Perchance they had dared the certain death which faced them had not Fateh Mohammed spoken again. Vain as he was, and furious at the thought that a Feringhi should have lorded it over him for days, he was held in leash by the written orders of the Emperor, which, this time, he had really received and read with bulging eyes.

“I am bidden,” he said, “bring you to Agra, alive if possible. Hence, though clemency ill accords with my present mood, I offer you terms. Suffer my men to bind you securely—for none would be such a fool as to trust that Man-Elephant at large—and I will have you carried in litters. Refusal means instant death to both.”

“Hast thou suddenly gone mad, Fateh Mohammed?” demanded Mowbray, thinking, by a display of boldness, to save the situation even at the twelfth hour.

“Aye, mad, indeed, to accept the word of the King of Kings from the mouth of an unbeliever! Oh, thou Feringhi dog, open thy lips again in defiance and I will make thee a sieve for bullets!”

Walter knew that the bubble of his pretense was pricked. Some bolt had fallen from a blue sky, else this subservient rogue would never venture to bluster in such wise if he feared reprisals. Nevertheless, the contempt inspired by the groundling served the Englishman in good stead at a critical moment.

“Thou shalt be most bitterly enlightened ere many days have passed,” he said. “Sainton-sahib and I can do naught at present but yield to your demands, yet I warn thee, Fateh Mohammed, that for each second of ill-treatment meted out to us or to the unhappy people brought from Hughli thou shalt be requited by an hour of torture on thy unwieldy carcass.”

Here was defiance, truly, from one whose capture, living or dead, Jahangir’s couriers, riding hot-foot in pursuit, had demanded an hour earlier when they came at dawn to Fateh Mohammed’s tent. These men carried no tidings save the Emperor’s warrant for their action. They knew, they said, that Sher AfghÁn was slain—it was even rumored that the companion of the Hathi-sahib was concerned in the deed—and that his widow had gone towards BurdwÁn with the two Feringhis. As for the statement that Jahangir had charged these latter with a mission, it was manifestly absurd in view of his eagerness to secure their arrest, while it was impossible that anyone so far south could be aware of Nur Mahal’s fortunes at Agra, seeing that they, the messengers, had passed her returning escort privily by night, being urged thereto by the Chief Eunuch, who accompanied her. Indeed, the Eunuch, Ibrahim, was responsible for the Emperor’s action, having sent a private report to Jahangir, by carrier pigeon it was thought.

It was on their advice that Fateh Mohammed had adopted irresistible safeguards ere he summoned the Englishmen to surrender. The bazaar gossip of Agra had invested Roger Sainton with a legendary halo which would daunt the bravest heart. No half measures could be taken with the Hathi-sahib, said the King’s chuprassis: he must either be killed or bound as one would tie a wild bull.

Now, it was distasteful, above all things, for men who had been treated with the utmost deference during many days to permit themselves to be led forth in fetters. The bare thought of such ignominy sent the blood bounding through Mowbray’s veins and caused an ominous frown to deepen in Sainton’s face. The big Yorkshireman stood close to the tent-pole; had Walter deferred further speech for another tick of a clock, the tent had been torn from its supports and Roger had either fallen or knocked down a dozen of the waiting musketeers. But he heard his friend say quietly:—

“Hearken to me, Fateh Mohammed. If one of us, speaking in haste, has used injurious words, let them be forgotten. You have your orders—assuredly they must be obeyed. Sainton-sahib and I are already disarmed. You probably disarmed our escort ere you came to us. We, on our part, pledge ourselves to go with you to the fort at Agra. Under no circumstances shall we seek to escape, and we will counsel all others who may be guided by our admonitions to give the same gage. If you are the wise and far-seeing man I take you to be you will content yourself with this promise, and treat us and the remainder of the Europeans with due courtesy. What say you? Shall the Emperor upbraid you for faithfully carrying out your charge, or do you care to risk the unknown dangers of flaunting the wishes of one who, for anything you or I know to the contrary, may now be Sultana?”

