Fateh Mohammed, whose name, literally translated, meant “The Victorious and Praised,” intended to halt his cohort a short day’s ride from Agra, in order to patch its way-worn aspect into some semblance of dignity ere he entered the presence of the King of Kings. Had he ever heard of Falstaff he might well have cried with Sir John: “No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I’ll not march through Coventry with them, that’s flat.” The wear and tear of seven hundred miles had pressed so heavily on the resources of guards and prisoners alike that their clothes and accouterments did, indeed, require some furbishing. In this ragged regiment the Englishmen and their Rajputs alone presented a reputable appearance.

But, stout though he was, and otherwise much resembling plump Jack in his rascally tastes, Fateh Mohammed possessed a fair share of Eastern wiliness, so he took good care to apprise Jahangir beforehand of the curious conditions under which he was bringing to the capital the two men whose presence there was so greatly desired by his imperial master. The recital naturally showed that the fat man was a model of zeal and discretion. If the Conqueror of the World regarded the Giaours as malefactors, here they were, ready to be bound and dealt with according to the King’s command, but, should it happen to please the Planet-born to treat them as friends, naught had been done to give ground for other supposition, save in such slight and easily arranged matters as disarming them and holding certain valuable securities for their observance of the pact agreed upon.

Hence, Fateh Mohammed felt neither “victorious” nor “praised” when a high official, accompanied by a glittering retinue, rode out from Agra and greeted Mowbray and Sainton with much deference, inviting them to return with him forthwith and accept the Emperor’s hospitality! They had gone through so many vicissitudes of late that this bewildering attitude on the part of the Mogul monarch left them outwardly unmoved though inwardly amazed. No one could be more surprised than Mowbray, the too successful prophet of the royal intent. Yet he bowed his polite acceptance of the proffered honors, and his manner was discretion itself when Fateh Mohammed, jelly-like in agitation, expressing his regrets with the spluttering haste of water poured from a narrow-necked bottle, hastened to restore not only the cedar box with its contents intact, but also the swords and daggers stolen from the Englishmen while they slept.

Mowbray did not know then that the court official had curtly told Fateh Mohammed he was in grave peril of being hanged on the nearest tree if Jahangir had reason to complain of his treatment of the strangers. It was in vain that the fat man pleaded the Emperor’s written instructions, which were ambiguous certainly, but which must be interpreted by his Majesty’s anxiety to secure the presence of the two Feringhis at Agra.

“If you interpret a King’s wishes you run the risk of making a false translation,” was the chilling response, so Fateh Mohammed was left alternately thanking the Prophet that he had not obeyed his inclinations and slain the Giaours when he learnt how they had hoodwinked him, and shivering with fear lest, after all, Jahangir might find cause to be displeased with him.

Therefore, he groveled before Mowbray, and, like Prince Henry’s sack-loving companion, wished “it were bedtime and all well.”

The mystery of the Emperor’s attitude deepened when Walter learned that Nur Mahal was, indeed, a palace menial. Even the weather-cock courtier, skilled in the art of polite evasion, did not scruple to show his contempt for feminine influences at the best.

“I have seen many such butterflies dancing in the sun,” he said scoffingly. “They are very brilliant until the rain falls, or some hungry bird eats them.”

His orders were to conduct the Englishmen and their followers to Dilkusha, where they would be in the midst of familiar surroundings, and it was Jahangir’s wish to receive them that afternoon. When Mowbray insisted that Fra Pietro should come with them the envoy was dubious at first, but Walter would not yield the point, which was ultimately conceded. As for the others, they were to bide in their present camp until arrangements were made for their disposal.

“Gad!” cried Roger, paying some heed to this statement, “that will not be to Matilda’s liking!”

“Have affairs come to the pass that you may not be parted?” asked Walter, roguishly, his perplexities vanishing for the moment as he pictured the Countess’s agitation when told she was to be separated from her cavalier.

“’Tis to me a matter of no great cavil,” was the reply, “but the poor body will surely miss me when the mule crosses a bad bit of road.”

“Why not bring her with us?”

“Aye. That is to be thought of. There are always more ways of killing a dog than choking him wi’ butter.”

“But you must marry the lady first, Roger. At a pinch, Fra Pietro—”

“The devil fly off with thee and thy pinching! Who spoke of marrying? Thy humor, at times, Walter, is dry as the Swale after a drought.”

“From what I have seen of the Countess I fear that marriage will be the only cure for her affliction.”

