Mowbray stifled his rage. He must play his part to the end.
“Of course,” he said, “there were difficulties. This is no time to tell these unfortunates of the Emperor’s regret. Order them to be freed and given good food. Then let them rest all this day until horses and camels are procured for to-morrow’s march.”
The stout commander obeyed instantly, with such denunciations of his myrmidons and such appeals to the Prophet that his own men deemed him temporarily insane, while some among the unhappy prisoners lifted their heads to ascertain if they had heard aright.
The plight of the women was not so bad. None save the young and good looking had been brought from Hughli. They were supplied with mules and ponies, and were destined for the zenanas of such court favorites as might take a fancy to them. All the older women had been massacred in cold blood. There were girls who had lost their mothers, wives who had seen their husbands cut to pieces before their eyes. Over them, too, brooded a settled despair. Tears had long been dried. There remained only a haunting terror of the future.
Prominent among them, if only on account of the richness of her soiled garments, was the Countess di Cabota. Although she was, in Eastern eyes, bewitching by reason of her fair skin, large brown eyes, and exceedingly plump figure, she was undoubtedly over thirty years of age. Hence, she owed her life to that which many another woman risks her life to avoid, namely, a somewhat too pronounced development of a figure naturally inclined to solidity.
The unhappy lady—perhaps by subtle operation of the principle noblesse oblige—retained some degree of vivacity. Her glance no sooner fell on Mowbray than she cried in Portuguese:—
“Mother of mercy! An Englishman of rank!”
Walter doffed his hat with ceremonious politeness.
“A friend, too, I trust, Countess,” he said. “You may believe that, from this moment, your sufferings have ended.”