Fateh Mohammed, though naturally distrustful of the honeyed poison of Mowbray’s counsel, felt in his heart of hearts that the Giaour was not only giving him good advice but making a fair offer. Yet, like a cur which cowers and snarls when a determined hand would stroke it, he said sullenly:—

“How am I to place trust in you? You told me—”

“I told you what I truly believed, and still believe, to be the Emperor’s intent,” interrupted Walter, who saw that the fat man was weakened by the bare hint of palace intrigue. “Look back through my words and you will find no single phrase in which I actually represented myself as charged with a mission by Jahangir himself. Nay, be not so amazed. It is true. You may have been misled, I admit, but it was a most fortunate mistake for you. Did I not meet you almost alone? Have we not marched with you daily and slept nightly on the same camping-ground? If Sainton-sahib and I wished to betray you, have we not passed a hundred opportunities?”

Fateh Mohammed was manifestly uneasy. The affair was not so simple as he deemed it. Moreover, by placing a degree of faith in Mowbray, he applied salve to his own wounded vanity. In simple parlance, if he managed things aright now, he would not look such a dupe in the eyes of others as he was in his own estimation.

“Never was man more perplexed,” he murmured. “You may be honest! How can I tell? Certainly, the King of Kings does not say you are to be treated with contumely, yet, what security have I that you will act according to your promises?”

Mowbray resolved to risk all on a final hazard. He turned to Roger.

“Give me the cedar box,” he said.

The big man reached for his hat. Cunningly tied inside the lofty crown was the gift of Nur Mahal.

“I am a heavy sleeper,” he grinned in explanation, “and I thought none would search there though they might scour my clothes. When waking, I reckoned to hold the gew-gaws whilst my brains were undisturbed, so I kept them under the same thatch.”

“Here!” cried Mowbray, opening the box and handing it to Fateh Mohammed, “these diamonds are worth a lakh and a half of rupees. They shall be my bond.”

To a native of India, such a guarantee was worth a thousand oaths. Fateh Mohammed might be trusted to take this view and none other. The production of a hidden hoard showed that this most enigmatical Englishman was really in earnest. It needed only a glance to assure him that the gems were worth the sum named, and more. His voice was thick as he answered:—

“Soul of the Prophet! you give me a worthy bail!”

“You think so! See to it that the box and its contents are well cared for. If not I, Nur Mahal knows each stone. And now, if we are to march ere the hot hours, let us eat.”

Promising to observe his part of the compact, Fateh Mohammed withdrew his imposing array of soldiers. Soon, a servant brought them some food, curried chickens and rice, with new milk, eggs, and bread. Not a word did they exchange until they had eaten, for Mowbray was dismayed by the collapse of his scheme, and he dared not seek from his loyal comrade the forgiveness which would be only too readily extended to him. Their fortune as good as lost, their lives in imminent jeopardy, their honor pledged to render themselves up to the spite of an implacable tyrant, and all because he trusted more to the machinations of a beautiful siren than to the good swords of which they were deprived. Truly, the outlook, hazardous enough before, was now desperate beyond description. No wonder Walter ate silently, fearing to trust his gloomy thoughts to language.

Suddenly Roger cried:—

“Gad, these Paradise birds are rare eating!”

“Birds of Paradise, man! They are but common fowls.”

“Never, on your life, Walter! This mun be Heaven, for sure. I heard the gates click when the musketeers cocked their flints.”

After all, that was the best way to take their misfortunes. As Roger said to Fra Pietro, when, later, they told him the news which camp rumor had twisted into grotesque form:—

“It is your turn now, most worthy friar. ‘Fight first and pray afterwards’ has ever been my honored motto, but from fighting I am debarred both by loss of my sword and by perjury of my good name. Pray, then, brother, in every tongue thou knowest, and mayhap the Lord will list unto thee.”

