. Equipping them
with lanterns, he led Roger to the summer-house and cried in a loud
voice:--

"Come forth, Jahangir!"

There was no answer. The hollow roof, exquisitely painted with frescoes
representing forest life, echoed the command, and the slight scrutiny
rendered possible by the weak light of the lamps gave force to Roger's
query:--

"Dost think to find him, like Mahmoud's coffin, slung 'twixt heaven and
earth, Walter?"

But Nur Mahal was to be trusted beyond the credence of eyes alone.
Unless the Emperor had flown, or changed his mind at the latest moment,
he was surely there, for the doorkeeper said two strangers had passed by
the watchword "Safed-Kira." And the vital need of hurry made stern
measures necessary.

"Jahangir!" cried Mowbray again, "I know that thou art here, thou and
thy pimp, Ibrahim. Nur Mahal hath sent us to save thy life, and thy
throne if need be. Descend, therefore, else Sainton-sahib shall pull
thee down together with thy lurking-place."

A moment's pause brought only the racket of desultory firing in the
roadway, the thuds of a battering ram against the iron-studded door, and
the yells of assailants and defenders as the high boundary wall was
sought to be carried by escalade, for the Maharaja of Bikanir, now that
his desperate scheme was unmasked, urged his adherents ere they marched
to sack the palace to extirpate the brood of vipers in the Garden of
Heart's Delight.

"Roger," said Walter, calmly, resolved to be sure of his quarry, "try
thy strength on a pillar!"

The summer-house, an elegant hexagon, had a carved pillar at each angle.
Sainton placed his foot against one, gave a mighty push, and the stones
yielded. Some fell with a clatter onto the mosaic pavement, others
splashed in the water of the lake.

"Hold!" came a muffled cry, "I come!"

A fine creeper had entwined its stout tendrils round three of the
pillars. In one of these, cunningly hidden by the vine, were small
holdfasts, by which an active man might climb to the roof. Once there, a
section of the blue enameled tiles slid back and gave access to a small
apartment with a grille floor, the interstices being invisible from
beneath owing to the painted foliage.

Jahangir, followed by Ibrahim, made an undignified descent. Obviously,
he feared a sword thrust as he neared the ground. Yet he was no coward.
Disdaining to jump he came down slowly, and faced Mowbray without laying
hand on the pistol or jeweled tulwar he carried. If treachery were
intended he could not guard against it, and he was too proud to exhibit
his secret thought by useless action.

"Have I heard aright?" he asked, with well-feigned coolness. "Did you
say that Nur Mahal had sent you?"

"Yes. How else should I, a stranger, know of your retreat?"

"And neither you nor she are in league with my enemies?"

"Some of them lie in the garden. You hear the others without. Are you
man or king enough to help us in repelling them?"

Jahangir bowed his head.

"God is great," he said, as though in self-communion. "Never was mortal
more deceived than I have been."

Ibrahim, Chief Eunuch, somewhat restored from the rare fright of the
trembling roof, thought it high time to trim his sails to the new wind.

"I always told your Majesty," he began; but Jahangir, for answer, smote
him in the face with his clenched fist so heavily that he fell into the
lake and lay there insensible. He would have been drowned had not a
Rajput pulled him out and held him by the heels until a good deal of
water came from his mouth and a good many gold pieces from a tuck in his
cummerbund.

Mowbray, whose judgment was cooler and truer in the frenzy of a fight
than when a woman's eyes assailed him, did not forget that where Jai
Singh had introduced his hirelings others might follow. Nevertheless,
with the inadequate force available, it was impossible to conduct an
effective defense of a square enclosure containing many acres. It was
above all else essential to resist the main assault. The Eastern
fighting man is moved to the madness of heroism by success, and driven
to despair by failure. The gateway must not be carried.

He detailed sentries, therefore, to report any hostile move from the
flanks or rear, in which case he would fall back on the house, which
occupied the exact center of the garden. Then he and the others
hastened to the gate.

They were not a moment too soon. A huge balk of timber, carried up from
the bridge and swung by fifty men against the sturdy door, smashed the
panels and dislodged the hinges. Through the gap poured a torrent of
assailants, all well armed, and the struggle must have resulted in
instant victory for the rebels had not Roger faced them.

There was light in plenty. Many carried torches, whilst masses of tow
soaked in oil had been placed on the ground to enable the archers and
matchlockmen to shoot. Luckily the onward rush prevented anything like a
volley being fired in that narrow space, or the Emperor and his English
supporters must certainly have been hit. As it was, the giant had a fair
field, steel against steel, and one man against a hundred.

