When a woman’s head governs her heart she is to be feared; and that is why Providence, meaning her to be loved, ordained that, for the most part, her heart should govern her head. In the rarer descriptions of the human clay a woman unites in herself romance and the critical faculty, as though the Master delighted in blending Aphrodite with Athene.

Nur Mahal, true daughter of the gods, was such a one. Gifted with the intelligence and cold intellect of an empire-ruler she seldom yielded to the divine femininity which was her birthright. It was an impulse of sheer emotion which led her to betray her joy by a signal when she distinguished Mowbray in the midst of the troop of horse. Not unnaturally, she interpreted the sudden halt caused by Roger’s anxiety anent the Countess as arising from Mowbray’s wish to let her know that he had seen the fluttering scarf and rightly guessed its owner. If so, his action was an indiscretion. Who could tell how many pairs of eyes were watching him from hidden chamber or open battlements?

The departure of Sainton in such furious haste puzzled her exceedingly, but she was reassured when Mowbray turned his horse’s head again towards Dilkusha. She knew now that the brown-robed stranger who rode so near to him was not only the friend, spoken of by Jai Singh, for whom the Englishman had dared so greatly, but that he, too, had observed her token. So she ventured to thrust forth the gossamer muslin a second time, and she was sure that Mowbray looked towards her and bowed gracefully, even raising his hat to show that he was aware of her presence.

In Agra, during the Mogul dynasty, such was the perfection reached by the weaver’s art, muslin was fashioned of a texture so delicate that a turban or girdle, if spread out, would sink gently, with surprising slowness, to the ground. Nur Mahal, though impoverished, still retained her wardrobe, and this scarf was one of the lightest and most beautiful in her possession. Nevertheless, a flaming torch thrust into an oil-soaked beacon could not have kindled a tocsin fire of more furious significance than those floating folds. Aware of her environment she, having hastily adjudged Mowbray guilty of imprudence, should have been prudent herself. But prudence is a negative quality seldom allied with the magnetic powers which sway men, and Nur Mahal was bold in either love or hate. Moreover, she despised her enemies.

So it came to pass that the Emperor pleaded fatigue when Mowbray and Fra Pietro rode to the palace that afternoon, and they returned to the Garden of Heart’s Delight more perplexed than ever by Jahangir’s inscrutable attitude. Of Jai Singh they could glean no tidings. All the servants in the late DiwÁn’s residence were newcomers and Mahomedans, to whom the old Rajput was unknown. His fellow-clansmen of the escort had no later intelligence of his movements than Walter himself, who, though restored to familiar surroundings, was nevertheless in the position of a traveler returned to a place whence the well-known landmarks have been effaced.

Fra Pietro, in his placid way, admired the beauty of the garden, the elegance of the building, the wealth of roses and flowering plants which adorned each lovely vista, and then settled down to read his breviary by the waning light.

“It is a salutary practise,” said he quietly, “to turn one’s thoughts heavenward when the world grows dark,” and indeed, Walter, confused by a hundred conflicting issues, found himself regretting the lack of spirituality in his soul which rendered such solace unattainable in the present stress of events.

For never was man more mystified. Clemency, even from a Mogul ruler, was not altogether a vain thing to expect. But why had Jahangir’s grace taken such form? If the Europeans were to be well received, why had the Emperor denied them admission to the fort under a trumpery excuse, after having expressed a wish to see them at once? Where was Jai Singh? Evidently Nur Mahal, assuming it was she who signalled from the tower, had definite news of their coming, and it was most unlikely that she could be so accurately informed save through the medium of her devoted adherent. What mad adventure was Roger engaged in that he was not come ere sunset, for he would reach Fateh Mohammed’s camp about noon, and he would surely hasten the Countess’s departure, if unopposed, to permit arrival at Dilkusha before night fell? Yet the shadows cast by the cypress trees were fast merging with the somber pall spreading over the land, and not a sound of jingling mule bells or clanking steel came to the anxious listener’s ears.