Mowbray sought an opportunity to question Jahangir’s emissaries. Their statements showed that Jai Singh must have passed them in Allahabad. The Kotwal of that city urged them to keep to the road, and inquire at each large town if boats carrying men and horses had passed down stream. In that way they could make sure of intercepting the fugitives.

“How came you to slip so quietly away from the camp of Nur Mahal?” he asked, but to this they replied vaguely, so Mowbray concluded that the Chief Eunuch had bribed them to silence, in which event it were best not to tell them of Fateh Mohammed’s admission.

They said, frankly enough, that had any chance led them to miss the Hughli contingent, the first intimation of the Emperor’s wishes would only have been forthcoming at Allahabad, where the Kotwal must have recognized the sahibs. Walter reflected ruefully that, had he bribed this man to silence, he might have despatched the messengers on a hopeless chase by river. It was now too late. Although so much depended on Jai Singh’s journey to Nur Mahal, he was bound irrevocably to go on to Agra, and must veto the rescue which the gallant Rajput would undoubtedly attempt should matters at court be not to his liking.

It was an inglorious end to an undertaking which opened so auspiciously. The sole consolation Mowbray could derive from soul-wearying thought as to the future arose from the certain relief he had given to the unhappy captives. From the depths of misery the Portuguese were raised to a level of comparative comfort, whilst Fra Pietro had assuredly been snatched from the very jaws of death.

So, at last, Walter resolved to abandon useless gropings against the veil which shrouded the days to come. He made himself as agreeable as might be to Fateh Mohammed, and so played upon the latter’s ambitious dreams that not even the hostile Kotwal of Allahabad was able to disturb the arrangement into which they had mutually entered.

The column crawled up country at a slow rate, for such a mixed company travels perforce at the pace of its most dawdling units. Fifteen miles was a good day’s march, and, where a river barred the road, many hours were wasted in safely transferring men and animals from bank to bank.

And now, for the first time in his life, Roger Sainton fell under petticoat dominance. Buen principio, la mitad es hecha—“Well begun is half done”—says the Spanish proverb, and certainly the Hathi-sahib made a good start.

The Countess di Cabota professed that she never felt safe from the perils of the way unless the big Yorkshireman held her mule’s bridle. He beguiled the hours by improving her English, of which language she already had a fair knowledge; she repaid him by many a bright smile, and displayed a most touching assiduity in mastering the broad vowels and quaint phrases of his speech, for Roger’s slow diction was the pure Anglo-Saxon which yet passes current in his native dale.

They were thrown together the more that Walter sought distraction from troubled reverie in learned discourse with Fra Pietro, and for this sort of talk Roger had no stomach. Once Mowbray rallied the giant on the score of the attention he paid to the buxom Countess, but Roger countered aptly.

“I’ faith,” he said, “she is a merry soul, and not given to love vaporings like most of her sex. She tells me her heart troubled her somewhat before she married, but the fit passed quickly, and now she will be well content if the Lord sends her home to wholesome fare and a down pillow. After that, commend me to a fat woman for horse sense. Your scraggy ones, with saucer eyes, would rather a love philter than a pint of wine, but set down a stoup of both before her Ladyship and I’ll wager our lost box of diamonds that she’ll spill the potion on the ground and the good liquor down her throat.”

“At last, then, you have found a woman who marches with your humor?”

“I’m not one to judge such a matter quickly,” murmured Roger with a dubious frown. “They’re full of guile at the best, yet I vow it pleases me to hear Matilda say ‘Caramba!’ to her mule. It minds me of my mother rating a lie-abed maid of a Monday morning. ‘Drat you for a huzzy,’ she would cry, ‘here is six by the clock already! To-morrow’s Tuesday an’ next day’s Wednesday—half t’ week gone an’ nowt done!’”

“So the lady’s name is Matilda?”

“Aye! She has a lot more, but I fancied the sound of that yen.”

“Surely you do not address her so familiarly?”

“And why not? Gad! she calls me Roger, pat as a magpie with a split tongue.”

“This is news indeed. Yet you tell me she is not inclined to tender passages?”