When Roger was busy there was no standing-room for friends by his side
or foes in front. His tremendous strength was no less astounding than
his tigerish agility. His long sword whirled in lightning circles, he
sprang back, forth, and sideways with incredible ease, and such was the
area he covered, combined with a quick eye to discern and a supple wrist
to disconcert every adventurous cut or thrust aimed at him, that, whilst
those outside were yelling to the van to press forward, the unlucky
wights of the front rank were making a new rampart of their bodies.

Walter found a corner where Sainton's sickle did not reach, and
Jahangir, fired to emulation, joined him. The three practically held
the gate, because Jai Singh, with his horde of freebooters, did not
quickly regain his self-possession after the stupefying discovery that
the Emperor, whom he was actively fighting against, was laying on with a
will in behalf of the Englishman.

Others, too, learned the bewildering fact that here was Jahangir himself
in the very hatching ground of the conspiracy. The Maharaja of Bikanir
saw him, and having missed him twice with a pistol, adopted a new tactic
which might easily have involved the monarch and the Englishmen in
common ruin. Awaiting the rebel leader, to carry him to the fort, was a
war elephant, a huge brute, well protected by iron plates, thick knobs
of brass, and chain armor, penetrable by no missile short of a
cannon-ball. The animal was trained to charge any one or anything at the
bidding of its _mahout_, and the Maharaja, mounting the _howdah_ with
some of his officers, bade the driver launch the elephant at full speed
through the gate.

Among the many physical advantages Roger held over other men not the
least was his height. While dealing with the present danger he could see
that which threatened farther afield, and now, above the heads of the
combatants, he caught sight of the great moving mass of shining panoply.
Such a thunderbolt would rend its way through all opposition. Swords and
lances were powerless against it, but there lay on the ground, wrenched
from its sockets by the battering-ram, the heavy iron bar which the big
Yorkshireman had used so effectively on the night that Sher Afghán
carried off his unwilling bride.

None of the others knew of the approaching peril. Roger turned to Jai
Singh.

"Come on, Don Whiskerando!" he shouted. "I thought thou hadst better
stomach for a fray!"

Though he spoke English, his look was enough. The old Rajput awoke from
his trance and rushed forward manfully. His levies followed, the rebels
yielded a few feet, and Roger secured breathing space. He sheathed his
reeking sword, picked up the iron bar, and stood on the left of the
gateway, balancing the implement over his right shoulder and bracing his
feet, set wide apart, firmly against the ground.

A fiercer yell, a stampede of both parties, announced the oncoming of
the new danger. Mowbray and Jahangir thought that this was the end until
they saw Roger, not smiling now but frowning, whirl the bar lightly as a
preliminary to the greatest feat he ever performed. For the story lives
yet amidst the glorious ruins of the Mogul Empire how the Man-Elephant
killed the elephant. Trumpeting loudly, rushing through the swaying mass
of human beings as a whale cleaves water, the immense brute seemed to
enjoy the sensation it created. As it entered the gate, with trunk
uplifted, the bar crashed across its knees. The elephant stumbled and
fell. Again the iron flail whistled in the air, this time striking the
brass-studded boss on the beast's wide forehead. The thick metal disks
shivered into fragments, and the monster, with fractured skull, lurched
over heavily on its side, throwing the Maharaja of Bikanir and his
lieutenants to the ground, where they died quickly at the hands of those
nearest to them.

A great shout went up, a shout of terror and wonder. Men ran, throwing
away their arms and shrieking incoherent appeals, whether to Allah or
Khuda, for protection. It was recorded that some went mad, some died
from fright, and many dropped from exhaustion miles away from Dilkusha
and its magic. For never before had one man met a full-grown fighting
elephant face to face in single combat and killed it. Such deeds were
told of lions and tigers, of many-antlered deer and massive bulls, but
never of the elephant, which, in the plenitude of its majestic strength,
can drag four score men in triumph, let them tug their best at a rope.

"_Shabash, hathi!_" cried Jahangir. "By the soul of my father, Akbar, if
I am spared to-night those two strokes shall be writ in history and
recorded in stone!"

"'Twill please me better if they remain in your Majesty's memory," was
Sainton's gruff answer. Truth to tell, his mighty effort had shaken him.
In that last almost superhuman blow he had surpassed himself. His
muscles still twitched from the tension, and he experienced a curious
sympathy for the magnificent creature whose dying convulsions alone
betokened the abundant life with which it was endowed.

He leaned wearily on the long bar. The slaying of the elephant was the
culmination of a day's toil such as no other man in India could have
endured, for many a stout warrior had fallen under his sword ere he
carried the Countess di Cabota into the Garden of Heart's Delight.

But the Emperor, not to be rebuffed thus curtly, seized him by the arm.