“By the cross of Osmotherly!” cried Sainton, hotly, “if that be her malady she will ail a long time ere I give her physic. Marry, forsooth! If ever I seek a wife, which I greatly doubt, I’ll hitch up wi’ a lass from my own dales. Not that Matilda is ill-looking, or, for that matter, as skittish as some I have seen, but may the Lord help any woman I bring to Wensley afore my mother runs an eye over her!”

“I fear, then, her Ladyship must remain here willy-nilly.”

Sainton, more annoyed than he cared to show, drew his long neglected sword and began to burnish it affectionately.

“Thou hast a toad’s tongue at times, lad,” he growled, breathing on the steel before rubbing it to a fine sheen. “The thing had not troubled me a whit hadst thou not spoken of it, but, now I come to think over bygones, I am constrained to admit that mayhap her Ladyship may have construed my actions amiss. Women are oft prone to look through a chink when the door is open all the time. On my soul I fear to face her. My hang-dog looks will betray me and she’ll upbraid me. Go thou, Walter, and tell her—tell her—”

“That thou hast no mind to wed. Nay, Roger, that would be ungallant, to say the least.”

“Tell her any glib lie that will get me safely away. Samson was half conquered when it was known wherein his strength lay, and my only sure refuge is flight if a woman attacks. Poor Matilda! I would I had the heart to appease her. Yet I am not for matrimony, and no barber can make a wig of a hide that is bald of wool. But I vow you have vexed me by your niceties. Drat the thing! I trust the bit of Latinity our worthy friar gave me yester e’en is sound sense, else I’ll mope for a week.”

“And what was that, Roger?” asked Mowbray, turning to hide a smile from his wrathful friend.

“He spoke to me of certain passages twixt you and Nur Mahal, as he built somewhat on her power despite Jai Singh’s story. Yet he sighed and said: ‘Quid vento? Mulier. Quid muliere? Nihil!’ It tickled my fancy to put the quip into rhyme:—

Beshrew me! It fitted Nur Mahal all right, but the cap seems to sit awry when worn by my jolly and pleasant-spoken Countess. What! Would you grin at me, you dog, like a clown gaping through a horse-collar? I’ll wager, were the business yours, you'd carry a longer jowl.”

“On my word, Roger, if you trumpet so loudly I must even believe that my Elephant is sore wounded. Why say aught to-day to the Countess? Once we are sped on some new path I promise to write her on your behalf, and in such a strain that any silly notions she may be harboring shall vanish after a day’s fasting.”

“Ecod, you know not Matilda. She would not miss her dinner for twenty men. And that is what draws me to her. A plague on all weddings, I say. They mar a woman and vex a man. What the devil! A nice thing Noah did for the world when he took nowt but pairs into the Ark.”

Nevertheless, though angered by his tardy discovery, Sainton was far too good-natured to steal away covertly from the genial presence of the Countess di Cabota. He cudgeled his brains to invent some reasonable excuse for bidding her farewell. Finally he hit upon an expedient that pleased him greatly, and chased the unwonted frown from his cheerful face.

In view of the expected state visit to Jahangir he had donned his best garments, which, though soiled, were yet free from rents, and never a finer man trod the iron earth of India than Roger that day when, with his four-foot sword clanking against his thigh, he approached the Countess’s camping-place. Already, of course, rumor had been busy. The perturbation of Fateh Mohammed and the haughty curling of Rajput mustaches which followed the advent of Jahangir’s envoy told some portion of the tale to the stealthy-eyed natives. Gossip did the rest. Roger found the Countess all agog with joyous hope.

“Por gracia di Dios!” she cried, clapping her hands, “now that I see you wearing your sword I know that what I have been told is true.”

“I’ faith, Matilda, you are a rare hand at guessing sheep when you smell roast mutton,” was his hearty greeting. “’Tis indeed true that some favoring star hath moved the king to deal with us kindly. Perchance ’tis the moon, which is said to rule certain humans. But my news is stale. I come to take leave of you.”

The Countess’s ruddy cheeks paled beneath the tan of long exposure to the open air, and a spasm of fear dilated her pretty eyes.

“To take leave of me! Mater misericordiÆ! What say you?”

“Nay, my bonny Countess, you read my words wrongly. Master Mowbray and I are bidden ride ahead to meet the Emperor. That is all.”

“You will return ere night?”

Roger stroked his chin with dubious calculation. The action enabled him to avoid her startled glance.

“I have my doubts,” he said, and, not so sure now of the simplicity of his errand, wisely added not another word.

“Do you mean that you go on to Agra and leave me here with—with Fateh Mohammed?”

There was a directness, yet a veiled inference, in the question that did not escape him.

