Jahangir was on his feet instantly. Sher Afghán should not escape him now unless the gods fought against him.
“To me!” he yelled. “Spare not! Every man shall have a golden tauq!”[B]
The elephant struggled to rise, but failed. He was dazed by his terrific impact against the solid gateway. Sher Afghán leaped from the howdah and rushed joyously to meet his frenzied antagonist. Perhaps the fate of India would have been settled then and there for many a year had not the mob of horsemen, unable to stay their disorderly pursuit, swept between the rivals. Many of the sowars were thrown by crashing into the immovable bulk of the squealing beast in the roadway: most of the others either reined in, expecting to encounter a fresh foe, or were carried past the gate.
Walter, in whom the fire of battle had extinguished the dictates of prudence, whipped out his sword, faced the enraged Prince, and engaged him in rapid play. The curved scimitar of the East had no chance against the straight English blade, wielded as it was by one versed in the art of European swordsmanship. Jahangir was disarmed, his wrist nearly broken when he would have drawn a dagger, and Mowbray, closing fearlessly, pinned him against the base of the wall. His infuriated adversary was no puny youth, but Walter was now at his best. He tripped Jahangir, got him down, and gripped him by the throat, saying:—
“Yield, fool, and lie quiet. If Sher Afghán finds thee he will slay thee without mercy.”
In the road a remarkable change had taken place. The elephant’s assault had dislodged a long and heavy iron bar which served to prop the door from within. Sainton, alert as a fox in an emergency, saw it lying amidst the ruins. Any ordinary man would find it a difficult thing to lift, but Roger, sheathing his sword, picked it up and used it with both hands as a quarter staff. He leaped back into the mêlée and made onslaught with this fearsome weapon on men and horses alike. In the press, the Prince’s retainers could not use their arrows, and their cumbrous matchlocks, once discharged, could not be reloaded readily. As for their swords and short lances, of what avail were such bodkins against this raging giant, mowing down all comers with a ten-foot bar of iron? Who could withstand him? Those who escaped him fled, and the clash of steel beyond the circle of light told that Sher Afghán’s followers, though dispersed by the first unexpected charge, had rallied and were coming to the assistance of their chief.
Sainton, who thoroughly enjoyed the fight, ceased his exertions when he saw Sher Afghán helping Nur Mahal to alight from the howdah. A crowd of guests and armed vassals, attracted by the noise of the conflict, had run from the house, and the obedience rendered to the Persian’s orders by a fresh batch of horsemen advancing out of the darkness showed that the assailants had been completely routed.
But some remained. Six horses and more than twenty men were prone in the dust, and few of them moved, for that terrible bar had touched naught that it did not break. The fallen elephant blocked the gate and the big Yorkshireman held the road. None could come out from the garden save by a wicket, and neither friend nor foe dared to approach within striking distance of Roger.
Sher Afghán, who had not earned his name, “Slayer of Lions,” by bragging, glanced at the tumbled heap which surrounded Sainton and cried:—
“May Allah bear witness this night that thou hast saved my life, friend from beyond the seas. I did well to help thee, and nobly hast thou repaid my service. But where is thy brother? I trust he has come to no harm.”