Louis Tracy

“She’s beautiful, and therefore to be woo’d;
She’s a woman, therefore to be won.”
Shakespeare, “King Henry VI,” Part I.

Nur Mahal was a Persian, not a native of India. In her wondrous face the Occident blended with the Orient. Its contour, its creamy smoothness, the high forehead and delicately firm chin were of the West, and the East gave her those neatly coiled tresses of raven hue, those deeply pencilled eyebrows, beneath whose curved arches flashed, like twin stars, her marvelous eyes.

Her supple body was robed in a sari of soft, deep yellow silk, bordered with a device of fine needlework studded with gems. It draped her closely, in flowing lines, from waist to feet, and a fold was carried over her right shoulder to be held gracefully scarfwise in one hand. An exquisite plum colored silk vest, encrusted with gold embroidery, covered her finely molded bust, revealing yet modestly shielding each line and flexure of a form which might have served Pygmalion as the model of Galatea.

On her forehead sparkled a splendid jewel, an emerald surrounded by diamonds set en Étoile. Around her swanlike throat was clasped a necklace of uncut emeralds, strung, at intervals, between rows of seed pearls. She wore no other ornament. Her tiny feet were encased in white silk slippers, and, an unusual sight in the East, their open bands revealed woven stockings of the same material.

But the daughter of the Persian refugee who had risen to such high place in Akbar’s court was bound neither by convention nor fashion. She fearlessly unveiled when she thought fit, and she taught the ladies of Agra to wear not only the bodice and the inner skirt but also a species of corset, whilst to her genius was due the wonderful perfume known as attar of roses.

Again, although more than twenty years of age at that time, she was unmarried, an amazing thing in itself when the social customs of Hindustan were taken into account.

Suddenly brought face to face with such a divinity, it was no small credit to Walter Mowbray that he kept his wits sufficiently to turn her laughing comment to advantage.

The Sultana was graciously pleased to smile.

“If your wares comport with your manners,” she said, “you will be welcome at the palace. We hold a bazaar there to-morrow, and novelties in merchandise are always acceptable on such occasions. Sher AfghÁn,” she continued, “see that the strangers are properly admitted to the Hall of Private Audience at the first hour appointed for those who bring articles for sale.”

The young nobleman bowed, as did Mowbray and Sainton, though the latter knew but little of the high-flown Persian in which the Sultana spoke.

Nur Mahal, who appeared to be on terms of great familiarity with her august visitor, whispered something to Queen Mariam which made the good lady laugh. Obviously, the comment had reference to Roger, and that worthy blushed, for a woman’s eyes could pierce his tough hide readily, there being no weapon to equal them known to mankind.

“She’s a bonny lass, yon,” he murmured to Walter, “and she has uncommonly high spirits. I never kent afore why a man should make a fool of himself for a woman, but now that I have seen one who is half an angel I am beginning to have a dim notion of the madness which seizes some folk.”

“There are others, but why only half an angel?” asked Mowbray with a smile, for the Queen had turned to address the DiwÁn.

“Because that is all we have seen. The hidden half is the devil in her. Mark me, Walter, there will be heads cracked in plenty before that fancy wench stops plaguing mankind.”

Courtesy was urging Sher AfghÁn to give some directions to the wanderers he had so greatly befriended, but inclination, always a willing steed, dragged him to the side of Nur Mahal.

“I came to ask what you needed most for the bazaar,” he said anxiously.

“Naught that you can bestow,” was the curt reply.

“Sweet one, your words chill my heart. ’Tis but a week since your father—”

She stamped a foot imperiously and clenched her hands.

“I am not one of those to be dealt with as others choose,” she cried, though modulating her voice lest it should reach the Queen’s ears. “Why do you pester me? Your tall sheepskin cap affrights me. Take it and your ungainly presence to far-off BurdwÁn. I mean to abide in Agra.”

He bent low before her.

“A blow from the hand of my beloved is sweet as a grape from the hand of another,” he said, conscious, perhaps, of the manifest injustice of the attack on his personal appearance. Physically, he was a worthy mate even for such a goddess, and he had already won great renown in India by his prowess in the field and his skill in all manly exercises.