“Be reasonable, Matilda,” he pleaded. “We go but to prepare the way. You forget that Jahangir, for some reason not known to any of us, is changing his plans. From fire and murder he hath turned to clemency. It may be that he thinks some quiet talk with Master Mowbray may clear the thorns from his new path.”

“Then let Master Mowbray go to him, and you bide here.”

“That cannot be. It would argue distrust.”

“I think I understand,” said the Countess, quietly, with all a woman’s irritating assumption of the truth when a man would soothe her with a plausible tale.

Roger, whose wit was keen enough when he encountered opposition, was helpless before this passive attitude. Yet he blundered on, trusting to luck to extricate him. He fumbled with a small package he took from his breast, and swayed from one foot to the other, losing some of his gallant air in an attitude which reflected his mental stress.

“There’s nowt to make sike a pother about,” he growled. “We haste to Agra, you follow more slowly, and that is all there is to it. But you are in sad plight, Matilda, after these weary days of travel, without a stitch to your old clothes, so to speak, or means to buy new ones. Now, a lady of your condition should be garbed more reputably. Though I doubt not Jahangir will treat you generously in his altered mood, I would not have you wholly dependent on his tardy grace. I have no money, but here is money’s worth, and it can never be put to better use than in purchasing the wherewithal to adorn you.”

So saying, and thankful that the concluding sentence, which he had concocted with some care, had not escaped his memory, he dropped Sher AfghÁn’s magnificent gold chain into her lap, for the Countess was sitting on a saddle outside the tent.

She bent forward, as if to examine the present, passing each of the fine turquoises with which it was set mechanically through her fingers. She managed so well that her voice seemed to be under control.

“You are very kind and thoughtful,” she said in a low tone. “I am, indeed, much in need of repair.”

“Gad! I would smite sorely the man who said so. I spoke of the husk, not of the kernel.”

“And I shall value the gift highly,” she continued.

“Stick out for the last rupee. These Agra goldsmiths are thieves. If not the whole, you might sell a portion.”

Her head drooped a little more.

“They are beautiful links, well knit, and of the best workmanship,” she said, “and I have never before seen such stones. ’Twould be a pity to sunder them. They will be pleasant to look upon long after the flimsy silks they would buy are faded and threadbare.”

Resignation, not to say hopelessness, was a new phase to Sainton in woman’s varying humors. Had the Countess di Cabota stormed, or protested, or even broken down utterly, Roger, though profoundly uncomfortable, might have survived the ordeal. But the merry-eyed lady was crushed. She who was wont to toss her curls so saucily when he tried that excellent specific of a thumb in the ribs now sat before him with hidden face. And Roger was terrible only in war. Let him have his way he was easily swayed as a child; but to-day he was a child perplexed by a new problem.

“If you are not minded to use the gaud in that way,” he growled hesitatingly, “I must devise some other manner of meeting your wants.”

“I am greatly beholden to you,” she murmured. “Mayhap I may not see you again, so, should you succeed in sending me some money, let your messenger bring a parchment, and I will write an order on a certain house in London for your repayment.”

This was unbearable. Roger stooped, placed a great hand under her chin, and raised her unresisting face. His unlooked-for action caused pent-up tears to tremble on her eyelashes, while there was a suspicious quivering in the corners of her red lips.

“Are you bent on plaguing me, Matilda, or is it that you truly believe I am seeking some pretense to go away under a false flag?” he demanded fiercely.

“I cannot tell you, Roger. You know best yourself. Why should I complain? I owe my life, and many days of happiness, to you and to your good friend. Whether you go or stay may the Lord watch over you, and bring you safely to that pleasant home in the North of which you have so often spoken to me! I think I have seen it in my dreams, and the notion pleases me.”

She caught his hand and would have pressed it to her face, but he was too quick for her. Before she well knew what was happening she was lifted to her feet, and Roger had kissed her heartily on the lips.

“That is a quittance for the chain,” he cried. “When I want another for the money I shall bring thee, be not surprised if I discharge the debt in like fashion.”

Woman-like she glanced hastily around, all aglow with sudden embarrassment, to learn if others had observed his action. Certainly the eyes of some of the Portuguese captives were turned curiously towards them. Making a tremendous effort, she laughed gaily.

“Your English leave-taking is very nice, but somewhat unusual to our ideas,” she cried. “Nevertheless, I am glad to have your promise to return.”