“Tender fiddle-de-dee! She laughs like a mime if I tickle her ribs with my thumb when the mule stumbles. My soul, Walter, you are grown so used to every woman making sheep’s eyes at you that you think they’ll treat a hulk like me after the same daft fashion.”

“In truth,” said Mowbray, sadly, “my courtships have been all too brief, and threaten to end in aught save laughter.”

“Nay, nay, lad. Let not thy spirits fail. I cannot but think that you and I shall scent the moors again together. We have driven our pigs to queer markets; mayhap we shall sty them yet, despite this cross-eyed Emperor and that fly-by-night, Nur Mahal.”

“I have dreamed of home in my sleep of late. Methought I saw my mother weeping.”

“’Tis well. They say dreams go by contrary. Were it otherwise, has she not good cause to greet? By the Lord Harry, when we show our noses in Wensleydale, my auld dam will clout my lugs. ‘Roger, you good-for-nowt,’ she will say, ‘I tellt ye te keep Master Mowbray frae harm, and here hev’ ye led him tiv a pleace wheer t’ grass grows downwards and t’ foxes fly i’ t’ air. I’m fair shammed on ye!’ Eh, man, but I’ll be glad to hear her tongue clack i’ that gait.”

And with this cheerful dictum Sainton strode away to bewilder and amuse the Countess di Cabota with his amazing lingo. Although they were now enjoying the glorious cold weather of India, the absence of wind and the brilliant sun of the Doab served to render the midday hours somewhat sultry. Her Ladyship, being plump, complained of weariness.

“You have a most excellent color,” said Roger, eyeing her critically.

She sighed.

“It may be,” said she, “that as we are near Agra my heart droops. What manner of man is Jahangir? Is he of a generous and princely disposition?”

“If he takes after his father he should be open-handed with other folks’ money. I know him to be a fine judge of a woman, which is a right royal attribute; but he drinks freely, a better quality in a sponge than in a king.”

“Sancta Maria! A spendthrift, a libertine, and a sot! What hope have we of such a one?”

Roger laid a huge paw on her shoulder, and his merry eyes looked down into hers although she was riding a fair sized mule.

“Be not cast down, Matilda!” he cried. “If the sky were cloudy you would not vow the sun would ne’er shine again. I observed it was hotter in coming to the Line than under the Line itself. Here, Got wot, it is hottest of all, yet fear and fancy may be worse bogies than fact.”

For some reason, his hopeful philosophy did not console the lady that morning. She leaned a little against his arm, and glistening tears suddenly dimmed her vision.

“Alas!” she sobbed, “we are all going to our death, and you, good Roger, have risked your life to no purpose.”

“Then shall I die in good company, a thing much to be commended. He that went to the grave with Elisha recovered his breath owing to his lodging.”

She straightened herself in the saddle.

“I like not this talk of dying,” she snapped.

“Gad, it is not greatly to my mind on a fine morning after a hearty meal. When I can strike no longer may I fall handsomely, say I. Yet I thought you were bent on chewing the unsavory morsel, though, to be sure, you mainly use your teeth to vastly better purpose.”

She glanced up at him, clearing her eyes defiantly.

“You make no allowance for a woman’s feelings,” she said. “Did I not know the contrary, I should believe you held women of no account.”

“I’ faith, that would be doing me an injustice. When a woman says ‘Lack-a-day,’ my tongue wags in sympathy. If she weeps, my heart grows as soft as a fuzz-ball.”

“Fuzz-ball! That is a word you have not yet taught me,” she said.

“It much resembles a round mushroom, and when dry, it bursts if you squeeze it.”

“Oh, go to! I never before met your like.”

She laughed, though there was a spice of irritation in her mirth, but Roger gripped her round the waist, for the mule, more perceptive than the man, stumbled at the right moment. To comfort her, he gave her a reassuring hug.

“There is naught of the fuzz-ball about thee, Matilda,” he vowed, and the Countess laughed again. But she blushed, too, and murmured in her own language:—

“After all, the truest romance is more than half a comedy.”