“Gladly would I bestow on you a whole bunch of such grapes,” she said, turning to follow the Sultana and her father. But a laughing shout from the interior of the house caused all eyes to seek its explanation.

“Well met, mother! Have you come, like me, to wring another lakh out of the DiwÁn?”

A young man, tall and well built and of pleasing aspect, notable for his broad chest and long arms, and attired in sumptuous garments, entered the garden. His words would have revealed his identity to Walter and Sainton had they not met him, two years earlier, at Surat. This was Prince Jahangir, the heir apparent.

His complexion was a ruddy nut brown, his eyes, if somewhat closely set, were strangely keen and piercing, and it was a peculiar and noticeable fact that he wore small gold earrings, in token of bondage to the great saint Sheikh Salem, to whose intercession, it was said, he owed his birth.

Jahangir did not trouble to conceal his emotions. His joyous glance, evoked more by the sight of Nur Mahal, it is to be feared, than by the unexpected presence of the Sultana, changed instantly to a scowl when he saw Sher AfghÁn. Moreover, he discovered the presence of the Englishmen, and he affected a tone of surprised displeasure.

“How now, DiwÁn!” he demanded. “Do you admit strangers to the privacy of your zenana?”

“These are merchants from Ahmedabad. The Queen has commanded them to show their wares at the palace,” was the courteous reply of the aged Prime Minister.

Jahangir smiled contemptuously. The foreigners in no wise disturbed him. He knew quite well that his insult had reached the one man for whom it was intended. Sher AfghÁn’s pale face grew dark with anger.

“Oh, it is matterless,” said the Prince, flippantly, and he addressed Nur Mahal with a ready smile that utterly banished the anger from his expressive features.

“Fair lady,” he said, “I have brought you a present. I know your fondness for all that is rare and beautiful. See if my gift will earn your approval.”

He clapped his hands, and a servant came, carrying a small gilded perch to which clung two snow-white pigeons, each fastened to the crossbar by a short silver chain.

Nur Mahal uttered a cry of pleasure. She ran to meet the man with arms outstretched.

“They are quite tame,” said the gratified Prince. “After a little while they will come at your call and perch on your wrist.”

She took the birds and caressed them softly. Suddenly, yielding to impulse, she unfastened a chain, and the pigeon, finding itself at liberty, darted up into the air and flew around in rapid circles, crying loudly to its mate the while.

“How did that happen?” demanded Jahangir.

“Thus,” she answered, freeing the second bird.

“But they are unused to the garden as yet. You have lost them.”

“Sooner that than take away their freedom. My heart weeps for all who are destined to captivity.”

“Then you weep for me, as I am truly your captive.”

“Ah, my bondage would be pleasant, and, like the birds, you could fly away when you chose.”

At that instant one of the pigeons dropped with angelic flutterings, and poised itself on the perch which the girl still held.

The other, timidly daring, followed its mate’s example, but settled on the same side.

“See!” cried Jahangir excitedly. “The choice is made. They come back to their fetters!”

“Your Highness will observe that there are two to dispute the vacant place,” interposed Sher AfghÁn.

The icy distinctness of his words showed that the significance of the little comedy played by Nur Mahal had not escaped him. The girl pouted. Jahangir wheeled about fiercely. A quarrel was imminent, but Queen Mariam stopped it.

“Sher AfghÁn,” she said, “you, who are a soldier, should not take much interest in this idle playing with doves. As I return soon to the palace, go with the strangers and let them exhibit their wares there after the midday meal. That will better suit my convenience than the customary hour to-morrow.”

Bowing silently, the Persian motioned to Mowbray and Sainton to follow him. He spoke no word, but a tumult raged within, and, at the gate, when a servant was slow in opening it, he felled the man with a blow. Instantly regretting the deed he gave the fellow a gold mohur, but his face was tense and his eyes blazed as he mounted his horse and rode silently with the two Englishmen through the midst of the gay retinue which had escorted Prince Jahangir from the palace. Guessing with fair accuracy the hidden meaning of the scene just enacted, Mowbray did not intrude on the sorrowful thoughts of his Persian friend.