“I swear it, by the cross of Osmotherly!” vowed Roger, and with this mighty oath the Countess was satisfied, though, as a good Catholic, she might have been surprised if she knew that the giant’s favorite expletive only referred to a crossroad on the summit of a Yorkshire hill, where King Oswald is supposed to lie buried by the side of his mother, whence the name Osmotherly: “Oswald-by-his-mother-lay.”

There was some dubiety among the remaining Europeans when they saw the Englishmen ride off with Fra Pietro and the Rajputs. So might sheep feel in a wolf-infested land, if the shepherds and dogs were withdrawn.

“What is to become of us,” they asked, “and why have our protectors taken the friar alone?”

But the Countess bade them be of good cheer.

“They will come back,” she said, calmly. “They have promised; and those men never say what they do not mean.”

Yet one of the pair reflected ruefully, as he jogged towards Agra, that he had said a good deal more than he meant to say. Mowbray, noting his comrade’s introspective mood, forbore to question him as to his farewell interview with the Countess, and Roger quaked at the thought of putting into words his recollections of the scene. So Walter chatted with Fra Pietro, seeking that grave counselor’s views as to the possible motives which inspired Jahangir’s remarkable volte-face.

To reach the Garden of Heart’s Delight the cavalcade crossed a ford of the Jumna and followed a road along the left bank of the river. Thus, they passed close to the royal palace, being separated from it only by the width of the stream. Its lofty red sandstone walls, high piled towers and threatening battlements, topped by the exquisite spires and minarets of the white marble buildings within, made a resplendent and awe-inspiring picture in the vivid sunlight. Dominating the cluster of regal apartments on the river face was the superb DiwÁn-i-Khas, or Hall of Private Audience, which stands to this day “a miracle of beauty.” Mowbray knew it well. Behind its inlaid walls lay the garden in which Akbar chaffered with the ladies at the fair, and on the south side was the broad terrace whence Roger heaved the great stone onto the tiger.

Standing boldly out in the angle formed by the DiwÁn-i-Khas and the terrace was the Golden Pavilion, so called because of its roof of gilded copper, and nestling close to this glittering apex of the zenana was the fairy-like Jasmine Tower. No strange eyes might dare to rest on that imperial sanctuary save from a distance. Yet Mowbray, from description oft repeated, could tell the Franciscan some of its glories; how the marble pavement of its inner court represented a pachisi-board, on which the Sultana and her ladies played a clever game with shells; how the lovely lattice-work of the window screens was cut out of solid slabs of marble; how trailing devices of flowers and fruit were fashioned in pietra dura with carnelians, agates, turquoises, and all manner of bright colored or sparkling gems; how fountains made music where marble baths were sunk in the floor, while the dripping naiads who emerged from the cool depths might survey their charms in the Shish Mahal, or Room of a Thousand Mirrors, wherein a cascade of rippling water fell over a tiny terrace artificially lighted with colored lamps. These and other marvels did he pour into Fra Pietro’s ears, until the friar piously crossed himself and said with a smile:—

“Yet a little while and these glories shall be forgotten. ‘Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was; and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.’”

“But you will grant, good brother, that a man only lives once on earth, and it would be scarce credible, did we not know it, that with all our Western wit we have naught in London or Paris to match the skill of these barbarians,” cried Walter.

“I have seen in old Rome the crumbling fragments of palaces for which the proudest hall in Agra might serve as an ante-chamber. Brethren, more traveled than I, and learned men withal, have told me of the still more wondrous works of ancient Greece and forgotten Babylon. Of what avail are the vain efforts of man! ‘Lord, a day in Thy courts is better than a thousand. Heaven and earth shall pass away, but Thy word shall not pass away.’”

Though the friar spoke Latin when he quoted the Bible, Walter followed his thought closely. Here was a man wholly unmoved by the pomp and vanity of the world. Fra Pietro paid more heed to a budding shrub as a manifest sign of the Creator than to all the transient splendor of the Mogul capital. Yet he was one who seldom mixed religion with his conversation, and it is reasonable to suppose that his utterances would have taken a less abstract form had he known that the bright eyes of Nur Mahal were even then fixed intently on the cavalcade from the recess of a small apartment over the Water Gate of the palace. Perchance the subtle mesmerism of her glance was more potent with his gentle spirit than with the hardier soul of the young Englishman, for his sedate mule had not gone many paces by the side of Walter’s mettlesome Arab ere he spoke again:—

“Forgive me, friend,” he said, “if I broke in on your discourse with solemn reflections. One must be boorish, indeed, to deny a just meed of praise to the designers and builders of yonder superb pile. Tell me, as you seem to know its ways so well, in what quarter does Nur Mahal probably dwell?”

