The lowering anger in his closely set eyes, the quivering lips which scarce could form the words, showed that Jahangir was not only keenly resentful of his plight but that he scorned Nur Mahal for her meekness. The appearance of the Diwán, agitated and faltering in his steps, put an end to a scene which at any moment might have assumed a new phase of violence. The aged statesman, when his first alarm was sped, thought more of the morrow than of the present excitement. He bade Sher Afghán undertake the interrupted journey in a litter as soon as his wounds were bound, and he despatched Jahangir to the fort with a strong guard of his own servants.
By this time the dazed elephant had yielded to the curses and endearments of the mahout. He rose ponderously, and marched across the ruins of the gate to his stable.
For some reason the Diwán would not allow Mowbray and Sainton to return to the caravansary. He may have feared for their safety, or perhaps he found comfort in the thought that Roger, mighty man of war, slept under his roof.
Before setting out a second time Sher Afghán came to the chamber allotted to them. He threw around Roger’s neck a magnificent gold chain studded with turquoises.
“Let me gild the bond of steel which rivets our friendship,” he said.
To Walter he handed a dagger, with a handle so encrusted with diamonds that it blazed in the light of a lamp like a single huge stone.
“It is worthy of the hand of my friend and the heart of my enemy,” he cried, nor would he harken to their protests, but hurried away to the waiting litter and Nur Mahal.
“How read you the riddle of this night’s doings?” asked Roger, when they were alone once more.
“There is no riddle. ’Tis nothing new in history for a woman to plot for a throne.”