Yet all knew it mattered not a jot what Jahangir said. The DiwÁn had given his consent, the Emperor his approval, and it was common knowledge that both were acting for the welfare of the state in putting an effectual stop to the infatuation of the heir apparent for a girl with whom a recognized alliance was impolitic if not impossible.

But Queen Mariam, all of a tremble by reason of her fear lest Jahangir’s madness should lead him to excess, ventured to utter a word of protest.

“My Lord,” she said, “this decision hath been taken suddenly.”

“Do you think so?” asked Akbar, pleasantly. His composure disconcerted her. Nevertheless, love for her eldest born and favorite son gave her strength.

“Yes,” she cried. “I would force no maid to wed where her heart is not set. It oft leads to evil.”

“Ah!” he answered, “you are becoming an old woman. Were I one also I might think like you.”

The kindly tone of his words deprived them of their sting. When he clenched an argument in such wise Akbar had a habit of stroking a large wart on the left side of his nose, a slight disfigurement which astrologers assured him was a most propitious sign. Gently rubbing the wart now he turned again towards Sher AfghÁn.

“Has delight rendered thee dumb?” he growled good humoredly.

“Not so, O King of Kings,” cried the young Persian. “Fearing that my ears betrayed me I was silent. When your Majesty speaks all tongues are stilled. I have but two possessions which I cherish, my sword and my honor. The one has always been and will ever be at your Majesty’s disposal; the other I fly to place at the feet of Nur Mahal.”

By this fearless utterance, Sher AfghÁn accepted the Emperor’s command and flung defiance to all others. Salaaming deeply, he withdrew. In the hush which had fallen on the assembly they heard him rush down the outer stairs, and, an instant later, the clatter of his Arab’s hoofs as he rode towards the gate showed that the wedding ceremony would not be delayed by any dilatoriness on the part of the bridegroom.

Akbar vanished. The DiwÁn, who had not taken any overt part in the scene, followed him, and the Sultana, without casting another glance at the brave array of merchandise, withdrew with her retinue.

Mowbray and Sainton were left gazing blankly at each other, but an official, knowing better than they the domestic trouble which was brewing in the royal household, advised them to repack their goods, as, in his opinion, the bazaar projected for the morrow would certainly be abandoned.

“I thought for sure yon sloe-eyed wench would bring us no luck,” muttered Roger when he heard Mowbray bidding their servants load up their mules again. “My mother always advised me to wed a homely wife if I wanted to be happy. Not that she was ill-looking herself, but I have heard her say that my father never had spirit enough to quarrel with anybody.”

“On my word, Roger,” laughed Walter, smothering his own annoyance at the turn taken by events, “you look as glum as Lot’s wife when she lost the use of her feet.”

“Who wouldn’t!” demanded Sainton. “We had the silver as good as in our breeches pockets, when some imp of mischief set the King to scratch his nose and talk about marriage.”

“All is not lost yet. I trust to your wit to make his Majesty realize to-morrow in what fashion he spoiled our market. At the worst, we retain our goods, and still can trade in the bazaar.”

Two journeys through the tortuous streets of the city, joined to the labor of unpacking and packing their bales at the palace, had occupied so much of the short November afternoon that the sun was setting with the rapidity peculiar to the tropics ere they reached the caravansary.

The smoke of many fires clung to the ground, spreading over the streets and open spaces a hazy pall some ten feet in height. Beneath, all was murky and dim; above, the tops of trees and the upper stories of houses were sharply silhouetted against the deep crimson-blue of the sky, whilst the stars were already twinkling in myriads overhead. This coverlet of smoke creeps nightly over every Indian town in the cold weather. It is disagreeable to the eyes and nose if not to the artistic senses, and the haze is ofttimes so dense during the hours before midnight that, in the crowded bazaar, the range of vision becomes lessened and even familiar objects cannot be recognized until they are close at hand.