“There!” and Mowbray pointed straight towards the Water Gate.

“Ah! That is the very heart of the fortress. It will be difficult to reach her.”

“Difficult indeed, dangerous for a native and wholly impossible for a European. But why do you ask?”

The Franciscan’s remark took his hearers by surprise, and Roger, who listened silently to their talk, smiled for the first time during five hours.

“Hola, my chuck,” he muttered to himself, “now it is thy turn to be roasted while a woman turns the spit.”

“I think she is the fons et origo of all that has occurred,” said the friar. “Whether exalted or lowly, such a woman will ever be the yeast in the leaven of a man like Jahangir. He may neither believe nor admit that this is so, yet I incline to the opinion that the character of your reception is due to the promptings of a higher intelligence than that with which the Emperor is endowed.”

“I would rest assured if Nur Mahal supplied his inspiration,” answered Mowbray, conscious that Roger’s eye was cocked at him. “But remember there is a chance that my arch-enemy, Dom Geronimo, may have survived the Emperor’s edict against the Christians. In the East one perforce looks for guile, and I fear that the smooth seeming of Jahangir’s actions may prove a snare for our undoing. I account in that way for the desire to separate us from the others. It is idle to say that this great city could not house us without preparation. And now you have my secret mind as to your presence here. If Jahangir means evil, Roger and I, knowing his methods, may defeat him. Assuredly you are safer with us than with the poor souls who remain in Fateh Mohammed’s custody.”

Then Roger swore so violently that Fra Pietro turned and looked at the fort again.

“By all the fiends!” he roared, “why didst thou not tell me thy secret mind, as thou callest it, earlier? Here have I left Matilda with yon spawn of Old Nick, and kept her content only by a pledge to return with proper haste.”

“Roger, Roger! never before hast thou addressed me with such unreasoning heat. Who asked thee, this morning, to bring the lady with us? Who asked me to make thy excuses to her? What of my dry humor, my toad’s tongue? Who was it that grinned like a clown through a horse-collar because he would not lie glibly enough to suit thy purpose?”

Sainton gulped down his wrath, but Mowbray was disturbed by the expression of ox-like stubbornness which suddenly clouded his face. Roger, wearing such aspect, was hard to control.

“I mun go back,” he said. “Look for me ere midnight, Walter.”

Without another word of explanation he bared his sword and wheeled his powerful horse.

“Make way, there!” he bellowed. “Out of my path, swine! Quickly, ye sons of pigs, I am not to be stayed!”

Thinking the Hathi-sahib had gone mad the troopers who rode with Jahangir’s emissary scattered right and left. Mowbray, though vexed by the untoward incident, promptly endeavored to rob it of grave significance by ordering half a dozen of his own Rajputs to follow Sainton-sahib and help him if necessary.

Before the nawab who headed their escort quite realized what was happening, Roger had vanished. The last glimpse Mowbray obtained of his gigantic countryman was when Sainton, sitting bolt upright on his charger and holding his sword aloft like a steel torch, disappeared in the cloud of dust created by the passage of himself and his small troop.

Now, the high-placed official was vastly offended by Roger’s rude and peremptory words, and some little time elapsed before Mowbray’s apologies, couched in the most polite Persian, were accepted. There was nothing for it but to credit the Colossus with a touch of the sun, and add thereto a hint of his passionate attachment for the buxom Countess.

Even then Walter’s difficulties were not exhausted. Fra Pietro, speaking very firmly, said that his place was with his people, and he would be glad if some arrangement were made whereby he could return to them.

“It is not to be thought of,” was Mowbray’s instant answer. “Not only will Roger create difficulty enough when he encounters Fateh Mohammed, should the latter oppose the departure of the Countess, but I look to you to champion the cause of the other captives at our meeting with Jahangir. A woman may account for my comrade’s absence. Such excuse will not avail you.”

The friar bowed meekly.

“I would not burthen you with fresh cares,” he said, “but I cannot save my own life and leave my flock to perish. Nevertheless, if it be best in your judgment, I will go with you into the Emperor’s presence.”

Mowbray’s resolute features must have shown the irritation which mastered him, for the Franciscan added:—

“Be not angered with your friend. He hath a heart of a size to match his body, and ’tis a man’s privilege to protect the weaker sex. ‘From the beginning of creation God made them male and female.’”

“Believe me, brother, I am mostly concerned about my own lack of foresight in this matter. Thank Heaven there is no woman here for whose sake I should be compelled to act, it may be, even more hastily than Roger!”

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

“Yes; what if she does?”

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

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