“We are in luck’s way, Roger,” he said quietly. “We have escaped the DiwÁn and won the door of the Queen’s apartments. If the good lady be as ready to pay as she is to buy, this bazaar to-morrow should ease us of all our goods.”

“In which event we shall turn our faces westward?” asked Sainton.

“Assuredly. We must settle with Edwards, else I would take the river to Calcutta.”

“Ecod! From the manner in which you gazed at that hoity-toity lass in yellow silk I thought you were minded to dally in Agra.”

For some subtle reason the remark nettled Mowbray.

“We have already met two who are willing to come to blows about her,” said he, tartly, “but I fail to see why you should hold me capable of the folly of making a third.”

“Nay, nay,” said Sainton, with irritating composure. “I credit thee with wisdom beyond thy years, but if Solomon, who had three thousand wives, could go daft about yet an extra woman, there is small cause why thou, who hast no wife at all, shouldst not be bitten by the craze. I warrant you Prince Jahangir hath a bevy of beauties in his private abode, and this chuck who hangs his head so dolefully may have half a score or more waiting his beck and nod at home, yet they both are keen to fall to with sword and dagger to dispute the possession of the quean we have just quitted. ‘Garden of Heart’s Delight,’ i’ faith! The flower they all seek there is of a kind that stings in the plucking.”

Mowbray, conscious that the dethronement of Nellie Roe in his mind was but momentary, regained his normal good humor.

“You are in a mood for preaching this morning,” he cried. “Now, had your tongue run so smoothly when the Sultana was present, you might have won her favor, as all the women have an eye for you, Roger.”

“A murrain on the barbarous words that trip my speech! I could talk to her Majesty in honest Yorkshire, and I can make some headway in the language of the common folk hereabout, but when it comes to your pretty poesy of Shiraz I am perforce dumb as a Whitby mussel.”

Here, Sher AfghÁn, rousing himself from a mournful reverie, began to hum a verse of a well-known Persian love song:—

They were crossing the bridge of boats at the moment, and the singer, more occupied with his thoughts than with external events, did not notice that a laden camel, advancing down the center of the swaying roadway, gave the party little enough room to pass on one side.

Walter drew his attention to the fact. The Persian, disdainful of the lower orders as were all of his class, spurred his mettlesome Arab forward, caught the lounging unt by the halter and imperiously swung the beast to one side.

A shriek rang out wildly from behind the camel, whose load of firewood had struck a native woman walking on the side of the bridge. She staggered and fell. The infant she carried was jerked out of her arms into the river.

Walter, who saw what had happened, sprang from his horse, jumped into the water, which was deep enough at that point to drown a man, and caught the little naked child as it rose, struggling and gasping for breath. With a vigorous stroke or two he reached the side of the nearest pontoon. Roger leaned over, seized the collar of his friend’s jacket, and lifted him and the baby back to the firmer footing of the bridge.

The distraught mother flung herself at Mowbray’s feet and wound her arms around his ankles, thereby embarrassing him greatly, as he was soaked from head to foot, and the dense crowd which gathered with extraordinary speed threatened to block the bridge for an hour.

Sher AfghÁn, who was divided between wonder that a man should take so much trouble to rescue a wretched infant and amazement at Roger’s feat of strength, for Sainton had lifted Walter clean over the rails of the bridge with one hand, now awoke to actualities.

He beat a path through the gaping mob, extricated Mowbray from the extravagant gratitude of the Hindu woman, and quickly led the two Englishmen to the open road beyond the river.

“Did you not know that the Jumna swarms with crocodiles?” he asked, when they were all mounted again, and riding onward at a sharp pace.

“Yes,” said Walter.

“Then, by the tomb of the Prophet, you did that which I would not have done for the sake of any brat in Agra.”

“I gave no thought to it, or perchance I should have hesitated,” was the modest reply.

The incident served one good purpose. It effectually banished Sher AfghÁn’s love vapors, and he exerted himself so well in behalf of his new acquaintances that they and their packs (Walter having donned dry clothing) were admitted to the palace at the appointed hour, and marshaled past countless officials who would otherwise have barred their path.