The phenomenon was familiar enough to the two travelers not to excite their notice on this occasion save in one respect. It was essential that heed should be given to the fondness of native servants for appropriating articles which did not belong to them. Naught could be easier than for a pack animal to be slyly driven into a by-path, whence it would never return, whilst search for it and its valuable burden would be time wasted. So now, as on every other night when they chanced to be belated, Mowbray and Sainton kept a sharp eye on their train, and stood at the gate of the caravansary until each mule and bullock had filed within its portals.

They were engaged in this task when the chant of palki-bearers and the glare of torches lighting up the roadway apprised them that some person of importance was being carried toward Agra from the direction of Delhi and the north. The carriers were singing cheerfully, announcing in rhyme the close of a long march, and setting forth the joys of rice and ghi at the end of the day’s toil.

But the verse stopped suddenly, and the rapid shuffle of naked feet through the dust gave place to the objurgations of the torch-bearers addressed to the muleteers and bullock tenders of the Englishmen’s cortÈge. Native servants curse each other fluently on the slightest provocation, so a lively exchange of compliments affecting the paternity and ancestry of both parties instantly broke out. In reality, nothing could be done. The mules and bullocks, eager as their drivers to have finished with the day’s work, were crowding into the caravansary, and the palki, or litter, could not pass for a minute or so unless the bearers quitted the beaten track and made a dÉtour behind the mud hovels which faced the rest-house. Glad of a moment’s respite the coolies preferred to halt, and wag their tongues scandalously.

Walter, somewhat amused by the scene, did not interfere. There was only one palki, but the number of retainers and loaded ponies behind showed that the traveler was some one of consequence.

The occupant of the litter, evidently wondering what caused the commotion, drew apart the curtains on the side opposite to that on which Mowbray was standing, Sainton, urging on the rearmost of their train, being at some little distance.

A Pathan torch-bearer approached the palki, and, as luck would have it, Roger came to Mowbray at that moment to tell him that his count tallied with their reckoning.

Something said by the Pathan caused his employer to withdraw the second set of curtains. Hence, the light of the torch illumined the interior of the litter and revealed most clearly the identity of its tenant.

Walter would scarce have believed his eyes had not Roger muttered:—

“’Fore God, ’tis Dom Geronimo!”

“He and no other,” whispered Walter. “I knew there were Jesuits in Agra, but they are well spoken of, and I never dreamed that this wretch was numbered among them.”

“He knows us, too,” growled Sainton. “Why should we not requite him for the ill he would have done us. ‘Return good for evil,’ saith the maxim, and ’twill be a good deed to let some of the bad blood out of him.”

“No, no. It would ruin our cause with Akbar. Though he is our enemy, he is less able to work us harm in this heathen land than in our own country. Let him pass. I vow he takes us for malign spirits, come back to earth to vex him.”

Certainly the aspect of Dom Geronimo’s face as the palki moved on and his carriers resumed their song was that of a man who gazed at a threatening vision. Incredulity blended with fear at first, to be succeeded by a glance of utmost malevolence as his shocked senses resumed their sway. That he recognized the two friends was not to be doubted. Sainton’s gigantic stature alone marked him out from other men, and, at that season of the year, their garb did not differ materially from the clothes they wore when the Jesuit left them to their fate on board the Spanish vessel in the Thames.

He closed the curtains of his palki with an angry gesture, as though the sight of them was displeasing to him. Yet Dom Geronimo would have been a lucky man in that hour had he blotted them from his memory as well.

Nevertheless, his contemptuous action served to hide from him the fact that Roger reached out a long arm and detained a fellow who was hastening in the rear of the Jesuit’s retainers.

“Whence comes thy master?” he said gruffly.

“From Lahore, sahib,” was the stuttering reply, for the man was frightened by the size of his questioner.

“And whither is he bound?”

“To the court of the mighty Akbar, O protector of the poor.”

“Hath he been long in these parts?”

“I know not, huzoor. I am a poor man—”

“Treat him easily, Roger,” put in Walter. “See now, brother, here is a rupee for thee. How is thy master known?”

“He is called the Fire-Father,” answered the native, reassured by the sight of the money and the relaxation of Roger’s grip. “They say he earned the name from the Emperor himself, because once, when a moullah disputed with him, the black-robed one challenged the moullah to enter with him into a raging fire. The one would carry the Koran and the other a Book by which he sets great store. Then, he said, it would readily be seen whether Mahomet or He whom he calls Christ were the more powerful. But the moullah hung back, and the Emperor laughed, I have been told.”

