Jahangir was on his feet instantly. Sher AfghÁn should not escape him now unless the gods fought against him.

“To me!” he yelled. “Spare not! Every man shall have a golden tauq!”[B]

The elephant struggled to rise, but failed. He was dazed by his terrific impact against the solid gateway. Sher AfghÁn leaped from the howdah and rushed joyously to meet his frenzied antagonist. Perhaps the fate of India would have been settled then and there for many a year had not the mob of horsemen, unable to stay their disorderly pursuit, swept between the rivals. Many of the sowars were thrown by crashing into the immovable bulk of the squealing beast in the roadway: most of the others either reined in, expecting to encounter a fresh foe, or were carried past the gate.

Walter, in whom the fire of battle had extinguished the dictates of prudence, whipped out his sword, faced the enraged Prince, and engaged him in rapid play. The curved scimitar of the East had no chance against the straight English blade, wielded as it was by one versed in the art of European swordsmanship. Jahangir was disarmed, his wrist nearly broken when he would have drawn a dagger, and Mowbray, closing fearlessly, pinned him against the base of the wall. His infuriated adversary was no puny youth, but Walter was now at his best. He tripped Jahangir, got him down, and gripped him by the throat, saying:—

“Yield, fool, and lie quiet. If Sher AfghÁn finds thee he will slay thee without mercy.”

In the road a remarkable change had taken place. The elephant’s assault had dislodged a long and heavy iron bar which served to prop the door from within. Sainton, alert as a fox in an emergency, saw it lying amidst the ruins. Any ordinary man would find it a difficult thing to lift, but Roger, sheathing his sword, picked it up and used it with both hands as a quarter staff. He leaped back into the mÊlÉe and made onslaught with this fearsome weapon on men and horses alike. In the press, the Prince’s retainers could not use their arrows, and their cumbrous matchlocks, once discharged, could not be reloaded readily. As for their swords and short lances, of what avail were such bodkins against this raging giant, mowing down all comers with a ten-foot bar of iron? Who could withstand him? Those who escaped him fled, and the clash of steel beyond the circle of light told that Sher AfghÁn’s followers, though dispersed by the first unexpected charge, had rallied and were coming to the assistance of their chief.

Sainton, who thoroughly enjoyed the fight, ceased his exertions when he saw Sher AfghÁn helping Nur Mahal to alight from the howdah. A crowd of guests and armed vassals, attracted by the noise of the conflict, had run from the house, and the obedience rendered to the Persian’s orders by a fresh batch of horsemen advancing out of the darkness showed that the assailants had been completely routed.

But some remained. Six horses and more than twenty men were prone in the dust, and few of them moved, for that terrible bar had touched naught that it did not break. The fallen elephant blocked the gate and the big Yorkshireman held the road. None could come out from the garden save by a wicket, and neither friend nor foe dared to approach within striking distance of Roger.

Sher AfghÁn, who had not earned his name, “Slayer of Lions,” by bragging, glanced at the tumbled heap which surrounded Sainton and cried:—

“May Allah bear witness this night that thou hast saved my life, friend from beyond the seas. I did well to help thee, and nobly hast thou repaid my service. But where is thy brother? I trust he has come to no harm.”

“When last I saw him he was instructing Prince Jahangir in the art of fence,” said Roger, stooping to recover his hat which had fallen.

“Ha, sayest thou? Would that I had given the lesson in his stead! Search for him, I pray you, whilst I conduct this lady to her father.”

Nur Mahal, who stood near, seemed to be in a somewhat subdued mood. There was a new note in her voice as she murmured:—

“Heed me not, my Lord, but look for the stranger. My heart misgives me as to his fate.”

Sher AfghÁn gave her a quick glance, clearing his eyes in wonderment. Before he could reply the girl darted forward.

“See, here he comes, and with him a prisoner. For my sake, if for none other, let there be no further bloodshed!”

The appeal was timely. Walter, holding Jahangir, whom he had purposely kept in the background until the turmoil had subsided, now advanced. But the spirit of the combat had not wholly left him. When Sher AfghÁn sprang forward, eager to renew a duel interrupted by the downfall of the elephant, his sword barred the way.