"Harken, friend," said he, "one lie will poison a river of truth. They
told me 'twas thy intent to tumble my palace about my ears. Tomb of the
Prophet, what will not a man believe when he lends his wits to women and
wine? Never was king more beholden to stranger than I to thee and thy
friend; canst thou not credit my faith when I say that no recompense you
ask shall be too great for me to give?"

Sainton turned and clapped the Emperor on the shoulder.

"I have oft wondered," he cried, "how so good a soldier could be a bad
king. Now I see 'twas a passing fit, which, mayhap, like certain
distempers, leaves thee wholesomer."

And that was how Jahangir and Roger began a comradeship which was never
marred nor forgotten while either lived.

Mowbray, though delighted that Sainton's rough diplomacy had won the
Emperor so thoroughly, nevertheless kept a sharp lookout for any
recrudescence of the fight. But the back of the revolt was broken. He
who escaped with the Maharaja of Bikanir, riding post-haste for fresh
troops, was captured by the imperial forces, and a strong contingent of
mounted men arriving at Dilkusha relieved the little garrison of further
concern. Jahangir despatched several officers with instructions, the
exact significance of which Walter failed to grasp. He knew it was
hopeless to expect clemency for those who fomented the disorders. In the
East, and indeed elsewhere, rulers had a habit, not wholly lost to-day,
of repressing such outbreaks with merciless severity.

The Emperor quickly completed his arrangements. Then he drew Walter
aside.

"You spoke of Nur Mahal. She is here, I know. What was her errand?" he
asked.

"To warn me of the plot of which I was the unconscious figurehead," was
the ready answer.

"Her action is the chief surprise of a night of marvels," said Jahangir,
thoughtfully. "No matter how greatly I was misled by others, I vow she
was candid. Never did woman belittle a man as Nur Mahal belittled me.
She said much that was true, and a good deal that was false. But her
spleen was manifest. Had my head rolled at her feet she would have
kicked it. Why, then, should she risk her life to save me?"

"You must ask her that yourself, your Majesty."

There was no other way. It was out of the question that Walter should
dispel Jahangir's doubts by hinting a very different motive for Nur
Mahal's visit to Dilkusha. Come what might he had dissipated in her mind
the mirage of a dynastic struggle in which he would participate as her
husband. The mere fact that he had so completely thrown in his lot with
the Emperor would prove to her, if proof were needed, that the dream of
those memorable days which followed their flight from Agra might never
be renewed. What would she do? What manner of greeting would she give
Jahangir? Who could tell? Once before, when expected to marry the
Emperor, she reviled him. Not half an hour ago she said Jahangir must
die before dawn. He was not dead, but very much alive, and more firmly
seated on his throne than at any time since his accession. What would
she say? Mowbray was on thorns as he walked with the Emperor and Roger
to the house.

Fra Pietro unbolted the door at which they knocked. Roger, seeing the
Countess moving forward, and evidently quite recovered from her
faintness, was seized with a spasm of shyness.

"All is well, Matilda," he said, hanging back. "You had a boisterous
journey, but you are in quiet waters now. I go to remove some marks of
the jaunt."

He made to sheer off, but she ran after him, brushing the Emperor aside
in her eagerness.

"Nay, my good Roger!" she cried. "Fra Pietro hath told me all. I closed
my eyes, and my heart stopped beating when I witnessed that last array
of dreadful men. And thou didst carry me in thy arms as if I were a
child, bearing me hither in safety through a hostile army. Oh, Roger,
how can I wait to thank thee!"

"Calm thyself, sweet Matilda," they heard him growl. "I'll have no
kissing of hands, and I cannot kiss thy lips in my present condition.
Gad! I have more brains on my clothes than in my head. Well, if naught
else will content thee, there!"

In the center of the room stood Nur Mahal, her normally lily-white face
with its peachlike bloom wholly devoid of color, and her wondrous eyes
gazing fixedly at the tall figure of the Emperor, who hesitated an
instant when Mowbray motioned him to enter first. Walter's pulse
galloped somewhat during that pause. He did not know then that while men
were dying in hundreds around the gate and elsewhere, the Franciscan had
won a wordy victory behind the locked doors. No sooner were the
Countess's senses restored than Fra Pietro engaged the Persian Princess
in a discourse which quickly revealed that here were well-matched
dialecticians. Pride, keen intellect, consciousness of physical charm
and mental power, were confronted by gentle insistence on the eternal
verities which govern mankind, irrespective of race or climate.

Neither palliating nor excusing Jahangir's excesses, the friar did not
hesitate to hold a mirror to the girl's own faults. If she had loved
the prince why did she profess to hate the king? If the death of her
husband so rankled in her memory that the Emperor, who was indirectly
responsible for it, was not to be forgiven, why had she gone back to
Agra, instead of pursuing her peaceful voyage to Burdwán? Ah, yes,
he appreciated her belief that other eventualities might happen, but
life was constituted of shattered hopes, and the one eternal, wholly
satisfying ideal was to so order one's actions that when called to final
account one could truly say: "This I did and thus I spoke because it
seemed to me best for the happiness and well-being of my
fellow-creatures."