“Aye,” said Roger in English, “he has faith enough and to spare, I warrant ye. Anyone who believes that Spain can win her way in England will believe owt. And as for fire, God wot, he hath the stomach of a salamander for it. Now, had I been the moullah, I would have bid him go first into the flames, when, an he survived the ordeal, Mahmoud should be scouted as a rank impostor.”

They could obtain little further information from the servant so they bade him hasten after his master, and, to still his tongue, Walter gave him another silver coin.

Though the presence of Dom Geronimo in Agra was an omen of bad fortune, they agreed, in converse over a meal of which they were much in need, that his animosity would be exerted in vain if they maintained the good relations already established with the Emperor. Akbar was renowned for his religious tolerance. The tale told by the native was one of many which revealed this generous trait in a ruler deservedly entitled “the Great.” The Jesuits, coming to India in the wake of the Portuguese, were already well established in Agra, where they were then building a splendid church. They and the Capuchins, composed, for the most part, of learned and truly pious men, not only commanded respect by their discretion and Christian meekness, but won the admiration of the educated classes by their scientific knowledge. It was probable that the religious zeal of a fanatic like Dom Geronimo would be restrained by his wiser brethren. His intemperate language had earned him a typical soubriquet, which stood out in curious contrast to the charity of the doctrines preached by eminent missionaries like Father Joseph d’Acosta, a Portuguese, and Father Henri BusÉe, a Fleming.

“I have heard,” said Mowbray, expounding some such theory to Roger, “that the Emperor once became impatient at the reproaches of the moullahs, who were ever denying him the use of certain meats and wines. ‘If these things are forbidden by the Koran,’ said he, ‘according to what religion can a man eat and drink as he likes?’ ‘That is the teaching of the Christians alone,’ said they. ‘Then let us all turn Christians,’ said Akbar. ‘Let tailors convert our loose garments into closer fitting coats, and fashion our turbans into hats.’ He frightened them, and they all declared that, however it might be for common men, the Koran did not affect the sovereign.”

“Be that as it may,” said Sainton, “and the tale is not unlike some in vogue about our own Jamie, I am a believer in portents. Here we are in Agra, and not a whole day before we run up against a girl and a black robe. In London—”

“You will anger me, Roger,” cried Walter in sudden heat, “if you speak thus of Nellie Roe and Nur Mahal in the same breath.”

“Ecod, you flare up in the twinkling of a quart pot, the sheer name of which gives me a thirst. What the devil! has it not a queer semblance to magic, to say the least?”

Mowbray grudgingly admitted so much, but their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger who, on behalf of Sher AfghÁn, apologized very handsomely for his master’s apparent rudeness in leaving them so hastily at the palace, and invited them to the wedding ceremony that night at the residence of the DiwÁn.

“Here is a spark in a hurry to light a bonfire,” cried Roger when he disentangled the request from a maze of compliments.

“’Twas the Emperor’s command,” said Mowbray, dubiously. “I suppose we must go. He befriended us greatly, though I hold it the wiser thing to send a civil excuse.”

He rose to bid their servants prepare their best attire, and Roger eyed him with a smile.

“Aye, aye,” he murmured to himself. “Everything goes the same old gait, as the man said when he tried a second wife. Here we are, off to the feasting. Thank the Lord! if there be fighting to follow I shall not be snared this time like an owl in daylight.”

Indeed, the first visible indications of any unusual event in progress, when they crossed the bridge of boats before gaining the pavilion in the Garden of Heart’s Delight, savored far more of a campaign than of a wedding. There were guards there, mounted and on foot, who challenged all comers. The Englishmen had taken the precaution to detain Sher AfghÁn’s messenger, and he was useful now in preserving them from questioning and delay. Clearly, the Persian warrior obeyed his master’s behests to the letter. He not only knew the importance of speedy fulfilment of an order, but he did not disdain to use all requisite means to carry it out.

