“If things go awry,” he said, with a smile, “you will be the last to fall, Roger.”
“Aye, lad,” was the rueful response. “I am doubting now lest we ought not to hunt together.”
“Your heart says so, but your head warns you that we have chosen the better way. Good-by!”
“Good-by, Walter, and may the Lord be with you!”
Accompanied by a single Rajput trooper, a brave youth specially recommended by Jai Singh, Walter turned his horse’s head towards the road. The others, led by their guide, rode off into the jungle, where they were speedily lost to sight.
Soon the sun, dissipating the dawn-mist, disclosed a cloud of dust rising slowly from the track some two miles southwards. Walter advanced at a walking pace. He was dressed with unusual care. His long sword was slung from a handsome baldrick; Sher Afghán’s dagger shone in his belt; a cloak of quilted silk, trimmed with rich fur, hung from his shoulders. These accessories, together with his plumed hat, heavy riding boots, and attire of dark brown cloth, gave a distinguished appearance to one whose face and figure proclaimed him a cavalier of high lineage. His attendant, too, had donned the state livery of his former master. The two were superbly mounted, and well calculated, by their style and bearing, to take by surprise the leader of a rabble host marching through a country where all was new to his eyes.
For Mowbray, as shall be seen, had prepared his measures judiciously. When he sighted the mounted vanguard of the convoy he clapped spurs to his horse, and, followed by his orderly, galloped towards them at a rapid pace. Pulling up within a few yards of the astonished soldiers, who were already consulting as to the identity and errand of this unlooked-for embassy, he shouted sternly:—
“Halt, in the Emperor’s name! Bring Abdul Aziz hither at once!”
He calculated that this assumption of authority would not be questioned, nor was he mistaken.
“It is not known to your honorable presence that Abdul Aziz remains at Hughli,” said one who was the captain of the guard.