To and fro flew the shuttlecock of their argument, until Nur Mahal,
astonished and not a little humiliated by the singular knowledge of her
inmost feelings displayed by this mild-eyed man of low estate, paced the
long room like a caged gazelle, and the Countess di Cabota, half
distracted by the distant sounds of murderous conflict, nevertheless
found time to wonder what Fra Pietro was saying which made the beautiful
Persian so angry.

The sound of Mowbray's voice, the sight of Jahangir in his company
unattended, drove the passion from her face. Her red lips were slightly
opened in mute inquiry, her fingers were entwined irresolutely, her
whole attitude, so heedless was she of the restraint that cloaks the
secret thought, indicated a passive desire to let chance carry her which
way it willed.

But the glory of her loveliness was never more manifest than in this
feminine mood, and Jahangir, a man of impulse, was drawn to her as steel
to a magnet.

"You and I," said he, slowly, "have much to forget, but you alone have a
great deal to forgive. Nevertheless, on a night when I have won my
kingdom I may well be pardoned if I hope to win my queen."

With that, he unfastened the samite over-cloak he wore, and took from
his neck a string of priceless pearls. Nur Mahal bent her proud head,
and the Emperor, with a laugh of almost boyish glee, adjusted the
shimmering ornament around her throat.

She said something in a low tone, and it was a long time before she
looked up again. When her eyes first encountered Mowbray's they were
bright with repressed tears.

Notwithstanding these tender passages, and some amusingly one-sided
episodes in the garden between Roger and the Countess, for the lady made
him kneel down whilst she washed his face, there was little time for
love-making. Jahangir, having joyously informed the nearest members of
his entourage that Nur Mahal was to be treated as the Empress which she
would be created next day in durbar, began to question Mowbray as to the
events of the night. Walter's task was rendered more simple by the
projected marriage of one whom he suspected to be the real instigator of
the whole affair. He must perforce twist the narrative to show the
prospective Sultana in the best light, and herein, as it happened, a
casual reference to Dom Geronimo was helpful.

"I mistrusted that man from the first," said Jahangir. "Why should he, a
European, conspire against his fellows? No beast of prey, unless it be
indeed hard pressed, eats its own kind. Howbeit, he will trouble the
world no longer."

"What means your Majesty? I was told he was active in his machinations
this very day."

"Yes," was the cool reply. "I made use of him until my patience
vanished. When you and Sainton-sahib proved him a liar, I sent orders
that a cow was to be slain instantly and the black robe sewn in the
skin."

"Sewn in the skin!" repeated Walter, incredulously.

"Yes. He will be dead by the fourth watch. Hussain Beg, a traitorous
villain from Lahore, whom I caused to be sealed in an ass's skin, took a
day and a night to die, but the hide of a cow dries more speedily."

Horrified by the fate which had overtaken the arch enemy of his race,
Mowbray told Fra Pietro what the Emperor had said. The Franciscan at
once appealed for mercy in the Jesuit's behalf.

"Forgive him," he pleaded, "as Christ forgave his enemies. You can save
him. Your request will be granted. God, who knoweth all hearts, can look
into his and turn its stone into the water of repentance."

It was not yet one o'clock when Walter and Roger, the latter glad of the
errand which freed him from Matilda's embarrassing attentions, rode with
a numerous guard to the fort, bearing Jahangir's reprieve for Dom
Geronimo.

There had been no delay in the execution of the sentence. They found the
unhappy priest already imprisoned in his terrible environment, and
almost insane with the knowledge that the stiffening hide was slowly but
surely squeezing him to death.

With Sher Afghán's dagger Mowbray cut the stitches of sheep-sinews, and,
after drinking some wine and water, the Jesuit fanatic became aware of
the identity of the man to whom he owed his life.

"'Tis surely time," said Walter, sternly, "that you and I discharged our
reckoning. I could have pardoned my father's death, foul murder though
it was, on the score of your youth and zeal. But it is unbearable that
you, who preach the gospel of Christianity, should pursue with rancor
the son of the man you killed with a coward's blow. Now, after the lapse
of twenty-four years, I have requited both his untimely loss and your
continued malice by saving your wretched life. What sayest thou,
Geronimo? Does the feud end?"

"On my soul, Walter!" cried Sainton, "I think he is minded to spring at
thee now."