Outside the gates stood a troop of horse, the stalwart sowars being either Rajputs or Punjabi Mahomedans, as both of these warrior races found favor at the court of Akbar. The transient gleams of flitting lanterns fell on their accouterments, and revealed the presence of several litters, destined, the young men thought, for the comfortable conveyance of Nur Mahal and her attendant women to the bridegroom’s far-off domain at BurdwÁn.

Within the peaceful garden a different spectacle presented itself. The DiwÁn’s vast household had used every effort to make a brave display notwithstanding the short notice given. A myriad little lamps festooned the trees or bordered the ornamental waters and flower-beds, whilst the main avenue from the gate to the house was brightened by Chinese lanterns and carpeted with rose leaves.

The guests were conducted, by a new way, to yet another portion of the magnificent garden, and here they were suddenly introduced to a spectacle which held them spellbound for a little while.

In the midst of a green plot was an artificial lake, square, and protected by a small and beautifully carved white marble balustrade. From each side ran a causeway to a circular island in the center, its surface almost wholly occupied by an exquisite marble baraduri, or summer-house. The delicate fantasy of the structure might have been designed by some Florentine artist. Inlaid with jasper, carnelian and agate, it rose with superb grace from the setting of the dreamy lake, whilst the causeways of dark red sandstone enhanced its pearl-like sheen in the rays of the innumerable rows of tiny oil lamps which ran along every cornice and bedecked each tier of the plinth.

Fountains played in the lake itself, and the shimmering waters reflected now the starry gleams of the lights, and again the solemn shadows of a row of tall cypress trees, standing in stately order in the background and silhouetted against the unimaginable blue of an Eastern sky by night.

In the baraduri a band of native musicians were squatted on a rich carpet. They made a deafening row with sitar and daf-thakri, murchang and mirdang, instruments with sounds as barbarous as their names, but capable, perhaps, of soul-stirring music to ears tuned to their torture. Near them, covered with heavy cloaks, sat a bevy of nautch-girls, who, when the married pair had set forth on their first march, would be summoned to the warmer rooms inside the mansion, to dance there and sing their love songs until dawn.

Between the lake and the house stood a mighty elephant, eleven feet high at least. His enormous proportions were magnified by a great silver howdah with roof and curtains, and by the long trappings of scarlet cloth, embroidered with gold thread, which swept down his massive flanks nearly to the ground.

That this fine brute was to provide the triumphal car for Sher AfghÁn and his wife was evident, when, in a covered court beyond, Mowbray and Sainton saw the DiwÁn and Sher AfghÁn entertaining a number of native gentlemen. Active servants, clad solely in white, threw garlands of jasmine round the neck of each guest or offered golden salvers of pan supari, the savory betel leaf so dear to Eastern taste. There was expectancy in the air. The bride would soon come forth and pass forever from the enchanted garden.

Itimad-ud-Daula received them with grave courtesy, and Sher AfghÁn, who seemed in no wise disturbed by the known fact that Nur Mahal hated the sight of him, made his English friends welcome.

“I have met few of your nation,” he said to Mowbray, “but my heart has never gone out to a stranger as to you and your brother. You shall not suffer because I leave Agra. I have spoken to the DiwÁn concerning your affairs. Rest content for a little while. When matters are settled over there—” and he nodded scornfully towards the palace—“he will bring you forward again. You may be obliged to wait a month or two for your money. The DiwÁn will advise you of this, and you may trust him. If it be so, come to me at BurdwÁn, and I shall show you how to kill a tiger.”

“How little can a man see into the future,” confided Walter to Sainton when the Persian was called away. “You will perceive, Roger, that we should have missed a good deal had we not come hither to-night.”

“He talks of the killing of tigers, but I vow he will first have the taming of one,” said Roger. “Here comes the bride. Saw you ever such a spitfire? Soul of my body, I’d liefer charge a row of spears than climb into yon silver turret by her side. Yet Sher AfghÁn is a proper man, a finer fellow by half than the spleenish Jahangir!”

“Perchance she cares little for either, but would sell her happiness for a diadem.”

