“You have a most excellent color,” said Roger, eyeing her critically.
She sighed.
“It may be,” said she, “that as we are near Agra my heart droops. What manner of man is Jahangir? Is he of a generous and princely disposition?”
“If he takes after his father he should be open-handed with other folks’ money. I know him to be a fine judge of a woman, which is a right royal attribute; but he drinks freely, a better quality in a sponge than in a king.”
“Sancta Maria! A spendthrift, a libertine, and a sot! What hope have we of such a one?”
Roger laid a huge paw on her shoulder, and his merry eyes looked down into hers although she was riding a fair sized mule.
“Be not cast down, Matilda!” he cried. “If the sky were cloudy you would not vow the sun would ne’er shine again. I observed it was hotter in coming to the Line than under the Line itself. Here, Got wot, it is hottest of all, yet fear and fancy may be worse bogies than fact.”
For some reason, his hopeful philosophy did not console the lady that morning. She leaned a little against his arm, and glistening tears suddenly dimmed her vision.
“Alas!” she sobbed, “we are all going to our death, and you, good Roger, have risked your life to no purpose.”
“Then shall I die in good company, a thing much to be commended. He that went to the grave with Elisha recovered his breath owing to his lodging.”