“That may be your affair,” cried Akbar, losing a little of his usual patience; “mine is to watch over the liberty and rights of my people, and to defend them against you, as against the mullahs or priests of any other creeds. Remain here, or go, as it best pleases you; preach as seems good to you, and build churches. You shall enjoy the same privileges as Muhammadans in their mosques and Hindus in their temples. There is, however, one warning which I must give you: the moment I find you attempt to introduce any persecution amongst your converts or others, as already has been the case on the coast of Malabar, that moment shall you be banished from my kingdom, never to set your foot within it again.”
With suppressed wrath Loyola’s follower listened to these proud words; but what could he do, what could he say? He had no complaint to bring against this invariably tolerant prince, and to defy the formidable monarch would have been sheer madness. Nor would there have been a martyr’s crown to gain by doing so. If he, a helpless missionary, were to use threatening and injurious language, the Emperor would not harm a hair of his head,—only send him and his to Surat,[1] and from thence in a ship to Goa, where he would be landed with the utmost courtesy. Perhaps he would not even take that trouble, but simply laugh, “I have the door, show it him.” Miserable and ignominious situation for a member of that order elsewhere so powerful and so feared, before whom the people trembled, and princes and popes were forced to bow their heads in submission!
Akbar interrupted the reflections of the disappointed and silent missionary. “Worthy Father,” he said, in his usual friendly tone, “it indeed grieves me to be obliged to speak with so much frankness and harshness in maintaining my authority in the combat you have yourself invited; and I do not wish to see you depart in anger. I have learnt much from you and yours, the knowledge of which was very welcome to me, and for that I am grateful. If I cannot fulfil your wishes, believe that it grieves me; and if on some points we differ from each other, do not imagine that causes me to respect you less highly. If you will leave us, so be it; but let us part in friendship. Let our parting be in the spirit of the noble Founder of your religion, who said well, that He came not to bring peace but a sword, and yet strove to lay the foundation of a kingdom of peace and love amongst men.”
If Aquaviva a few moments before had bent his head before the might of the Emperor, another power now subdued him, that of Akbar’s moral greatness. The religious fanatic, the passionate zealot, himself felt this, and it was with a trembling voice that the defiant, fearless apostle spoke a few words of farewell to him who stood there obdurate of heart, his eye blinded to the light of truth, and his ear deaf to the warnings of the one Holy Church.
“Forgive us, noble prince,” he said, moved in spite of himself, “if we have said what was displeasing to you, and seemed ungrateful for the many benefits we have received in your kingdom, or at your hands. Ascribe it to the fervour for our faith which animates us, and which is certainly not less strong than the enthusiasm which leads you to devote your life to the welfare of your people. Though you may yourself set no value on our prayers, yet be assured wherever we may go they will always be offered up for you.”
Silently Akbar returned the reverent greeting of the Padre, as he slowly left the room, his fingers moving nervously, as if he were telling his beads.
In one of the passages of the palace, where a single lamp shed a dim, uncertain light, he suddenly stumbled against a man, who answered his excuses by a suppressed curse. “Cursed Christian dog,” he muttered, as he hurried on. It was Abdul Kadir Badaoni, who was on his way to the Emperor, into whose presence he was ushered by servants, and who greeted him by saying, “You see I am always ready to speak with you. I made no difficulty about receiving you when this morning you requested an audience, although the sad circumstances in which I am placed have caused me to see but little of my friends in these last days.”
“Sire,” began Abdul Kadir, with apparent respect, but in a tone of unmistakable anger, and without paying the least attention to the friendly manner in which the Emperor had received him, “I come to bid you farewell; the time of my departure draws near.”
“You also, my worthy friend?” asked Akbar. “And what obliges you to leave us so suddenly?”
“Unwillingness,” was the reply, “to remain here and witness what is to me a daily scandal, and grieves me to the soul; and unwillingness, also, to take part in the treachery and conspiracies with which I see you surrounded, and in which, against my own wishes, I must share were I to linger here. Akbar, your empire approaches its fall! I warned you, when yet there was time, to save yourself; now, perhaps, that time is passed. I know not what is decided on, and I do not wish to know. The resistance you have aroused by your foolish and criminal scorn of our holy religion is, I consider, too powerful to be turned aside. Think of the ambition of Salim your son, and the secret alliance of other and not less ambitious people, who know how to lead him away, so that they may become masters of the rank and appointments now withheld from them. Think of all this, and you will agree with me that the state of affairs is at best extremely threatening to the continuance of your reign; but, as I said,” he continued, not remarking the slight smiles that his dark forebodings had called forth on the lips of the Emperor, “I will not remain to be a daily witness of what here occurs, and is talked of far and wide. The holy Koran you have scorned and trampled under foot; you deride the great Prophet; you indulge in godless practices, learned from impious fire-worshippers; you receive openly at court, and privately in your own apartments, our bitterest foes—the Jews and Christians—you treat them with honour and load them with favours—such a one I have just seen leaving your palace; you receive Indian charmers and magicians, and all such people as Shaitan himself has sent here. In truth, Jalalu-dín Muhammad, you do honour to your name! Jalalu-dín, the glory of faith! Bitter irony of destiny that gave you such a title, which you were destined to insult in so shameful a manner. And now, again, as if all that were not enough, as if you would fill up the full measure, see, see the exaggerated honours paid to the memory of this Abú-l Fazl, this arch enemy of the true faith! He, with his brother Faizi, the denier of God, tempted you to this injustice and to the desertion of our holy religion; and this is the man whom you publicly honour and exalt above all. If his life was no warning to you, then may his death be so before it is too late. You have been told, doubtless, all that was beautiful about his last moments; but believe me that the truth has been withheld from you. I, however much it may cost me, will draw back the veil, and tell you how Abú-l Fazl died. Hear, and shudder at the terrible account which is known to everyone excepting yourself. As long as speech was left to him, Abú-l Fazl did not cease to blaspheme his God in a manner to awaken horror in all who heard him; then he began to yelp or bark like a dog; his features were contorted and his lips blue, as though he already felt the first pangs of that eternal punishment that awaited him.”