“She looks a quean of that sort. I ken nowt of love, such as folk make songs about, but my mother always tellt me never to wed a lass for a dowry. She said it bred a heap of mischief and few fine bairns.”

Walter laughed, discreetly enough, but, at that instant, Nur Mahal, who had imperiously flung aside her veil and was preparing to mount into the howdah on the kneeling elephant, looked straight at him.

Her face was deathly pale, and her lustrous eyes shone with a strange light. Pain struggled with anger in her glance. She was defiant yet humiliated, and she shrank from the proffered hand of her husband as though his touch would defile her. When her gaze fell on Mowbray she singled him out for a specially scornful arching of her eyebrows and contemptuous drooping of her beautiful lips. Considering that he had seen her that day for the first time, and had scarce exchanged a dozen words with her, he was taken aback by her evident disdain.

Somehow, though no word was spoken, those wonderful eyes said to him:—

“You, too, have come to witness my degradation—you, in whom I thought I had found a new lover.”

For some reason, unknown even to himself, he bowed sorrowfully. When he lifted his head again, Sher AfghÁn was seated beside his unwilling spouse, a gorgeously-clad mahout was prodding the elephant’s head with a steel ankus, and the stately animal was marching off into the shadow of the cypresses, his path being marked by two winding rows of lanterns.

Feeling themselves slightly out of place among the nawabs, omrahs, and other grandees who formed the DiwÁn’s guests, the Englishmen soon took their leave. Their servants, thinking the sahibs would sit long at the feast, had gone off to revel with the rest of their kind, and there was a wearisome delay whilst one guard after another was despatched to search for them, the truth being that each chuprassi seized the opportunity himself to indulge in libation and eat the sweetmeats provided with lavish hand for the household, before he fulfilled his quest.

The wedding cortÈge had gone, the night was dark and cold, and the patience of the belated pair was fast ebbing, when a hubbub of shouting and firing, mixed with the screams of women and the neighing of horses at some distance, rudely disturbed the brooding silence.

“Gad!” roared Sainton, “I thought there would be a fight.”

“The Prince has attacked the escort. He means to slay Sher AfghÁn and carry off the girl. What can we do?” cried Walter.

“Bide where we are. Here comes news if I be not mistaken.”

Indeed, the loud trumpeting of an elephant, and the shaking of the earth under his mighty rush, showed that not only had the Persian’s force been overcome but he was in full retreat. The excited servants of the DiwÁn—those who were left at the entrance—barred the gate and left the Englishmen standing outside. But there was a lamp there, and the row of little lights on top of the wall lit up the roadway sufficiently to reveal the approach of the elephant. He came with the speed of a galloping horse, his trappings flying in wild disorder and his trunk uplifted in terror. Behind him raced a mob of armed men, but, on his left side, managing a fine Arab with consummate skill, and cutting and thrusting madly at Sher AfghÁn, rode Prince Jahangir. The Persian, leaning well out of the howdah, was endeavoring with equal fury to kill or maim his royal rival, but the swaying strides of the elephant, and the difference in height between the huge brute and the horse, made it difficult if not impossible for either combatant to injure the other.

Yet Sher AfghÁn’s face was bleeding, and Jahangir’s clothes were torn. Evidently there had been a sharp tussle ere the mahout turned his obedient monster towards the DiwÁn’s residence.

Behind Sher AfghÁn, Mowbray saw the white, distraught face of Nur Mahal. He fancied, though the whole incident was fleeting as a dream, that she held a dagger in her right hand, but his attention was distracted by Roger shouting:—

“I can see nowt for it but to cleave Jahangir in two as he passes.”

And cloven the Prince assuredly would have been, for Sainton had drawn his long, straight sword, had not the mahout suddenly wheeled the elephant against the gate, upsetting the snorting Arab by the maneuver. Jahangir was thrown, almost at Mowbray’s feet. The elephant charged the massive doors head downwards, and they were torn from their hinges as if they were paper screens. The arch collapsed, there was a crash of falling masonry and rent wood-work, and the great brute himself, stunned by the shock, fell to his knees.

And that was the manner in which Nur Mahal, on her wedding night, came back to the Garden of Heart’s Delight.