Sainton, by reason of his height, could see over the heads of the crowd.
“By the cross of Osmotherly!” he cried, “the mystery is cleared. Here comes Sher Afghán, closely tended, if not a prisoner.”
It was, indeed, the Persian noble himself who now advanced towards Jahangir, the Emperor having swung his chair, which was on a pivot, to face the palace. Sher Afghán’s mien was collected, his dress in good order. He was unarmed, and the mace-bearers who marched behind him might be merely doing him honor.
With eyes for none save Jahangir he strode on with firm step. At the proper distance he stopped and bowed deeply.
“To hear the King’s order is to obey,” he said quietly. “Your Majesty’s messenger rode far, for I hastened to Burdwán, but when he reached me I turned my horse’s head that moment.”
“Say rather, you gave orders to your litter carriers. When last we parted you had pleasant company in the palki,” replied Jahangir.
“Neither my wife nor I love indolence, O King of Kings. We have ridden hither at the rate of sixty miles a day.”
“I am glad of it. Being newly come to the throne I did not wish the most beautiful and the bravest of my subjects to be banished from the capital to far Burdwán.”
“Your Majesty’s words are more propitious than a favorable sign in the heavens.”
“They carry no better augury than the hour of your arrival, for, in very truth, I feared you might be tardy. I owe these strangers from beyond the black waters some slight debt in my illustrious father’s behalf. Certain monies shall be paid them, but first I have discharged a promise of the great Akbar’s to entertain them.”