The great fortress, in the center of which lay the royal apartments, was a city in itself. Its frowning walls of dark red sandstone, sixty feet in height and defended by many a tower and machicolated battlement, surrounded a low hill. This was crowned by the famous Moti Musjid, or Pearl Mosque, an edifice as celebrated to-day for its perfect architectural proportions and refined taste in embellishment as it was when the Great Mogul, during his daily orisons, occupied the small floor slab nearest to the northwest, and, behind him, six hundred and forty-nine nobles bent in devout homage towards Mecca.

The Hall of Public Audience, a splendid structure, was separated from the mosque by a large garden. Near this rallying ground for all having business with the court stood the smaller but even more impressive Hall of Private Audience, to which there was direct access from the Emperor’s personal apartments. The Zenana, marked by its exquisite Jasmine Tower, containing the Sultana’s boudoir and giving a far-spread view across the Jumna, lay beyond.

These buildings, and many another, constructed almost exclusively of white marble and decorated with scrollwork festoons of flowers wrought wholly in precious stones, shone in the rays of the afternoon sun as the Englishmen passed through the somber depths of the great City Gate and entered the open space surrounding the palace.

That they were the cynosure of many eyes goes without saying. But here, curiosity was restrained. The grave courtesy of an Eastern court was blended with the iron discipline enforced by a powerful ruler like Akbar.

“The King’s order!” said Sher AfghÁn, and before the King’s order every head bent.

Thus, avoiding the crowd which thronged the path leading to the spacious Hall of Public Audience, where the Emperor in person was then dispensing justice with that even-handed promptitude which won him the respect of all his subjects irrespective of class or creed, Sher AfghÁn led them to a secluded stairway.

Certain formalities needed fulfilment before the strangers or their goods were allowed to ascend. Guards with drawn swords stood there, and even Sher AfghÁn himself was compelled to satisfy the high-pitched questions of a gorgeously robed eunuch ere sanction was given to advance.

Mowbray and Sainton, eager to witness the successful end of their twelve hundred miles’ journey, were more concerned, doubtless, to display their silks and spices, their rich store of Arabian and Persian goods, than to note the marvels in sculptured stone with which they were encircled. A mosaic pavement worth a monarch’s ransom was to them only a fine space for opening out bales of cloth cunningly bedizened with gold thread, whilst a balcony of carved marble served excellently as a counter.

At last, when all was ready, a messenger was despatched to the Sultana. Queen Mariam came promptly, and with her were many ladies of the court. They were all veiled, as was the strict rule when the Emperor was near at hand, but among them Sher AfghÁn, and perhaps Mowbray, looked in vain for the sylph-like form of Nur Mahal.

The scrutiny commenced at once. “Shopping” was as dear to the heart of those Eastern dames as to their sisters of other climes and modern days. The babble of tongues waxed eloquent, and the two traders, comparatively new as they were to the occupation, saw with gratification that the Sultana was as loud in her appreciation of the novelties spread before her eyes as was the youngest lady in her train.

All was going well; Queen Mariam had asked the value of the whole consignment, and Mowbray, with some trepidation, had added half a lakh to the lakh of rupees with which he would be well content—expecting, indeed, to obtain no more than the latter sum at the close of the bargaining—when a sudden hush, a drawing together of the women, a protest suspended in its utterance by the Sultana herself, announced that the elderly man dressed solely in white muslin, who entered the hall from a raised veranda at the further end, could be none other than the Emperor.

His appearance was at once engaging and dignified. Not so tall as his eldest son, he was even broader in build. Possessed of prodigious muscular strength, due to the great breadth of his chest and his long, sinewy arms and hands, Akbar looked a ruler of men both in physical and intellectual properties. His eyes were full and penetrating, with eyebrows that met in a straight line over his well shaped nose. His face, a ruddy brown in color, was firm yet kindly in expression. His forehead was high and open, and in the front folds of his white turban lay a single large ruby in which the sun kindled a fiery glare.

