It was an inglorious end to an undertaking which opened so auspiciously. The sole consolation Mowbray could derive from soul-wearying thought as to the future arose from the certain relief he had given to the unhappy captives. From the depths of misery the Portuguese were raised to a level of comparative comfort, whilst Fra Pietro had assuredly been snatched from the very jaws of death.
So, at last, Walter resolved to abandon useless gropings against the veil which shrouded the days to come. He made himself as agreeable as might be to Fateh Mohammed, and so played upon the latter’s ambitious dreams that not even the hostile Kotwal of Allahabad was able to disturb the arrangement into which they had mutually entered.
The column crawled up country at a slow rate, for such a mixed company travels perforce at the pace of its most dawdling units. Fifteen miles was a good day’s march, and, where a river barred the road, many hours were wasted in safely transferring men and animals from bank to bank.
And now, for the first time in his life, Roger Sainton fell under petticoat dominance. Buen principio, la mitad es hecha—“Well begun is half done”—says the Spanish proverb, and certainly the Hathi-sahib made a good start.
The Countess di Cabota professed that she never felt safe from the perils of the way unless the big Yorkshireman held her mule’s bridle. He beguiled the hours by improving her English, of which language she already had a fair knowledge; she repaid him by many a bright smile, and displayed a most touching assiduity in mastering the broad vowels and quaint phrases of his speech, for Roger’s slow diction was the pure Anglo-Saxon which yet passes current in his native dale.
They were thrown together the more that Walter sought distraction from troubled reverie in learned discourse with Fra Pietro, and for this sort of talk Roger had no stomach. Once Mowbray rallied the giant on the score of the attention he paid to the buxom Countess, but Roger countered aptly.
“I’ faith,” he said, “she is a merry soul, and not given to love vaporings like most of her sex. She tells me her heart troubled her somewhat before she married, but the fit passed quickly, and now she will be well content if the Lord sends her home to wholesome fare and a down pillow. After that, commend me to a fat woman for horse sense. Your scraggy ones, with saucer eyes, would rather a love philter than a pint of wine, but set down a stoup of both before her Ladyship and I’ll wager our lost box of diamonds that she’ll spill the potion on the ground and the good liquor down her throat.”
“At last, then, you have found a woman who marches with your humor?”
“I’m not one to judge such a matter quickly,” murmured Roger with a dubious frown. “They’re full of guile at the best, yet I vow it pleases me to hear Matilda say ‘Caramba!’ to her mule. It minds me of my mother rating a lie-abed maid of a Monday morning. ‘Drat you for a huzzy,’ she would cry, ‘here is six by the clock already! To-morrow’s Tuesday an’ next day’s Wednesday—half t’ week gone an’ nowt done!’”
“So the lady’s name is Matilda?”