“Not so,” he cried determinedly. “The Prince is unarmed and my hostage. Moreover, I cannot see why two such gallant gentlemen should fight over a worthless woman. Whilst you were defending her and yourself, Sher AfghÁn, her dagger was raised to strike you dead.”

The Persian stood as though he had been stabbed indeed. He bent a piteous glance on his wife.

“Is it true,” he asked brokenly, “that you would have done this thing?”

She shrank from him.

“You forced me to wed you,” she protested. “I did not love you.”

Plucking a dagger from his belt he offered it to her.

“I dreamed to conquer the fickle heart of a woman,” he said. “If you were minded to end your woes by my death, here is my unprotected breast. Kill me! It is my desire. Better that than an assassin’s blow at the hands of the woman I love.”

She burst into a passion of tears and fell to her knees.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” she sobbed; and her grief was music in Sher AfghÁn’s ears. If, indeed, his wife regretted her attitude he could afford to be magnanimous. Throwing sword and dagger to the ground he bowed to Jahangir.

“Your Highness has been misled by idle tongues,” he said. “Tidings of this brawl will reach the Emperor as fast as men can ride. Let you and me hasten to his presence and together seek his clemency.”

It was a proposal which could only emanate from a chivalrous soul, but Jahangir was too enraged by his defeat, too embittered by Nur Mahal’s apparent submission, to avail himself of it.

“I neither plead nor make excuse,” he said. “Go you in peace with your bride. I call Allah to witness that I have been misled by none save Nur Mahal herself. My followers have fled, though I am glad to see some of the hare-livered dogs cumber the ground. Give me a horse and I shall ride alone, if your foreign ally grants my liberty.”

The lowering anger in his closely set eyes, the quivering lips which scarce could form the words, showed that Jahangir was not only keenly resentful of his plight but that he scorned Nur Mahal for her meekness. The appearance of the DiwÁn, agitated and faltering in his steps, put an end to a scene which at any moment might have assumed a new phase of violence. The aged statesman, when his first alarm was sped, thought more of the morrow than of the present excitement. He bade Sher AfghÁn undertake the interrupted journey in a litter as soon as his wounds were bound, and he despatched Jahangir to the fort with a strong guard of his own servants.

By this time the dazed elephant had yielded to the curses and endearments of the mahout. He rose ponderously, and marched across the ruins of the gate to his stable.

For some reason the DiwÁn would not allow Mowbray and Sainton to return to the caravansary. He may have feared for their safety, or perhaps he found comfort in the thought that Roger, mighty man of war, slept under his roof.

Before setting out a second time Sher AfghÁn came to the chamber allotted to them. He threw around Roger’s neck a magnificent gold chain studded with turquoises.

“Let me gild the bond of steel which rivets our friendship,” he said.

To Walter he handed a dagger, with a handle so encrusted with diamonds that it blazed in the light of a lamp like a single huge stone.

“It is worthy of the hand of my friend and the heart of my enemy,” he cried, nor would he harken to their protests, but hurried away to the waiting litter and Nur Mahal.

“How read you the riddle of this night’s doings?” asked Roger, when they were alone once more.

“There is no riddle. ’Tis nothing new in history for a woman to plot for a throne.”

“But the wench blew hot and cold. One minute she was for striking her husband dead and the next she was tame as a pet lamb.”

“There you have me. I am only sorry that a brave man like Sher AfghÁn should be enamored of such a siren.”

“By the cross of Osmotherly, Walter, I came to think I ken more than you of the ways of women. Now, mark me, she is a hoyden of some spirit. When the Prince would have reaved her she was willing enough, and tempted to aid him withal. But when the fight started, she hung back, like a doe watching two contending stags. Her husband was the better man and the greater gentleman, and he did more to win her by a five minutes’ contention than by a month’s wooing.”

“You are right, Roger, but you had most to say in that respect. Now, let us rest. Jahangir was no mean antagonist. He struggled like a bull when I had him on the ground. I am weary.”

