“They will come back,” she said, calmly. “They have promised; and those men never say what they do not mean.”
Yet one of the pair reflected ruefully, as he jogged towards Agra, that he had said a good deal more than he meant to say. Mowbray, noting his comrade’s introspective mood, forbore to question him as to his farewell interview with the Countess, and Roger quaked at the thought of putting into words his recollections of the scene. So Walter chatted with Fra Pietro, seeking that grave counselor’s views as to the possible motives which inspired Jahangir’s remarkable volte-face.
To reach the Garden of Heart’s Delight the cavalcade crossed a ford of the Jumna and followed a road along the left bank of the river. Thus, they passed close to the royal palace, being separated from it only by the width of the stream. Its lofty red sandstone walls, high piled towers and threatening battlements, topped by the exquisite spires and minarets of the white marble buildings within, made a resplendent and awe-inspiring picture in the vivid sunlight. Dominating the cluster of regal apartments on the river face was the superb Diwán-i-Khas, or Hall of Private Audience, which stands to this day “a miracle of beauty.” Mowbray knew it well. Behind its inlaid walls lay the garden in which Akbar chaffered with the ladies at the fair, and on the south side was the broad terrace whence Roger heaved the great stone onto the tiger.
Standing boldly out in the angle formed by the Diwán-i-Khas and the terrace was the Golden Pavilion, so called because of its roof of gilded copper, and nestling close to this glittering apex of the zenana was the fairy-like Jasmine Tower. No strange eyes might dare to rest on that imperial sanctuary save from a distance. Yet Mowbray, from description oft repeated, could tell the Franciscan some of its glories; how the marble pavement of its inner court represented a pachisi-board, on which the Sultana and her ladies played a clever game with shells; how the lovely lattice-work of the window screens was cut out of solid slabs of marble; how trailing devices of flowers and fruit were fashioned in pietra dura with carnelians, agates, turquoises, and all manner of bright colored or sparkling gems; how fountains made music where marble baths were sunk in the floor, while the dripping naiads who emerged from the cool depths might survey their charms in the Shish Mahal, or Room of a Thousand Mirrors, wherein a cascade of rippling water fell over a tiny terrace artificially lighted with colored lamps. These and other marvels did he pour into Fra Pietro’s ears, until the friar piously crossed himself and said with a smile:—
“Yet a little while and these glories shall be forgotten. ‘Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was; and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.’”
“But you will grant, good brother, that a man only lives once on earth, and it would be scarce credible, did we not know it, that with all our Western wit we have naught in London or Paris to match the skill of these barbarians,” cried Walter.
“I have seen in old Rome the crumbling fragments of palaces for which the proudest hall in Agra might serve as an ante-chamber. Brethren, more traveled than I, and learned men withal, have told me of the still more wondrous works of ancient Greece and forgotten Babylon. Of what avail are the vain efforts of man! ‘Lord, a day in Thy courts is better than a thousand. Heaven and earth shall pass away, but Thy word shall not pass away.’”
Though the friar spoke Latin when he quoted the Bible, Walter followed his thought closely. Here was a man wholly unmoved by the pomp and vanity of the world. Fra Pietro paid more heed to a budding shrub as a manifest sign of the Creator than to all the transient splendor of the Mogul capital. Yet he was one who seldom mixed religion with his conversation, and it is reasonable to suppose that his utterances would have taken a less abstract form had he known that the bright eyes of Nur Mahal were even then fixed intently on the cavalcade from the recess of a small apartment over the Water Gate of the palace. Perchance the subtle mesmerism of her glance was more potent with his gentle spirit than with the hardier soul of the young Englishman, for his sedate mule had not gone many paces by the side of Walter’s mettlesome Arab ere he spoke again:—
“Forgive me, friend,” he said, “if I broke in on your discourse with solemn reflections. One must be boorish, indeed, to deny a just meed of praise to the designers and builders of yonder superb pile. Tell me, as you seem to know its ways so well, in what quarter does Nur Mahal probably dwell?”
“There!” and Mowbray pointed straight towards the Water Gate.