Darkness fell with the phenomenal rapidity of the vast Indian plain. The sky was overcast. The winter rains were long due, and heavy clouds were massed aloft ready to break when the first cold wind swept down from the Himalayas. But the wind, as Fra Pietro would have it, was only surpassed in fickleness by woman, and it chose now to linger in the icy solitudes of the awful hills rather than seek the pasture lands awaiting its caress. Hence, the atmosphere was oppressive, stirred only by languorous zephyrs from the southwest, and the silence of the garden was such that the uneasy perching of a bird or the rustle of a mongoose in the undergrowth were sounds of import, demanding watchful eyes and strained hearing.

Mowbray and the friar were lodged in that part of the building which overlooked the baraduri, or summer-house. As frail man, whether warrior or saint, must eat, the pair partook of a well served meal. Other things being equal the repast would have provided a grateful change from the hard fare of the journey up-country. But anxiety is a poor sauce, and they ate rather because they must than because they chose. And now, even the Franciscan put aside for the hour his indifference to matters mundane.

“Our good Roger is belated, I fear,” he said. “Unless he cometh soon I shall offer a prayer in his behalf to St. James, the special patron of all who travel by night.”

“If the result be guaranteed, brother, pray earnestly, I beg you, and, should your list of heavenly advocates include one noted for his wise counsel, ask him to guide our steps aright when next we leave this bewitched abode. In my childhood I was told that the little people who dwell under the green knolls on the hillsides always lead those mortals who fall into their power to scenes of fairy beauty. Certes, this garden is planned for like sorcery. I first entered it a simple trader, but ever since that day my brains have been clouded and my feet meshed in hidden snares.”

Walter spoke bitterly, else he would not have even hinted at his disbelief in the efficacy of the apostolic protection. There never was man of humbler spirit than Fra Pietro, yet he took up the cudgels in earnest when his companion seemed to discredit the son of Zebedee and Salome.

“Blame not the Garden of Eden because it held a snake,” said he. “Whether in garden or desert the Lord will listen to my petition, and grant it the more readily, should it be for the good of my soul, if it be carried to the foot of the throne by a holy sponsor like St. James. His mother, some commentators hold, was sister to the Blessed Virgin; he taught the gospel to each of the twelve tribes; and he was the first Christian bishop to undergo martyrdom. He is ever portrayed with the gourd, shell, staff, and cap of a traveler, and it is only reasonable to suppose that such a pillar of the Church should be in special favor in that eternal garden where he is receiving the reward of his earthly sufferings.”

The friar’s outburst, delivered with much fervor, aroused Mowbray to some sense of his involuntary error.

“I beseech your pardon, good Brother Peter,” he cried. “Not for a moment would I dare to disparage St. James. Forget my heedless words. My faith, was it not one named after him who packed me neck and crop into such wanderings as have not been endured by many of my generation, unless it be those few countrymen of mine who crossed the Spanish Main with Hawkins and Grenville? Assuredly, it would ill become me to question the potency of a James, whether Saint or King, where travelers were concerned.”

Perhaps he had phrased his apology better were he less preoccupied. The Franciscan, watching him, sighed and murmured:—

“Gratiam tuam quaesmus, Domine, mentibus nostris infunde!”

The hours passed and naught happened, until Mowbray, harassed by evil forebodings, resolved that further inaction was not to be endured. He marshaled his Rajputs, of whom there were fourteen, and asked for three volunteers who would ride to Fateh Mohammed’s camp and bring news. He would see to it that they were allowed to depart from Dilkusha, and thenceforth they were not to draw rein until they reached the camp, which they were to enter by such means as seemed best to them. If Sainton-sahib were there they must return with utmost speed, one or all, as soon as they had gleaned some explanation of the sahib’s detention.

Each man was willing, so he selected three, and one other, whom he commissioned to search the bazaar and inquire in likely quarters for tidings of Jai Singh.

There was some difficulty at the gate, but Mowbray’s determined air, no less than the truculent attitude of his men, whose belief in him was unbounded, soon quelled the scruples of the doorkeeper, and the four clattered out into the night. It was now ten o’clock, and, in Walter’s opinion, nothing short of force had kept Roger from joining him within the preceding five hours. He deemed it wise to guard the gate on his own account, so he selected the oldest Rajput, one Devi Pershad, to act as lieutenant, while he split up the remainder of his small force into three watches.

He gave strict orders that thenceforth, until daybreak, none should enter or leave the compound without his knowledge and sanction, and he fancied that the Musalman durwÁn, thus deposed from his duties, smiled maliciously when he heard the lordly stranger imposing his will on those who maintained the dwelling for Jahangir.