They slept late, and, when they had dressed and eaten, were at a loss whether to go or stay, as the DiwÁn had hastened to the palace soon after daybreak. But their doubts were quickly resolved. A mounted messenger from the DiwÁn bade them bring their packs with all speed to the fort. The Emperor had laughed when told that his heir was lying abed with sore bones, and gave imperative orders that the bazaar should take place as arranged.

The man told them that the fair was the Khus-roz, or “Day of Pleasure,” and the scene in the garden of the zenana, when Mowbray and Sainton had hurried their train thither, showed that the festival was not misnamed. Not only the ladies of the court, but the wives and daughters of the chief nobles, occupied the stalls, and, while Walter was busily superintending the unpacking of his bales, he heard the Emperor himself chaffering like an old wife about the value of a penny.

He was bargaining shrewdly with a beautiful Kashmiri, and receiving as good as he gave.

“What do you know of merchandise?” she cried. “You may be a good king, but certainly you are a poor trader.”

“And you are selling inferior silk by your pretty face, just as a fine rind may cover a bad apple,” he retorted.

“If your Majesty can only admire my face,” said she, “I fear you must go where you will be better served.”

“OhÉ, here is a prude! Come, accept my price and let me take my compliments elsewhere.”

“And what shall I say when I render short account to the Sultana?”

“Tell her that the King thought you ill-looking, so he showed you no favor.”

“Your Majesty is reputed a better judge of women’s nature. Then, indeed, the Sultana would regard me curiously.”

“Oh, go to! You are vain as a peacock. Here, not a pice more!”

He threw down some copper coins, and affected to drop a number of gold pieces by accident. The lady promptly covered them with a fold of her sari, and Akbar strolled away to another stall. Among the money she found a rare pearl, and the gift of a jewel was a signal sign of royal favor.

“They tell me an elephant broke loose outside the DiwÁn’s house last night,” said Akbar, stopping in front of Walter and eying him keenly.

“For a little while I fancied it was a whole menagerie, your Majesty,” was the quick answer.

“So. And this other elephant, the Hathi-sahib, made a pen for the beasts?”

“Assuredly they found him occupation for a time.”

“’Tis well. I am sorry I did not see him at work. Meanwhile, you shall not lose trade because young blood grows hot. What is the value of your wares?”

“A lakh and a half, your Majesty.”

“Bones of my father! They must have told you that ‘Akbar’ meant ‘a mint’ in your language.”

“The meaning of your Majesty’s name is known far beyond the confines of your kingdom.”

“Ha! Thy tongue is glib! And what is my repute with your King?”

“I have been told that he regards your Majesty with great respect, which is saying much, as he is held by many to be a very Solomon.”

“Aye, the wisest fool in Christendom,” broke in Sainton, in English.

Mowbray smiled and Akbar cried eagerly:—

“What sayeth the Hathi?”

The translation, which Walter rendered accurately, made him laugh heartily.

“I doubt not thou hast an apt phrase to describe me when my back is turned,” he said to Roger.

“If your Majesty leaves behind you the lakh and a half demanded by my partner I shall at least say that which is true.”

“And what will it be?”

“That none but a royal bird could cast such feathers.”

“Bismillah! Aught but that! The four winds would blow hither every knave in India, for they will read it that none but a royal goose could lay such eggs.”

Of course the imperial quip was much applauded by those who stood near, and Akbar was so pleased with his own wit that he called for pen and paper and commanded an attendant to write an order on the Treasury for the amount named, for, strange to say, this far-seeing and intelligent monarch was quite illiterate. He could scarcely read, and his signature was a mere scrawl. Nevertheless, his hieroglyphics covered, in this instance, a considerable sum, its English equivalent being £15,000. Seeing that the cost and transport of their goods amounted to only one-third of the sale price, both Mowbray and Sainton had the best of reasons to rejoice at this rapid change in their fortunes.

But Akbar knew the value of money as well as the poorest of his subjects. Turning to a corpulent nawab who had laughed loudest at his joke, he said:—

“Now, Agah Khan, thou shalt see that I am as ready a seller as a buyer. Look at this roll of Persian silk. Think of the joy it will cause in thy household. Is it not cheap at two hundred gold mohurs, or shall we say two-fifty, as thou wouldst not care to rob a man who scarce knew the value of his commodities.”