But the glazed eyes of the unfortunate bigot were lifted to his rescuer
with the non-comprehending glare of stupor rather than unconquerable
hatred. He murmured some reference to the miraculous statue of San José,
to which, lying at the bottom of the bay of Biscay amidst the rotting
timbers of a ship bearing the saint's name, he evidently attributed his
escape. So they left him, with instructions as to his tendance, and rode
back to the Garden of Heart's Delight.

All fighting had ceased. Some few Samaritans were tending the wounded;
ghouls were robbing the dead; a mild rain, come after weeks of drought,
was refreshing the thirsty earth and washing away the signs of conflict.

"What kept thee so long on the road?" asked Walter, when Roger confessed
that the shower was the next most grateful thing to a flagon of wine he
did not fail to call for and empty at the palace.

"Gad! I was forced to wring Fateh Mohammed's stiff neck," was the
unexpected answer. "Having received Jahangir's orders, he held by them
as if they were verses of the Koran. The fat knave was backed by too
many arquebusiers to assault him by daylight, so I played fox, and rode
off in seeming temper. I and the six troopers hid in a nullah until
night fell. Then we spurred straight to Matilda's tent, but Fateh
Mohammed, to his own undoing, was grossly annoying her, in that very
hour, by professing his great admiration for her manifold attractions.
He was not worth a sword thrust, so what more was there to do than to
treat him as my mother treats a fowl which she wants for the spit?"

"What, indeed?" said Walter.

CHAPTER XIX

         "To shew our simple skill,
     That is the true beginning of our end."
                    _Midsummer Night's Dream,_ Act V, Sc. 1.

When they reached Dilkusha they yet had much to talk about. During their
absence Jahangir had departed with Nur Mahal, entering the palace by the
Water Gate, so the Englishmen did not encounter the royal cortège. Worn
out by fatigue, the Countess di Cabota was sound asleep, but Fra Pietro
awaited them, being anxious to learn the fate of his co-religionist. He
was devoutly thankful that Dom Geronimo was not dead, and his next
inquiry dealt with the adventures of Roger throughout the day. Then the
lively record of the fight at the gate must be imparted, and nothing
would suit the friar, late though the hour was, but he must go and see
the fallen elephant, which, guarded by a crowd of awe-stricken natives,
still cumbered the entrance to the cypress avenue.

He gazed long at the mighty brute, whose bulk, as it lay, topped a man's
height. Then said he to Sainton:--

"At what hour, friend, didst thou attack the camp of Fateh Mohammed?"

"It might be half-past eight of the clock."

"Ah! You forced your way in and out; you rode through hundreds of
King's men and rebels, who each in turn sought to bar your path; you
fought here so well that not even this monster could prevail against
you; nevertheless, our worthy Master Mowbray would scoff at the special
protection of St. James which I invoked for you in the very hour of your
first onset."

"Gad! Such a serious speech hath a deep meaning. Walter, what's to do
between you and our good friar? Hast thou been reviling an apostle?"

"Never, on my life," laughed Mowbray. "When my ears have lost the sounds
of strife, Fra Pietro, you shall lecture me most thoroughly on my
seeming lack of faith in that matter."

"By the cross of Osmotherly!" vowed Roger, "if St. James be so potent
I'll down on my marrow-bones the next time I'm 'bliged to carry Matilda
a mile. My soul! my left shoulder will ache for a week with the strain
of her exceeding shapeliness."

The Franciscan sighed. They were in no mood for a sermon. The load of
care lifted from their hearts by the witchery of the night left room for
aught save sober reflection. He must point the moral another day.

When fortune buffets a man for years she is apt, if caught in the right
vein, to shower her favors on him with prodigality. Jahangir, wholly
taken up in affairs of state and his wedding festivities, did not see
his English friends until nearly ten days later. Then he astounded
Walter with the information that King James of England had sent an
Embassy to India, that he, Jahangir, meant to march to Ajmere to meet
the Ambassador, and that he would esteem it a favor if Mowbray and
Sainton would come with him, the journey being a fair measure of the
road to Surat.

But this first surprise was sent spinning by the discovery that the
leader of the Embassy was Sir Thomas Roe.

"Does your Majesty know if the Ambassador hath brought his sister?"
asked Sainton, for Mowbray scarce knew how to account for the rush of
color which bronzed more deeply his well-tanned face.

"There is no mention of the lady in my despatches. What of her?"
inquired the Emperor.

"That is a tale for Mowbray-sahib to tell," said Roger with a wink, and,
indeed, the levity of his manner towards the monarch then, and on many
other occasions, greatly scandalized the punctilious court flunkeys.

Jahangir seemed to be greatly pleased by the fact that Walter regarded
Nellie Roe as his future wife. Being a devoted husband himself, he
naturally told Nur Mahal, and was astonished that she received the news
with indifference. Of course, Mistress Roe did not accompany her
brother, but she sent a very nicely worded acknowledgment of Walter's
letters, together with a small package, which, when opened, disclosed a
very beautiful miniature of herself by that same notable artist, Isaac
Olliver, who had painted Anna Cave.

