She shrank from him.
“You forced me to wed you,” she protested. “I did not love you.”
Plucking a dagger from his belt he offered it to her.
“I dreamed to conquer the fickle heart of a woman,” he said. “If you were minded to end your woes by my death, here is my unprotected breast. Kill me! It is my desire. Better that than an assassin’s blow at the hands of the woman I love.”
She burst into a passion of tears and fell to her knees.
“Forgive me, my Lord,” she sobbed; and her grief was music in Sher Afghán’s ears. If, indeed, his wife regretted her attitude he could afford to be magnanimous. Throwing sword and dagger to the ground he bowed to Jahangir.
“Your Highness has been misled by idle tongues,” he said. “Tidings of this brawl will reach the Emperor as fast as men can ride. Let you and me hasten to his presence and together seek his clemency.”
It was a proposal which could only emanate from a chivalrous soul, but Jahangir was too enraged by his defeat, too embittered by Nur Mahal’s apparent submission, to avail himself of it.
“I neither plead nor make excuse,” he said. “Go you in peace with your bride. I call Allah to witness that I have been misled by none save Nur Mahal herself. My followers have fled, though I am glad to see some of the hare-livered dogs cumber the ground. Give me a horse and I shall ride alone, if your foreign ally grants my liberty.”