Instantly the man was put to the test. Ere he could banish the smile from his face, Mowbray grasped him by the neck, and Devi Pershad held a lantern close to his eyes while his master bared Sher AfghÁn’s dagger.

“How now, dog!” Walter cried. “Wouldst thou dare to question my commands?”

The doorkeeper’s knees yielded. Here was one who read his thoughts.

“Not so, protector of the poor,” he gasped, “but many have come within the hour, and there may be others.”

“Many, sayest thou? There are not twenty servants in the house all told,” and he shook the fellow till his teeth rattled.

“I am a poor man, sahib—and I do as I am bid. Those who come with a sign—I admit,” was the stuttering answer.

“What manner of sign?”

“Some tap once and cry sufed-kira (death watch); others tap thrice and say Jai (victory), and it was my hukm to admit both without question.”

If the trembling wretch’s confession needed evidence it was fittingly supplied. From without came three slight knocks and a voice:—

“Within there, brother. The word is Jai!”

Mowbray released the durwÁn, sheathed his dagger and drew his sword. He motioned to the door.

“Open, and act as thou wouldst have done were I not here,” he muttered. He and Devi Pershad, with the Rajputs of the first guard, hastened into the dark interior of the lodge while the man unbound the gate. There entered a very harmless couple, a bhisti, carrying his empty water-bag of goatskin, and a veiled woman whose simple garb showed that she was of the same caste, in all probability his wife.

But why had such a pair used a password, and why were two different passwords in vogue at all that night? Here was a minor riddle of which a sword-point might find the key. Walter sprang forth and seized the water-carrier. The woman uttered a slight cry of alarm, but seemed to regain instant control of herself. The poor bhisti was so taken aback by the sight of the gleaming blade with which the Englishman enforced his stern demand for information that he uttered not a word. His jaw fell and he gazed up at Walter in dumb fear.

Somehow, when the rays of the lantern revealed his features, Mowbray thought he knew the man. Suddenly, recollection came. This was the palace servant who warned him and Roger against Jahangir’s malice on the day of the wild beast combats.

But, whatever form Mowbray’s questions might have taken, all such speculations were driven from his brain, and he released the bhisti in blank amazement, when a well-remembered voice murmured sweetly:—

“Harm him not, Walter. He is a humble well-wisher who escorted me hither.”

It was Nur Mahal who spoke. Never before had she addressed him by his Christian name, the sound of which she must have learned owing to Roger’s frequent use of it. Clearly, she had acquired its facile pronunciation by much private endeavor, for his own mother could not have uttered the word more accurately.

And what was he to say, or do? Though it was always a likely thing that Nur Mahal, knowing he was in Agra, would endeavor to reach him, now that she was actually here how should he shape his course to avoid the complications sure to result if her visit came to Jahangir’s ears? It is not to be wondered at if his brain whirled with jostling thoughts, nor that her presence should obscure for the nonce the vital importance of ascertaining the significance of the passwords, whose mere choice showed that they represented the rival factions of Mahomedans and Hindus.

“I see that you are not to be taken by surprise, let those plan who will,” she whispered, and she laughed musically, with a certain frolicsome lightness long absent from her manner. Was the winsome maid of the Garden of Heart’s Delight re-born amidst the sorrows which encompassed her? Was her rapid descent from high estate the means of her regeneration, seeing that content oft arrives by the door through which ambition departs? Who could tell? Certainly not Mowbray, to whose already grievous load of cares her presence added no inconsiderable charge.

But, if the man were flurried, the woman was not. She threw back her veil, being ever disdainful of the ordinance that women of rank and beauty should hide their faces from the common ken.

“Thank you, good fellow,” she said to the bhisti. “Get you back to the fort speedily, and remember that those who serve me without words shall be paid ten times more than those who talk. Ah!” she continued, turning to the wondering Rajputs who, of course, recognized her as soon as the light illumined her animated features, “Jai Singh told me you were faithful to your salt. It could not be otherwise with men from RajputÁna, yet such fidelity is worthy of reward. It shall not be long delayed.”

