They could obtain little further information from the servant so they bade him hasten after his master, and, to still his tongue, Walter gave him another silver coin.
Though the presence of Dom Geronimo in Agra was an omen of bad fortune, they agreed, in converse over a meal of which they were much in need, that his animosity would be exerted in vain if they maintained the good relations already established with the Emperor. Akbar was renowned for his religious tolerance. The tale told by the native was one of many which revealed this generous trait in a ruler deservedly entitled “the Great.” The Jesuits, coming to India in the wake of the Portuguese, were already well established in Agra, where they were then building a splendid church. They and the Capuchins, composed, for the most part, of learned and truly pious men, not only commanded respect by their discretion and Christian meekness, but won the admiration of the educated classes by their scientific knowledge. It was probable that the religious zeal of a fanatic like Dom Geronimo would be restrained by his wiser brethren. His intemperate language had earned him a typical soubriquet, which stood out in curious contrast to the charity of the doctrines preached by eminent missionaries like Father Joseph d’Acosta, a Portuguese, and Father Henri Busée, a Fleming.
“I have heard,” said Mowbray, expounding some such theory to Roger, “that the Emperor once became impatient at the reproaches of the moullahs, who were ever denying him the use of certain meats and wines. ‘If these things are forbidden by the Koran,’ said he, ‘according to what religion can a man eat and drink as he likes?’ ‘That is the teaching of the Christians alone,’ said they. ‘Then let us all turn Christians,’ said Akbar. ‘Let tailors convert our loose garments into closer fitting coats, and fashion our turbans into hats.’ He frightened them, and they all declared that, however it might be for common men, the Koran did not affect the sovereign.”
“Be that as it may,” said Sainton, “and the tale is not unlike some in vogue about our own Jamie, I am a believer in portents. Here we are in Agra, and not a whole day before we run up against a girl and a black robe. In London—”
“You will anger me, Roger,” cried Walter in sudden heat, “if you speak thus of Nellie Roe and Nur Mahal in the same breath.”
“Ecod, you flare up in the twinkling of a quart pot, the sheer name of which gives me a thirst. What the devil! has it not a queer semblance to magic, to say the least?”
Mowbray grudgingly admitted so much, but their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger who, on behalf of Sher Afghán, apologized very handsomely for his master’s apparent rudeness in leaving them so hastily at the palace, and invited them to the wedding ceremony that night at the residence of the Diwán.
“Here is a spark in a hurry to light a bonfire,” cried Roger when he disentangled the request from a maze of compliments.
“’Twas the Emperor’s command,” said Mowbray, dubiously. “I suppose we must go. He befriended us greatly, though I hold it the wiser thing to send a civil excuse.”
He rose to bid their servants prepare their best attire, and Roger eyed him with a smile.