“’Tis a brave show,” muttered Roger. “This Agra must be a grand place to loot.”
They lost sight of the cortège and halted in front of a strong but exceedingly beautiful gateway, fashioned in a Saracenesque arch of white marble, and bedecked with scrollwork wrought in precious stones, with a text in Persi-Arabic over the porch.
Whilst the guide spoke to a guard, Walter deciphered the script:—
“http:‘May Allah prosper all who enter and all who leave this dwelling!’ A most noble wish,” he said, “and one which I reciprocate to the full.”
“These Mahmouds have a way of uttering a prayer when they cut your throat,” growled Roger. “They never kill a duck but they chant a verse of their scripture to mark the beheading. Now, I’ll warrant me this is a canting rogue at the best.”
The gate was thrown open. Between its portals was revealed a vista of a most delightful garden, where roses hung in festoons and all manner of beautiful shrubs gave shade to pleasant lawns or were reflected in the placid depths of clear lakes. Half hidden among lofty trees they saw the low towers of a mansion built wholly of white marble, and decorated, like the gate, with flower-like devices wrought in topaz, and carnelians, and blue, red, and green gems that sparkled with the fire of sapphires, rubies, and emeralds.
“The inmate may have the heart of a rogue, but he has the eye of an angel,” said Walter. “Is this the house of Itimad-ud-Daula?” he went on, in Urdu.
“It is, sahib,” answered the guide.
“And how is it called?”