The coarse linen sari of the water-carrier’s wife had fallen from her head and shoulders, and even the flickering glimmer of the oil lamp revealed the fact that Nur Mahal was attired with uncommon splendor. She not only looked but spoke like a queen, and her way of addressing the poor retainers at the gate was as gracious and dignified as if they were court nobles.

“Have you brought no other retinue?” asked Walter, at a loss for more pertinent question before so many inquisitive ears.

She laughed again, and the silvery note of her mirth was pleasant if disconcerting.

“All in good time,” she said. “Let us go to the house, but first inquire, if you do not know, who have preceded me. Then I shall tell you who will come after.”

Amidst the chaos of his ideas Mowbray was conscious that Nur Mahal was rendering him one invaluable service. She brought with her certainty where all was void. Her words, her air, betokened a fixed purpose. For all he knew he might be a pawn or a king in the game she was playing, but, until he was further enlightened, it was advisable to move as she directed. Then, being a free agent, he might become erratic.

The doorkeeper, brought to the domain of dry figures, whittled down his earlier statement as to the number of strange visitors he had admitted. There were two Mahomedans, using the significant countersign “Death Watch,” while no less than eight Hindus, excluding Nur Mahal (herself a Mahomedan), were of the “Victory” party. He knew none. His orders were from the Grand Vizier.

“Whither have they gone? Are they secreted in the house?” demanded Mowbray.

“Enough said,” was Nur Mahal’s laconic interruption. “Come with me. I will explain.”

She led him into the avenue of cypresses. When he would have spoken she caught his arm.

“Not here!” she whispered. “I am told you are lodged in the Peacock Room. Let us converse there in privacy.”

“You know so much,” he murmured, “that perchance you can tell me what has befallen Roger Sainton?”

She stopped.

“Why did he leave you?” she asked.

“He went to rescue one whom he promised not to abandon. My fear of intrigue led him to bring the lady here ere it was too late.”

“To bring a woman—here!”

“Why not? If one woman, why not another?”

“Come!” she urged. “We are at cross purposes, but I have no information as to Sainton-sahib. I had hoped he was with you, for he is worth a thousand. Silence now!”

His feet crunched the gravel of the path, yet he disdained to walk stealthily. Nur Mahal’s tiny slippers made no noise. She moved by his side with swift grace, and when he would have made a dÉtour, led him to the main entrance, paying no heed to those of the house servants stationed at the door, though they stared as if she were a ghost. It may be that some among them were aware of her identity, but in any case the apparition of such a woman, unveiled, in the company of a foreigner, was sufficiently remarkable in India to create unbounded astonishment.

She swept on through the building, casting aside the cumbersome sari as if its purpose of concealment were at an end. The few lamps which lit the inner rooms were scattered and dim, but Mowbray could see that his first impression as to the magnificence of her garments was not a mistaken one. She had yielded so far to convention, being a widow, as to wear a purple dress, but the bodice of white silk was fringed with silver, an exquisite shawl draped her shoulders in diaphanous folds, diamonds gleamed in her hair, and her rapid movements showed that her silk stockings were shot with silver. A strange garb, truly, for one who, according to Jai Singh, lived on a pittance of one rupee a day, and even more noteworthy when the manner and hour of her visit to Dilkusha were taken into account.

When she entered the Peacock Room she found Fra Pietro kneeling, with his face sunk in his hands, near to the charpoy, or roughly contrived bedstead, which, like all Europeans, he preferred to the cushions of the East. Walter had quitted the room by another door, so the worthy Franciscan’s spellbound look, when he raised his eyes to learn who it was who came from the interior of the house and saw the radiant figure of Nur Mahal, would surely, under other circumstances, have brought a laugh to Walter’s lips.

The friar, wishing to read some portion of the daily “office,” had obtained four lamps and trimmed them with some care. Comparatively speaking, there was a flood of light at his end of the spacious chamber, and the obscurity reigning in the further part only added to the bewildering effect of the sylph-like being who, after advancing a little way, stood and gazed at him irresolutely.

But Mowbray’s firm tread broke the spell against which Fra Pietro was already fortifying himself by fervent ejaculations. A prophet surprised by the fulfilment of his own prophecy, he rose to his feet, and bowed with the ready politeness of his race.