One day, when Jahangir and the Embassy were met in durbar at Ajmere, the
conversation turned on this very art of painting on ivory, in which the
Delhi artists were highly skilled, and Sir Thomas Roe's "Journal"
contains an effective sketch of the assembly to which the pictures of
the two fair Englishwomen (Anna being then secretly married to Roe) were
brought for comparison with native products.

     "When I came in I found him sitting cross legged on a little
     throne, all cladd in diamondes, Pearles, and rubyes; before him
     a table of gould, on yt about 50 Peeces of gould plate sett all
     with stones, some very great and extreamly rich, some of lesse
     valew, but all of them almost couered with small stones; his
     Nobilitye about him in their best equipage, whom hee Commanded
     to drinck froliquely, seuerall wynes standing by in great
     flagons."

There was some good-humored dispute as to the ability of the Delhi
craftsmen to copy Master Olliver's work, and a bet was made, which both
Roe and Mowbray discreetly lost when the originals were returned with
the reproductions. Yet, the native artists had achieved a better result
than the Englishmen expected, whilst Jahangir was puzzled by his wife's
eagerness to see Nellie Roe's presentment, although she evinced no
curiosity concerning her when first he mentioned the projected marriage.

But the Emperor, still a wine-bibber it is clear, soon ceased to
question the why and the wherefore of Nur Mahal's actions. Each day of
his life he fell more and more under her influence. Soon he practically
made over the government of the state into her hands. At that time,
especially during Mowbray's continuance with the court, she exhibited a
restless activity which found no sedative save constant movement.
Devoted to sport, and showing much skill in using a gun which Sir
Thomas Roe gave her, she shot many tigers with her own hand, and tigers,
even at that distant date, were to be found only in secluded jungles.

A letter preserved in the Addlestone MS, from Sir Thomas Roe to Sir
Thomas Smythe, refers to the Empress's passion for roaming in remote
districts. "I am yet followeing this wandering King," he writes, "ouer
Mountaynes and through woodes, so strange and unused wayes that his owne
People, who almost know no other God, blaspheame his name and Hers that,
it is sayd, Conducts all his actions."

This same disturbing transition from place to place led to the
departure, much against her will, of the Countess di Cabota to Bombay.
Her ladyship found out, what was oft rumored in India, that the
Dowager-Empress, Mariam, mother of Jahangir, was really a Christian
woman of Portuguese birth. The Countess met her, and spoke to her in her
own language, and the incident incensed the Emperor, who feared that his
claim to be another Mahomet might be questioned by the imaums. Roe, a
politic negotiator, took advantage of the hardships and difficulties of
baggage-carrying involved by the daily breaking up of the camp, to
despatch the Countess to the nearest Portuguese port.

She took leave of Roger with copious tears, and wrote him long letters
he could not read, so that Walter was obliged to order his face as he
made known her loving messages, and heard Roger swearing under his
breath the while. Soon she sailed for Lisbon, and the big man, thinking
he would never see her again, did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

Mowbray naturally rendered the greatest service to the English mission.
The whole country was thrown open to British trade, special sites were
granted for factories, and, indeed, Roe's embassy undoubtedly planted in
India the seeds which have borne such million-fold yield. But Walter, to
his great relief, found that Nur Mahal avoided him. He seldom exchanged
a word with her, and then only by way of formal politeness. She moved
like a star, bright and remote. The sole instances of personal favor
which she showed him consisted, in the first place, of the redemption of
the box of diamonds for money, and, secondly, in urging him and Roger to
invest two thirds of their capital in indigo, which, shipped to London,
was worth five times what they paid for it in India.

During an uneventful voyage home, Roger often spoke of his Matilda, and
wondered how she fared. He was sorry a gale blew them past Lisbon,
though it hurried them to the Downs, but his regret merged with other
sentiments when he learned, by advices awaiting Walter from his mother,
that the Countess di Cabota was arrived in Wensleydale, where she had
won much popularity, and was a special favorite of old Mistress
Sainton's.

"Ecod!" roared Roger, when the full effect of this amazing intelligence
penetrated his big head, "that ends it. I am undone! Between them
they'll lead me to the kirk wi' a halter, for my owd mother ever had an
eye for t' brass, and Matilda will have filled her lug wi' sike a tale
that I'll be tethered for life."

His prediction was verified. The Countess married him a week after he
reached Yorkshire. But the only halter she used was the chain of
turquoises and gold which he himself gave her. Never did man have more
loving wife. Her chief joy was to find some wondering listener while she
poured forth the thrilling recital of her husband's prowess, and her
only anxiety was lest his fighting instincts should prove too powerful
to keep him at home during the troubled years of the next reign.