One night, when the cavalcade was halted in the very village whence Nur Mahal had turned northwards with such quick vagary, an owl hooted from the depths of a nim tree. The weird note thrice boomed unheeded through the air, for all in the camp were weary, but, when the mournful cry rang out for the fourth time, one of Sher AfghÁn’s Rajputs raised himself quietly from his bed of leaves and listened.

At the fifth hoot he glanced around and saw that none other was disturbed. He rose and sauntered quietly towards the tree, in whose deep shade he was lost for a little while. He returned, and with him now walked another Rajput. The two reached the camp fire around which lay their clansmen, and conversed in whispers with others whom they awakened. Then the newcomer, following directions, strolled towards the tent occupied by the Englishmen. Entering in the dark he was seized by Walter, who was lying sleepless, thinking of the possible outcome had he given Nur Mahal a different answer when they last stood together in the millet-field so near at hand.

Jai Singh had said that the place was bewitched, and lo, here was Jai Singh himself wriggling in his clutch! As for Roger, the sound of the scuffle roused him, and both Mowbray and he were vastly surprised when the old Rajput gasped:—

“Slay me not, sahib! My throat is sore enough with screeching to deaf ears. Soul of Govind, let go!”

Bad news can be told with scant breath. It did not take Jai Singh long to acquaint them with the dire intelligence that Nur Mahal, although received in great state by Jahangir, had openly defied him. She charged him with the murder of her gallant husband, and, woman-like, even unfairly taunted him with his cowardice in destroying by a trick one whom he dared not encounter in fair fight.

Lashed to rage by her scorn, Jahangir gave instant orders that she should be sewn in a sack and thrown to the crocodiles. But even in that servile court there lingered memories of Akbar’s justice, and the infuriated tyrant was compelled to rescind his cruel mandate before it could be executed.

Some subtle instinct of statecraft told him the better way. He boldly declared that Nur Mahal’s late husband had conspired with others to slay Kutub-ud-din, whilst Sher AfghÁn had himself fallen a victim to an intrigue between his wife and the Englishman, Mowbray. Ibrahim, Chief Eunuch, proved that his royal master was absolutely in ignorance of the facts until he (Ibrahim) told him certain things he had discovered. Here was actually a receipt showing that Nur Mahal had given the Feringhi jewels worth a lakh and a half of rupees. It was evident that her motive in returning to Agra was to stir up disaffection on the one hand and to purge herself of crime in the eyes of the public on the other. What better excuse could Oriental monarch devise to clear his own reputation and to confiscate the estates of Sher AfghÁn and the late DiwÁn? A royal hukm[L] was drawn up forthwith, and one of the richest heiresses in India became a pauper, while pensions were conferred on the relatives of those who had been unjustly slain for participating in the attack on Sher AfghÁn.

But remorse is an invisible snake whose fangs cannot be drawn, and its venom tortured Jahangir during the few hours each day that his brain was clear of wine fumes. The prize he had so dearly bought was now within his power, yet he affected to take no notice of her. Nur Mahal was allotted a mean apartment in the seraglio. She was appointed an attendant on the king’s mother at a salary of one rupee a day, and the Dowager Queen Mariam was forbidden to show her any favor whatever. Though this ordinance was not strictly fulfilled, Jai Singh, when he, after much difficulty and with grave peril, obtained an interview with Nur Mahal, found her doing needlework and painting silk, in which arts she excelled, to support herself and the few devoted women who refused to leave her.

Jai Singh delivered this budget in an unconcerned way that did not escape Mowbray’s ear, for, in the gloom, he could not see the Rajput’s face.

“Nur Mahal knows that we are marching to Agra with the Portuguese captives?” he asked, when Jai Singh seemed to invite questions rather than continue his recital.

“Assuredly, sahib. How else could I explain my presence there?”

“Did it need explanation? Was there no knowledge of Jahangir’s intent to capture me?”

