The Great Mogul Part 40

"I mistrusted that man from the first," said Jahangir. "Why should he, a European, conspire against his fellows? No beast of prey, unless it be indeed hard pressed, eats its own kind. Howbeit, he will trouble the world no longer."

"What means your Majesty? I was told he was active in his machinations this very day."

"Yes," was the cool reply. "I made use of him until my patience vanished. When you and Sainton-sahib proved him a liar, I sent orders that a cow was to be slain instantly and the black robe sewn in the skin."

"Sewn in the skin!" repeated Walter, incredulously.

"Yes. He will be dead by the fourth watch. Hussain Beg, a traitorous villain from Lah.o.r.e, whom I caused to be sealed in an a.s.s's skin, took a day and a night to die, but the hide of a cow dries more speedily."

Horrified by the fate which had overtaken the arch enemy of his race, Mowbray told Fra Pietro what the Emperor had said. The Franciscan at once appealed for mercy in the Jesuit's behalf.

"Forgive him," he pleaded, "as Christ forgave his enemies. You can save him. Your request will be granted. G.o.d, who knoweth all hearts, can look into his and turn its stone into the water of repentance."

It was not yet one o'clock when Walter and Roger, the latter glad of the errand which freed him from Matilda's embarra.s.sing attentions, rode with a numerous guard to the fort, bearing Jahangir's reprieve for Dom Geronimo.

There had been no delay in the execution of the sentence. They found the unhappy priest already imprisoned in his terrible environment, and almost insane with the knowledge that the stiffening hide was slowly but surely squeezing him to death.

With Sher Afghan's dagger Mowbray cut the st.i.tches of sheep-sinews, and, after drinking some wine and water, the Jesuit fanatic became aware of the ident.i.ty of the man to whom he owed his life.

"'Tis surely time," said Walter, sternly, "that you and I discharged our reckoning. I could have pardoned my father's death, foul murder though it was, on the score of your youth and zeal. But it is unbearable that you, who preach the gospel of Christianity, should pursue with rancor the son of the man you killed with a coward's blow. Now, after the lapse of twenty-four years, I have requited both his untimely loss and your continued malice by saving your wretched life. What sayest thou, Geronimo? Does the feud end?"

"On my soul, Walter!" cried Sainton, "I think he is minded to spring at thee now."

But the glazed eyes of the unfortunate bigot were lifted to his rescuer with the non-comprehending glare of stupor rather than unconquerable hatred. He murmured some reference to the miraculous statue of San Jose, to which, lying at the bottom of the bay of Biscay amidst the rotting timbers of a s.h.i.+p bearing the saint's name, he evidently attributed his escape. So they left him, with instructions as to his tendance, and rode back to the Garden of Heart's Delight.

All fighting had ceased. Some few Samaritans were tending the wounded; ghouls were robbing the dead; a mild rain, come after weeks of drought, was refres.h.i.+ng the thirsty earth and was.h.i.+ng away the signs of conflict.

"What kept thee so long on the road?" asked Walter, when Roger confessed that the shower was the next most grateful thing to a flagon of wine he did not fail to call for and empty at the palace.

"Gad! I was forced to wring Fateh Mohammed's stiff neck," was the unexpected answer. "Having received Jahangir's orders, he held by them as if they were verses of the Koran. The fat knave was backed by too many arquebusiers to a.s.sault him by daylight, so I played fox, and rode off in seeming temper. I and the six troopers hid in a nullah until night fell. Then we spurred straight to Matilda's tent, but Fateh Mohammed, to his own undoing, was grossly annoying her, in that very hour, by professing his great admiration for her manifold attractions.

He was not worth a sword thrust, so what more was there to do than to treat him as my mother treats a fowl which she wants for the spit?"

"What, indeed?" said Walter.

CHAPTER XIX

"To shew our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end."

_Midsummer Night's Dream,_ Act V, Sc. 1.

When they reached Dilkusha they yet had much to talk about. During their absence Jahangir had departed with Nur Mahal, entering the palace by the Water Gate, so the Englishmen did not encounter the royal cortege. Worn out by fatigue, the Countess di Cabota was sound asleep, but Fra Pietro awaited them, being anxious to learn the fate of his co-religionist. He was devoutly thankful that Dom Geronimo was not dead, and his next inquiry dealt with the adventures of Roger throughout the day. Then the lively record of the fight at the gate must be imparted, and nothing would suit the friar, late though the hour was, but he must go and see the fallen elephant, which, guarded by a crowd of awe-stricken natives, still c.u.mbered the entrance to the cypress avenue.

He gazed long at the mighty brute, whose bulk, as it lay, topped a man's height. Then said he to Sainton:--

"At what hour, friend, didst thou attack the camp of Fateh Mohammed?"

"It might be half-past eight of the clock."

"Ah! You forced your way in and out; you rode through hundreds of King's men and rebels, who each in turn sought to bar your path; you fought here so well that not even this monster could prevail against you; nevertheless, our worthy Master Mowbray would scoff at the special protection of St. James which I invoked for you in the very hour of your first onset."

"Gad! Such a serious speech hath a deep meaning. Walter, what's to do between you and our good friar? Hast thou been reviling an apostle?"

"Never, on my life," laughed Mowbray. "When my ears have lost the sounds of strife, Fra Pietro, you shall lecture me most thoroughly on my seeming lack of faith in that matter."

"By the cross of Osmotherly!" vowed Roger, "if St. James be so potent I'll down on my marrow-bones the next time I'm 'bliged to carry Matilda a mile. My soul! my left shoulder will ache for a week with the strain of her exceeding shapeliness."

The Franciscan sighed. They were in no mood for a sermon. The load of care lifted from their hearts by the witchery of the night left room for aught save sober reflection. He must point the moral another day.