But her wealth, joined to his own very considerable store, made him a
rich man and a landed proprietor. Several little Saintons, too, promised
to be nearly as big as their father, or as pretty as their mother, so
Roger stopped at Leyburn to look after them, siding with neither King
nor Parliament, but making it widely known that he was yet able to break
heads if anyone interfered with him or his.

Of the wooing of Nellie Roe by her constant lover much might be written
of vastly greater interest than many things herein recorded. Yet, such a
history is neither new nor old, being of the order which shall endure as
long as man seeks his mate. So they were wed, in the Church of St.
Giles, at Cripplegate, and, by one of those pleasant actions which
redeem his memory, King James was graciously pleased to forget the
contumacy of his long-lost subjects. On Roe's showing that Mowbray had
done such good work for England that he well deserved the royal favor,
the King bade the newly-married couple invite him to the wedding, to
which he came in great state. He asked for the Ambassador's sword,
averted his eyes, nearly clipped Walter's ear with the blade in
delivering the accolade, and duly dubbed him a knight. Here, also, the
English Solomon met Sainton. Though his majesty was far too sagacious,
in his own estimation, to credit half he was told of the giant's
performances at home and in the domains of the Great Mogul, he
nevertheless asked Roger what he considered to be his most remarkable
achievement.

"Gad!" was the grinning answer, "though I have lopped heads by the
score, and fought wi' strange beasts of monstrous size and fury, I think
the most wonderful thing I ever did was to get off scot free when your
Majesty was ill disposed towards me."

James rubbed his nose dubiously. He took thought, and found that the
retort pleased him. So Roger, too, was ordered to kneel, and arose, very
red and confused, "Sir Roger Sainton, of Cabota Hall, in the County of
York."

A great deal of water had flowed under London Bridge, and under the
bridge that spanned the Jumna at Agra as well, when Sir Roger rode up
the Vale of Ure one day to dine and sup with his friend Sir Walter. With
him, in a carriage, came Matilda, Lady Sainton, and the special purport
of the visit was to hear news lately received from India.

Fra Pietro had written, as was his yearly custom, giving them the
annals of life in far-off Agra. The Franciscan would not abandon his
people, and he remained with those who elected to settle in the capital
rather than return to Hughli. There, owing to the patronage of Jahangir
and Nur Mahal, he established a thriving colony. In course of time, by
teaching his flock to eschew politics and stick to trade, he made the
Franciscans a greater power than the Jesuits.

Divested of the quaint phraseology and varied spelling then in vogue,
some portion of his epistle is worthy of record.

     "Each year it becomes more established," he said, "that the
     Empress rules in Jahangir's name. Truly she is a good and wise
     woman. She hath effected a beneficial change in his cruel
     disposition, and put a stop to his savage outbursts of temper.
     Not only does he drink less wine in the daytime, but he is
     ashamed to be seen by her if his evening potations are too
     indulgent. She still retains her habit of going unveiled among
     all classes, and, indeed, it would be a wise reform were other
     women of the country to do likewise, for the Creator never
     intended one half the human race to remain invisible to the
     other half. Herein, however, she has failed, though it is said,
     as a quip, that were her own features less noteworthy she would
     not be so free in their exhibition.

     "Nevertheless, she is the most accomplished woman of her age
     and clime. She rules this land with moderation and firmness,
     encourages education and good living, and gives freedom to all
     men to worship God as seemeth best to them. I am reminded, by
     these last words, that one who sought unfairly to impose his
     will upon others, Dom Geronimo to wit, died recently in the
     Convent here. He had been partly demented for years, but you
     will be glad to learn that his final hours were peaceful. His
     soul was restored to consciousness when the weak body failed,
     and he departed this life sincerely regretting the excesses to
     which he was led by unmeasured zeal. Perhaps I err in judging
     him thus harshly. 'Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth
     take heed lest he fall.' I Cor. x. 12.

     "The Emperor kept his word touching the record of my good
     Roger's mighty deed in slaying the elephant. Within the Ummer
     Singh Gate of the Palace he hath erected another gateway called
     the Hathiya Darwaza, or 'Door of the Elephants.' It stands on
     the summit of a steep slope, and bears on its two flanking
     towers life-size models of two elephants, one of which has a
     man's head. Fra Angelico, of the Blessed Order of St. Francis,
     newly come here from Barcelona, has a gift in painting, and, at
     my wish, he has made two oil drawings, which I send herewith,
     one of which shows the noble design of the structure.