“Princess,” he said, speaking Urdu, with slow precision, “I greet you! None but you can resolve our perplexities. You are, indeed, well come!”

The aspect of the friar, with the shaven crown, untrimmed beard, coarse brown robe and hood, white cords and rough sandals of St. Francis d’Assisi, was no less astounding to Nur Mahal than was her regal semblance to him. In her eyes he was on a parity with the fakirs, the mullahs, the religious mendicants of her adopted country. The few Europeans she had seen were soldiers, merchants, or dignified ecclesiastics of the Jesuit order, but here was one whose poverty-stricken appearance might well have prejudiced her against him. Like the Apostle whose name he bore, Fra Pietro had said: “Lo, we have left all, and followed Thee.” Of such renunciatory gospel Nur Mahal had no cognizance.

Nevertheless, such was the depth of this girl-widow’s sagacity, that she caught instantly from the Franciscan’s benign features some glimpse of his exalted character. She half turned to Walter with her enchanting smile:—

“I had forgotten the presence of your friend. This, doubtless, is the priest of whom I have heard, and for whose sake you dared do more than for mine.”

“I owed him my life, and more, for he saved me from unimagined horrors. Nor is the debt yet paid in full,” was the reply.

“Can I speak openly before him?”

“You may trust Fra Pietro, Princess, as you would trust none other.”

“Yet I have trusted many to-night. Now list to me carefully, for time presses. Jahangir dies ere daybreak, and there is much to be done by a man who shall risk all.”

“The Emperor dies! Do you mean that he is to be murdered?”

“Call it what you will, his death is ordained. Nay, frown not so ominously. ’Tis not of my planning. Those who wish his downfall are not seeking to avenge my wrongs. If they succeed, and I see no reason why they should fail, they aim at placing Khusrow on the throne. And who is Khusrow? A boy of ten! I, a woman, am a mere puppet in their hands. That is why I am here. You see one who is in the counsels of both parties yet bound to neither.”

She threw back her head, and the circlet of brilliants across her smooth white brow did not send forth brighter gleams than her eyes. Speaking so freely of treason and dynastic plots, she smiled as though the whole affair were some hoax of which she alone knew the petty secret.

“You have met Raja Man Singh and his ally, the Maharaja of Bikanir?” she continued, coolly, before Walter could decide what shape the tumultuous questions trembling on his lips should take.

“Yes,” he answered, “and they are well aware with what loathing I regard their schemes.”

“It is always possible to change one’s mind,” she said slowly. “I cannot, in a few minutes, give you the history of months; the record of the past few hours must suffice. Since it was known that you and the Hathi-sahib were returning to Agra there has been naught but plot and counter-plot. First, those who conspire against the Emperor look to you to help them, and are even now awaiting you in the baraduri at the bottom of the garden. Secondly, Jahangir, well aware of their intent, has resolved to ensnare them and you in one cast of the net. Hence, the followers of Raja Man Singh and those others who will strike for Khusrow are gathering silently, some within a stone’s throw of the outer walls of the palace, ready to follow their leader in the attack on the fort, where the guard of the Delhi Gate will admit them, the remainder among the trees without. But the forces of the Emperor, ten times more numerous, will fall on them at midnight, whereas the revolt is timed for the first hour. Already the traitors inside the fort have been secured. A few live to delude their friends—most are dead. All this, you may say, concerns you not. You are wrong, Mowbray-sahib. You are a greater man than you think. The conspirators count surely on your assistance and that of Sainton-sahib, whose repute with the common people is worth a whole army. Therefore, lest aught miscarried, they came to me and urged me to induce you to head the outbreak. Though I am a weak woman, I might not have consented had not the Emperor joined his supplications to theirs.”

“The Emperor!” cried Walter, with involuntary loudness.

“Hush! The baraduri is not far distant. Yes, Jahangir still favors me with his jealousy. He does not know that—that—you are longing for the sight of some other woman beyond the black seas. Do not misunderstand me. Jahangir hates me and fears you. Kept well informed by his spies of all that was going on, he connived at the scheme which brought you and me to the forefront of the rebellion. Thus, when he stamps it out in blood, we shall be the chief victims. But that is not all. Raja Man Singh and his friends are in no mind to kill Jahangir and clear the way for a foreign intruder. They, too, see how we may serve their ends. Once the Emperor is dead it will be a fitting excuse to get rid of us on the ground that we conspired against him.”