Agah Khan, not at all elated by this twist of the royal humor, hastened to say that two hundred and fifty was the true price, at which figure he would certainly purchase it. He knew Akbar. Had he hesitated the figure would have risen by hundreds a minute.

“Nay, be not so shy, Nur-ud-din,” called out the Emperor after one who affected an interest in another stall. “Here be spices of Gondar that shall make thee eat until the mirror reveals one twice thy size. What shall it be?”

“Fifty, O King of Kings,” was the quick response.

“Fifty! When each grain doth season a meal! A hundred at the least!”

“Be it so, shadow of Allah on earth!” said Nur-uddin; yet he looked so dismal, for he was a reputed skinflint, that Akbar smiled grimly, and there was discreet mirth even among those who dreaded their own dealing with this masterful salesman.

“Gad!” whispered Sainton to Walter, “I begin to catch the drift of the King’s bargain. He hath a nice wit.”

In half an hour Akbar had sold three fourths of their stock and retained the best quarter for nothing. They, all aglow with pleasure at this successful close of their venture, watched the proceedings in patience until the Emperor approached them again.

“It grieves me that affairs in the DekkÀn will detain me to-day,” he said, looking fixedly at Walter. “Visit the Treasury to-morrow, come hither at the hour fixed for this evening, and then journey with all speed and good fortune back to Surat.”

Now, Walter read a hint into the words. He bowed deeply, assuring the Emperor that he would obey his commands to the letter. Then, Akbar having gone, he and Roger went on their way with light hearts.

In a land where intrigue was rife, the signal favor shown by the Emperor to the two strangers was in every man’s mouth. This was clear from the respect paid to them as they rode forth from the palace. Each menial salaamed, and officials who had surveyed them with hauteur during their first visit now rendered obsequious attention.

They were yet some little distance from the bazaar when two richly clad nobles, mounted on fine Turkoman Arabs, overtook them, drew rein and entered into conversation.

At first, Walter answered their courteous inquiries unguardedly, but a question anent the previous night’s escapade revealed a hidden motive. He described the affair jestingly, robbing it of serious import.

“Nay, friend,” said one, the elder of the pair, “we heard Akbar’s words. Prince Jahangir, a profligate and a drunkard, hath grieved him by his excesses. Had the edge of thy sword fallen on Jahangir’s neck, instead of the flat blade on his wrist, there would have been little harm done.”

“A bold speech from one whom I know not.”

“Would that a bold action by one whom we know not had rid the land of a pest!”

Amazed and somewhat disturbed by this outspoken declaration, Mowbray wheeled his horse squarely towards the speaker.

“I would have you realize that my companion and I are traders. We have no concern with the court beyond the sale of our goods,” he said sternly.

“Traders should not have enemies in high places.”

“We have none.”

“Why, then, is one of the foreign preachers closeted with Jahangir since the ninth hour? Why hath this same preacher spread the rumor in the bazaar that you are spies, emissaries of a king beyond the black water who is sending armed ships to prey on our territories in the west?”

Here was unpleasant news, indeed. Mowbray must have looked his annoyance, because the other continued eagerly:—

“This black gown hath established too great an influence over Jahangir. Were he dead, and his brother Khusrow recognized as heir, all would be well, and the store thou hast made to-day would be quadrupled.”

“To whom do I speak?”

“I fear not to give my name. I am Raja Man Singh, and this other is the chief of Bikanir.”

“Why do you tell me these things?” said Walter, sorely troubled, for the men were grandees of high position.

“Because, in God’s name, if Jahangir comes in front of thy sword again, plunge it into him.”

Roger, who gathered the drift if not the exact significance of the talk, broke in in English:—

“If they’re athirst for Jahangir’s blood, Walter, bid them slit his weazand themselves.”

They evidently read his ejaculation as hostile to the Prince, for he from Bikanir murmured:—

“Good! The Hathi hath trumpeted.”

Now, Roger did not like the nickname given him by Akbar. He stretched out a huge fist toward the Rajput and roared:—

“I kill only in fair fight. Beware lest the slaying be done now, when, perchance, we may win not only the Emperor’s approval, but that of his eldest son.”