When fortune buffets a man for years she is apt, if caught in the right vein, to shower her favors on him with prodigality. Jahangir, wholly taken up in affairs of state and his wedding festivities, did not see his English friends until nearly ten days later. Then he astounded Walter with the information that King James of England had sent an Emba.s.sy to India, that he, Jahangir, meant to march to Ajmere to meet the Amba.s.sador, and that he would esteem it a favor if Mowbray and Sainton would come with him, the journey being a fair measure of the road to Surat.

But this first surprise was sent spinning by the discovery that the leader of the Emba.s.sy was Sir Thomas Roe.

"Does your Majesty know if the Amba.s.sador hath brought his sister?"

asked Sainton, for Mowbray scarce knew how to account for the rush of color which bronzed more deeply his well-tanned face.

"There is no mention of the lady in my despatches. What of her?"

inquired the Emperor.

"That is a tale for Mowbray-sahib to tell," said Roger with a wink, and, indeed, the levity of his manner towards the monarch then, and on many other occasions, greatly scandalized the punctilious court flunkeys.

Jahangir seemed to be greatly pleased by the fact that Walter regarded Nellie Roe as his future wife. Being a devoted husband himself, he naturally told Nur Mahal, and was astonished that she received the news with indifference. Of course, Mistress Roe did not accompany her brother, but she sent a very nicely worded acknowledgment of Walter's letters, together with a small package, which, when opened, disclosed a very beautiful miniature of herself by that same notable artist, Isaac Olliver, who had painted Anna Cave.

One day, when Jahangir and the Emba.s.sy were met in durbar at Ajmere, the conversation turned on this very art of painting on ivory, in which the Delhi artists were highly skilled, and Sir Thomas Roe's "Journal"

contains an effective sketch of the a.s.sembly to which the pictures of the two fair Englishwomen (Anna being then secretly married to Roe) were brought for comparison with native products.

"When I came in I found him sitting cross legged on a little throne, all cladd in diamondes, Pearles, and rubyes; before him a table of gould, on yt about 50 Peeces of gould plate sett all with stones, some very great and extreamly rich, some of lesse valew, but all of them almost couered with small stones; his n.o.bilitye about him in their best equipage, whom hee Commanded to drinck froliquely, seuerall wynes standing by in great flagons."

There was some good-humored dispute as to the ability of the Delhi craftsmen to copy Master Olliver's work, and a bet was made, which both Roe and Mowbray discreetly lost when the originals were returned with the reproductions. Yet, the native artists had achieved a better result than the Englishmen expected, whilst Jahangir was puzzled by his wife's eagerness to see Nellie Roe's presentment, although she evinced no curiosity concerning her when first he mentioned the projected marriage.

But the Emperor, still a wine-bibber it is clear, soon ceased to question the why and the wherefore of Nur Mahal's actions. Each day of his life he fell more and more under her influence. Soon he practically made over the government of the state into her hands. At that time, especially during Mowbray's continuance with the court, she exhibited a restless activity which found no sedative save constant movement.

Devoted to sport, and showing much skill in using a gun which Sir Thomas Roe gave her, she shot many tigers with her own hand, and tigers, even at that distant date, were to be found only in secluded jungles.

A letter preserved in the Addlestone MS, from Sir Thomas Roe to Sir Thomas Smythe, refers to the Empress's pa.s.sion for roaming in remote districts. "I am yet followeing this wandering King," he writes, "ouer Mountaynes and through woodes, so strange and unused wayes that his owne People, who almost know no other G.o.d, blaspheame his name and Hers that, it is sayd, Conducts all his actions."

This same disturbing transition from place to place led to the departure, much against her will, of the Countess di Cabota to Bombay.

Her ladys.h.i.+p found out, what was oft rumored in India, that the Dowager-Empress, Mariam, mother of Jahangir, was really a Christian woman of Portuguese birth. The Countess met her, and spoke to her in her own language, and the incident incensed the Emperor, who feared that his claim to be another Mahomet might be questioned by the imaums. Roe, a politic negotiator, took advantage of the hards.h.i.+ps and difficulties of baggage-carrying involved by the daily breaking up of the camp, to despatch the Countess to the nearest Portuguese port.

She took leave of Roger with copious tears, and wrote him long letters he could not read, so that Walter was obliged to order his face as he made known her loving messages, and heard Roger swearing under his breath the while. Soon she sailed for Lisbon, and the big man, thinking he would never see her again, did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

Mowbray naturally rendered the greatest service to the English mission.

The whole country was thrown open to British trade, special sites were granted for factories, and, indeed, Roe's emba.s.sy undoubtedly planted in India the seeds which have borne such million-fold yield. But Walter, to his great relief, found that Nur Mahal avoided him. He seldom exchanged a word with her, and then only by way of formal politeness. She moved like a star, bright and remote. The sole instances of personal favor which she showed him consisted, in the first place, of the redemption of the box of diamonds for money, and, secondly, in urging him and Roger to invest two thirds of their capital in indigo, which, s.h.i.+pped to London, was worth five times what they paid for it in India.

During an uneventful voyage home, Roger often spoke of his Matilda, and wondered how she fared. He was sorry a gale blew them past Lisbon, though it hurried them to the Downs, but his regret merged with other sentiments when he learned, by advices awaiting Walter from his mother, that the Countess di Cabota was arrived in Wensleydale, where she had won much popularity, and was a special favorite of old Mistress Sainton's.

"Ecod!" roared Roger, when the full effect of this amazing intelligence penetrated his big head, "that ends it. I am undone! Between them they'll lead me to the kirk wi' a halter, for my owd mother ever had an eye for t' bra.s.s, and Matilda will have filled her lug wi' sike a tale that I'll be tethered for life."