     "The other will be equally foreign to your eyes. You will
     scarce credit that the splendid marble edifice drawn by my
     worthy brother in Christ is the tomb of Itimad-ud-Daula, father
     of the Empress, and erected by her on the site of the house in
     the Garden of Heart's Delight. Jahangir wished the place kept
     as an evening retreat for the days of spring flowers, but Nur
     Mahal would hear of no other end than the monument. So there
     stands the mausoleum, a noble building truly, yet a grave. Who
     knows what unfulfilled desires lie buried with the unheeding
     bones of the old Diwán! I sometimes think the Empress, who,
     with all her wisdom, remains a wayward woman, was not wholly
     swayed by filial piety when she moved the remains of her
     excellent father to that lovely garden. Once, by chance, I met
     her there. She spoke to me, and I gave her such meager
     intelligence of my English friends as I possessed. She was
     pleased to hear that Roger and you were honored by the King.
     She sends her greetings. Jai Singh leader of the body-guard,
     also places his turban at your feet.

     "And, in this connection, I am reminded of that verse in the
     XXVth Chapter of Proverbs: 'As cold waters to a thirsty soul,
     so is good news from a far country.' Write to me, therefore, my
     good Walter. May it please the Lord that these presents shall
     find you and yours in good health and abounding in happiness!
     They tell me I am growing gray, and thinner than ever, so
     assure me, I pray you, that Sir Roger is adding width to his
     inches and thus adjusting that proper balance between the
     extremes by which nature at times leaves the common level.

     "It will be of interest to his lady, best known to me as the
     Countess di Cabota, to learn that recently, while on a journey
     to the Nasirabad mission, I turned aside and visited the
     deserted city of Fatehpur-Sikri, built, as you know, by Akbar.
     In Queen Mariam's house I found wall-paintings representing the
     Annunciation, and other scenes in the history of Our Lord and
     His Blessed Mother, thus proving that the unhappy woman, long
     since dead, was an apostate. May she have found grace and
     repentance even at the foot of the throne. It would be a great
     delight to me if I could win Nur Mahal to the faith. She and
     Jahangir are ready enough to reason the matter, but they remain
     obdurate. I trust yet to prevail."

The Franciscan then branched off into such trading information as he
thought might be useful to them or their friends in the city of London,
and concluded by expressing the hope that, if ever he returned to
Europe, they might all meet; though, said he, "I expect little more than
that my own bones shall rest in the small graveyard we have established
at no great distance from Dilkusha."

Nellie, who had heard the letter when it reached her husband, listened
to it again while he read it to Roger and Lady Sainton.

"What an influence Nur Mahal seems to exert on all who meet her!" she
said, thoughtfully, when Walter laid down the last closely written
sheet.

"Aye, a witch, and a bonny one at that!" muttered Roger.

"Was she really so beautiful?" asked Nellie, and Walter felt that her
eyes were on him though her question was addressed generally.

"She was so beautiful," he said, caressing her fair head with a loving
hand, "that once, when I wished to be complimentary, I told here there
was only one prettier woman in the world, to my thinking, and her name
was Nellie Roe."

"Gad! Was that what you said to her in the field of chick-peas?" cried
Roger.

"Some words to that effect."

"But no woman would take that as a compliment," said Nellie, dubiously.

"I could fashion no better at the time," he answered, and he picked up
Fra Angelico's sketch of the Garden of Heart's Delight. The cypresses
were there, and the smooth lawns, with the white marble pavilion shining
from the green depths, whilst the artist-friar had cunningly depicted a
gold mohur tree, in all the glory of its summer foliage, to cover one
corner of a tower where the sheer lines were too harsh.

Roger rose ponderously, having lost that ease of movement which was wont
to be so deceptive when an enemy deemed him slow because of his size. He
looked over Walter's shoulder.

"'Tis a gaudy picture," he growled, "but 'tis not the place I dream of
at times when a pasty is too rich or the beer a trifle heavy."

"I oft wish I had seen the garden as you knew it, Walter," said his
wife.

"May the Lord be thanked your wish was not granted!" he said, drawing
her nearer and kissing her with a heartiness that was unaffected. "'Twas
no fit habitation for you, Nellie, or for any Christian woman. Ask my
Lady Sainton. She knew it, only too well. The Empress is right. It was
best fitted to hold a tomb."

And, indeed, while the men went forth into an English rose-garden, to
indulge in the new fashionable habit of smoking tobacco-leaf, Matilda
assured her young friend, for the hundredth time, that, notwithstanding
the undoubted charms and barbaric elegance of the Persian princess,
Walter Mowbray treated her very cavalierly. So, for the hundredth time,
Nellie drove the wrinkles of thought from her brow, smiled delightedly
when Matilda vowed that the man's face on the stone elephant was not a
quarter as handsome as Roger himself, and thus effectually banished the
dim but lovely and ever fascinating wraith of Nur Mahal.

Transcriber's note:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,
every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and
intent.