His attitude surprised them, but they showed no fear. Raja Man Singh said coldly:—

“I have spoken. Many hours may not pass before you feel that my words were not uttered without cause.”

He spurred his horse, and the other followed him in a sharp canter. They soon vanished in the distance.

The incident, perplexing though it was, would not have troubled them greatly save for the reference to Dom Geronimo. Here was one whose rancor was implacable, his spleen being probably augmented by their presence in the Mogul capital and the notable success they had attained. When they recalled the Emperor’s advice as to their departure they saw that there were dangerous undercurrents in existence which might swamp the argosy of their fortunes if they did not conduct their affairs with exceeding discretion.

Hence, they hailed with joy the invitation from the DiwÁn to make his house their own during further residence in Agra. In the caravansary they were surrounded by strangers who might be in anyone’s pay. In the Garden of Heart’s Delight they were, at least, under the protection of an influential minister, whose abode even Prince Jahangir was compelled to respect, else he would not have resorted to the ambuscade of the previous night.

But the blind god, having tossed them towards the smooth haven of prosperity, blew them back into a storm with malignant caprice. That night, the DiwÁn died suddenly, poisoned said some, while others held that his end was hastened by the turmoil attending Nur Mahal’s marriage.

Application to the Treasury for payment of their order was futile. They were assured, civilly enough, that no money could be disbursed until a new DiwÁn was appointed, and, when they kept the appointment fixed by Akbar, they were told that the Emperor, overwhelmed with grief at the death of his favorite minister, added to the news of the illness of one of his sons, DÁniÁl, at Burhampur, was secluded in his private apartments.

Day after day they waited, devising many schemes to secure their money and leave a city they would gladly see the last of. They lived in the DiwÁn’s house. None interfered with them, and the place itself was an earthly Paradise wherein they would be well content if other matters had progressed to their liking. The warning given by Raja Man Singh had no justification in fact. Jahangir had apparently forgotten their existence, while Dom Geronimo gave no sign that he concerned himself in any way about them.

Walter not only visited the palace daily, but wrote letters, none of which received an answer. At last the truth could no longer be hidden. Akbar, who had reigned over India fifty-one years, was stricken down with paralysis. In the words of the chronicler, “His Majesty, finding that his last moments had come, summoned all his Omerahs to his bedside. Wistfully regarding them, he asked forgiveness of any offense he might have been guilty towards any of them. Then he gave them a sign to invest his son, Jahangir, with his turban and robes, and to gird him with his favorite simitar. He entreated Jahangir to be kind to the ladies of the family, to discharge all his (Akbar’s) obligations, and never to neglect or forsake old friends and dependents. The grandees prostrated themselves before their dying lord and did him homage. The King repeated the confession of faith, closed his eyes, and died in all the forms of a pious Musalman.”

The worthy scribe no doubt intended his concluding sentence to dispel, once and for all, the rumor which found credence with many that Akbar had a decided leaning towards Christianity. However that may be, the tidings of his death sounded the knell of the adventurers’ hopes. Not only had they lost the fortune within their grasp, but they and their Surat partner were ruined.

Walter’s dream of gaining a competence and sailing speedily to England and Nellie Roe was shattered. In his despair he debated with Roger the advisability of quitting Agra secretly, and journeying towards Calcutta by river.

But Roger swore, with quaint oaths, that he would beard Jahangir in his palace and shame him before all his nobles if he did not fulfil Akbar’s behest. Matters were in this desperate plight when a royal messenger was announced.

Wondering greatly what new development fickle fate had in store they admitted the man. He salaamed with much ceremony and said:—

“My master, the Emperor Jahangir, second Sahib-i-QirÁn,[C] bids the illustrious strangers wait on him to-morrow after he appears at the jharoka (window) to receive the blessings of his subjects.”

Here was the unexpected happening in very truth. Had Kingship made Jahangir a King? Would he rise superior to petty considerations and treat them with justice? Who could tell? As Roger said:—

“We mun eat a good breakfast, buckle on our swords, and trust in Providence.”