The other hesitated, and Mowbray cried bitterly:—

“Tell all thy tale, Jai Singh, or else leave me in peace.”

“Hush, sahib! Not so loud. I swear by Khuda I am party to no device against your Excellency. If I look through glass I can see what is beyond, but if I look into a woman’s mind I peer at the reflection of my own conceits. I can only tell you of things as they are. When I seek to fathom Nur Mahal’s thoughts I am gazing into a mirror.”

“Forgive my haste, Jai Singh, and speak on.”

“My story is nearly ended, sahib. At dawn you march to the next camping-ground, which will surely be on the south side of a big nullah fourteen miles ahead. While perched in the tree I noted the lie of the camp, and, doubtless, it is the same each night. At the eleventh hour I and threescore followers will cross the nullah. Be ready! Strike fearlessly when you hear an owl hoot three times. If the commotion starts in the center they will think the devil has broken loose when the real attack comes from the flank. There will be led horses in plenty once we ford the nullah, provided you tell me now how many will escape with you.”

“And then?”

“Then we ride to the east and back to the south.”

“Whither bound?”

“To BurdwÁn. Nowhere else can we obtain shelter until we make our next move.”

“The plan is Nur Mahal’s?”

“You forget, sahib, it is your own.”

“But she approves. What of her? Does she bide in Agra?”

“She bides there, sahib, if that be your wish.”

“Ah! Was that her word to you?”

“Nothing could be clearer, sahib. If you choose to help her she will escape from the palace and join you at an agreed place. If your only desire is to make for the sea I am pledged to her on Ganges water to aid you with money and life.”

“But she is poor, you said, obliged to adorn others not worthy to adjust her gown if beauty were alone to wait on the most beautiful?”

“There is money in plenty for the removal of Jahangir,” was the laconic answer.

“Hearest thou, Roger?” said Mowbray, reaching out to touch his comrade’s arm in the dark.

“Aye, lad, I hear,” came the giant’s low growl. “’Tis a pity affairs are ordered differently, else we should see some pretty fighting.”

Jai Singh, too, leaned forward. He thought they were agreeing that he had planned most excellently. Already he could sniff the sacking of Agra fort, in which the accumulated treasure was so great, when Akbar had an inventory made, that four hundred pairs of scales were kept at work five months weighing silver, gold, and precious stones. His breath came thick and fast. His voice gurgled just as it did under the pressure of Mowbray’s hands on his windpipe. A revolt now, properly handled, would mean the loot of a century.

“’Twill soon be sunrise, sahiba,” he said. “I must be going. Remember, the eleventh hour—three hoots—”

“Stay, Jai Singh,” said Walter, quietly. “There must be no attempt at a rescue. If any attack be made on the column, Sainton-sahib and I will strike hard for Fateh Mohammed. We have given our bond to accompany him to the very presence of Jahangir. God helping us we will maintain our honor in this matter as in all others. Go you, and tell Nur Mahal what I have said. There is no other way. We are pledged to meet the Emperor face to face as his prisoners, and he must do with us what he wills, or, rather, what God wills.”

“Sahib, you know not what you are refusing.”

“Go, nevertheless, Jai Singh, and tell Nur Mahal that I have refused. Perchance, now, she may hasten alone to BurdwÁn.”

“Hear me, sahib, I beseech you. She rode to Agra meaning to marry Jahangir, but her gorge rose at the sight of him. Do not hold her guilty of deceiving you. It was your memory which forced bitter words from her lips when the Emperor expected her kisses.”

“It may be so. But when you gave your oath by the sacred Ganges you meant to keep it?”

“Until death, sahib.”

“Know then, Jai Singh, that Sainton-sahib and I have given our word to Fateh Mohammed. An Englishman’s word is strong as any vow by holy river. You have discharged your trust most faithfully—would that I could reward you! But I am penniless. Even certain diamonds, concerning which Jahangir was rightly informed, are part of my bond. Leave us, good friend, and warn Nur Mahal that we are, perhaps, less able to help her than she to help us.”