“You, too, have come to witness my degradation—you, in whom I thought I had found a new lover.”
For some reason, unknown even to himself, he bowed sorrowfully. When he lifted his head again, Sher Afghán was seated beside his unwilling spouse, a gorgeously-clad mahout was prodding the elephant’s head with a steel ankus, and the stately animal was marching off into the shadow of the cypresses, his path being marked by two winding rows of lanterns.
Feeling themselves slightly out of place among the nawabs, omrahs, and other grandees who formed the Diwán’s guests, the Englishmen soon took their leave. Their servants, thinking the sahibs would sit long at the feast, had gone off to revel with the rest of their kind, and there was a wearisome delay whilst one guard after another was despatched to search for them, the truth being that each chuprassi seized the opportunity himself to indulge in libation and eat the sweetmeats provided with lavish hand for the household, before he fulfilled his quest.
The wedding cortège had gone, the night was dark and cold, and the patience of the belated pair was fast ebbing, when a hubbub of shouting and firing, mixed with the screams of women and the neighing of horses at some distance, rudely disturbed the brooding silence.
“Gad!” roared Sainton, “I thought there would be a fight.”
“The Prince has attacked the escort. He means to slay Sher Afghán and carry off the girl. What can we do?” cried Walter.
“Bide where we are. Here comes news if I be not mistaken.”
Indeed, the loud trumpeting of an elephant, and the shaking of the earth under his mighty rush, showed that not only had the Persian’s force been overcome but he was in full retreat. The excited servants of the Diwán—those who were left at the entrance—barred the gate and left the Englishmen standing outside. But there was a lamp there, and the row of little lights on top of the wall lit up the roadway sufficiently to reveal the approach of the elephant. He came with the speed of a galloping horse, his trappings flying in wild disorder and his trunk uplifted in terror. Behind him raced a mob of armed men, but, on his left side, managing a fine Arab with consummate skill, and cutting and thrusting madly at Sher Afghán, rode Prince Jahangir. The Persian, leaning well out of the howdah, was endeavoring with equal fury to kill or maim his royal rival, but the swaying strides of the elephant, and the difference in height between the huge brute and the horse, made it difficult if not impossible for either combatant to injure the other.
Yet Sher Afghán’s face was bleeding, and Jahangir’s clothes were torn. Evidently there had been a sharp tussle ere the mahout turned his obedient monster towards the Diwán’s residence.
Behind Sher Afghán, Mowbray saw the white, distraught face of Nur Mahal. He fancied, though the whole incident was fleeting as a dream, that she held a dagger in her right hand, but his attention was distracted by Roger shouting:—