“’Tis a pretty plot,” said Mowbray, grimly. “Hath it any further twists?”

“Yes, one. Raja Man Singh, Khusrow, and the rest are doomed. Few of them shall see the sun again. The man who contrived their fate is far more skilled in intrigue than they. Behind Jahangir and his feud with me stands the black robe.”

“Dom Geronimo! I thought him dead.”

“He may be, but he lived to-day,” was Nur Mahal’s careless answer. “Living or dead, his hour has passed. Others, too, can think and plan. Not plotters now, but swords are needed. I would that Sainton-sahib were here. Why did you let him go?”

“He is hard to restrain when set on anything. But you would not have him and me, with twenty troopers, fight for our own hand ’gainst all India!”

She came nearer to the listening men. In her eagerness she grasped each by an arm and whispered:—

“Jai Singh is within call with two hundred. A few determined men to-night are worth thousands to-morrow. Three hoots of an owl from the wall behind the baraduri will bring him and them. You have the leaders of the revolt gathered in the summer-house, whence they will soon send a messenger to summon you to council. They know I am here and await my pleasure. Above them—” and now her voice dropped so low that the words only just reached their ears—“you have Jahangir himself and his principal minion, Ibrahim, the Chief Eunuch!”

Her eyes blazed with the intensity of her emotion. Great though her power of self-control, she quivered slightly, and the action, trivial in itself, told that this woman was the nerve-center of an empire. She waited no comment. The moment long looked for had come at last. India, with all its potentialities, was within her grasp.

“Doubt not, but act!” she murmured, passionately, seeing the incredulity in the men’s faces. “In the roof of the baraduri there is a secret chamber, contrived there, for their own purposes, by Akbar and my father. From it, in fancied security, Jahangir and Ibrahim can see and hear all that passes beneath. I took care they should know of it. ’Twas too good a bait to pass, and they swallowed it. What joy can equal the Emperor’s when he hears his enemies plotting with you and me to place us on his throne, knowing full well that ere many minutes have passed we shall be slain or, far better, captured, so that he may glut his vengeance on us? Come with me! Let a Rajput give the signal to Jai Singh. Without any fear of failure, almost without a blow, you will have both Jahangir and Khusrow’s adherents in your power to do with as you will.”

They could not choose but believe her. Here was a counter-stroke, worthy indeed of the daughter of one who entered India a pauper and died Prime Minister. Walter’s head swam, and Fra Pietro shook as if with a palsy.

“There is no other course open,” she murmured, vehemently. “It is your death and mine, or Jahangir’s. Decide quickly! Do you flinch from the ordeal?”

“No,” said Mowbray, recovering himself. “If such be the alternatives, may God prosper those who are in the right!”

Nur Mahal released them. Walter would have sent for Devi Pershad, and in a few fateful seconds the irrevocable step must be taken which should plunge India into an era of turmoil and bloodshed. But a tumult of alarm among the household servants, and the clatter of hurried footsteps in the interior of the house, betokened some new and unforeseen commotion. Then the door by which Nur Mahal and Mowbray had entered the room was flung open and Roger appeared, carrying in his left arm the apparently lifeless body of the Countess di Cabota. His long sword was dripping blood, and his clothes were rent by cuts and lance thrusts, but his genial face, never downcast when a fight was toward, broke into a broad grin when he saw Walter.

“By the cross of Osmotherly!” he roared, “I have had the devil’s own job to reach thee, lad. I have fought every inch of a good mile, and been ambushed times out of count. Poor Matilda fainted at the last onset. I had to hug her with one arm and slay with the other. Gad! it was warm work. She is no light weight!”

He deposited his inanimate burthen on a charpoy and cleared his vision of blood and perspiration, for he had been wounded slightly on the forehead. Then he set eyes on Nur Mahal.

“Oh, ho, my lady, art thou here?” he said. “Small wonder there were such goings on without! By gad, thou art the herald of storm on land as the petrel is at sea. Walter, my lad, give us a grip of thy hand! I’m main glad to meet thee again. But Matilda needs tending. Bid this glittering fairy see to her. Whether Portugee or Hindee, I suppose women are much alike in such matters!”