He surveyed the scene in silence for a moment. Then, as his glance dwelt on Sainton, a somewhat prepossessed smile gave place to a look of genuine surprise. He turned and uttered some comment to one behind, and, as he strode forward, they saw that he was accompanied by the Prime Minister, Itimad-ud-Daula.

Every man present, save the armed guards and the two Englishmen, dropped to his knees and bent his forehead to the ground, but Mowbray and Roger, not accustomed to genuflection, contented themselves with bowing deeply.

The Emperor was in no wise offended. He smiled again, showing his teeth plainly.

“They told me you were a big man,” he said to Sainton, “but are you a strong one? Big men are oft like long-backed horses—they bend when the strain comes.”

Luckily, Roger understood him, and, though his Hindustani was rude, be sure it never lacked point.

“I do not think,” he said, “that my back is too long for my height, your Majesty. Be that as it may, they tell me there is no better judge of strength, whether of man or horse, than your Majesty in all India.”

“By the shade of Nizam-ud-din, this giant is no fool!” cried Akbar, whose voice, though loud, was very pleasant. “Were I younger I would test thee, Elephant, but that day is past. Tell me, couldst thou shear two tigers’ heads with a single stroke?”

“Yes, if your Majesty first tied both heads together.”

“Allah, here is a spark after my own heart! What is thy name?”

“Roger Sainton, may it please your Majesty.”

“Raja Sainton! If you be of noble rank why do you come hither in the guise of a trader?”

Sainton was puzzled, as Akbar’s elegant diction rendered the mistake difficult to understand, so Mowbray, in a few well-chosen words, set things right.

The Emperor gave a quick glance at Walter, and seemed instantly to appreciate the relation between the two. But he addressed himself again to Roger:—

“You have traveled far, and are welcome. To-day I am busy, or I would discourse with you further. Be here to-morrow, two hours before sunset, and we shall give each other entertainment. Meanwhile, what can I do for you and your friend?”

Sainton, filled with the sense of camaraderie which makes men of kindred sympathies quickly known to each other, realized that Akbar would not resent a little familiarity.

“Sir,” he said, “if you buy our goods and give us good cheer we shall do that which those in your court ought to do every day, but fail therein most scandalously, I fear.”

“And what is that?”

“We shall pray to God for your health and happiness.”

Akbar grasped him by the shoulder.

“List, all of you,” he shouted. “Here is our Elephant showing his wisdom. By the Prophet’s beard, I regret, for once, that there is peace in our dominions, else you and I, Elephant, should go to the war ere ever you sailed away to your distant land. But we shall find sport, or my wit fails. You, sir,” he went on, speaking to Mowbray, “shall tell us something of the ways of your country when the Elephant and I have wearied ourselves. Meanwhile, the Sultana will buy your wares at your own rates. I judge as much by the cackle of women’s voices I heard as I came hither.”

By way of a joke he gave Sainton’s shoulder a farewell squeeze that would have dislocated many a man’s bones. Roger, pretending he had not felt it, stooped and picked up a small brass jar which he grasped around its narrow neck.

“Let me give your Majesty a reminder of to-morrow’s meeting,” he said.

The Emperor, seeing more in the words than their mere purport, took the jar. Roger had bent the brass cylinder into a double fold.

“Thanks, friend,” he said, quietly. “’Tis well it was not my neck which received that grip, else there would be a new ruler in India. And, by the Koran!” he added under his breath, “I am minded now of another matter.”

He looked around until he caught sight of Sher AfghÁn, standing somewhat apart from the listening crowd.

“My young friend,” cried he, “I have been discussing you with my trusted DiwÁn. He agrees with me that you should provide his beautiful daughter with a careful husband. Marry her forthwith! To-night, if you be so minded! And lest anyone should dispute the prize with you take a troop of horse to escort you to BurdwÁn.”

Bombs were hardly known in India at that period, but the explosion of a live shell in the midst of the company would have created a sensation little more profound than Akbar’s words. Nur Mahal, that fiery beauty, to be wed forthwith to Sher AfghÁn! What would Prince Jahangir say?