The Great Mogul Part 10

"Dom Geronimo!" he cried. "Your priestly t.i.tles are unfamiliar. Is he, by any chance, one who was known in former years as Fra Geronimo, a Jesuit from Toledo?"

"The same, I should believe. He is now a dignitary of much consequence."

"He is a foul murderer! He slew my father by a coward's blow, during the great sea-fight off Dover. Oh, to think of it! Not yet two days since he stood in front of my sword."

"I was minded to tap the bald spot on his skull with my staff and you restrained me," growled Roger.

Mowbray's bitter exclamation seemed to horrify Fra Pietro. He placed his hands over his ears.

"Madre de Dios!" he murmured, "speak not thus of the head of the Holy Office. Did anyone else hear you your fate were sealed, and the Lord knoweth your case is bad enough without adding further condemnation."

Sensible that the Franciscan could hardly be expected to agree with the denunciation of his religious superior, Mowbray restrained the tumultuous thoughts that coursed wildly through his brain. He bowed his head between his hands and abandoned himself to sorrowful reflection. A good deal that was hidden before now became clear.

It was not to be wondered at that Sir Thomas Roe should be puzzled by the animosity displayed by an unknown clique in Whitehall against two strange youths who happened to partic.i.p.ate, as upholders of the law, in a not very serious brawl. The expression of the Jesuit's face when he heard Mowbray's name, the determined measures adopted by Gondomar to capture those who had defeated the cleverly planned abduction of the two girls, the remorseless hatred of Dom Geronimo's words when he visited the captives overnight, all pointed to one conclusion. The Jesuit was, indeed, the fanatic who killed Sir Robert Mowbray on board the _San Jose_, and he was ready, after twenty years, to pursue the son with a spleen as malevolent as that which inspired the a.s.sa.s.sin's blow that struck down the father.

How crafty and subtle had been the means adopted to crush Roger and himself! Were fair inquiry held, no charge could have lain against them.

So an unworthy monarch, already a dupe in the game of king-craft played by Spain, had weakly consented to allow the royal warrant to become an active instrument in the hands of an implacable bigot. Swift and sure was Dom Geronimo's vengeance. They had the misfortune to cross his path without the knowledge even of his ident.i.ty, and now they were being ferried to Spain for some dread purpose the mere suspicion of which chilled the blood in Mowbray's veins.

And Nellie Roe! She, with her beautiful and imperious cousin, was left in the city which harbored a hostile influence so venomous, so pitiless, and yet so powerful. The suspicion that she, too, if only because a Mowbray was her rescuer, might fall under the ban of the Jesuit, wrung a cry of anguish from his lips. Hardly knowing what he did, and not trusting himself to speak, he rushed on deck with the mad notion of throwing himself overboard in a vain attempt to swim ash.o.r.e. As he emerged from the companionway a whiff of spray struck him in the face.

The slight shock restored his senses. A heavy sea was running, and the coast was six miles distant. To spring over the bulwarks meant suicide.

Moreover, could he desert Roger? It was not to be thought of. Though death might be a relief, he must stick to his loyal friend, no matter what the ills in store.

Meanwhile, Roger, in his homely way, was telling Fra Pietro the story of their adventures. The monk, who seemed to be of a very kind and benignant disposition, said little. But he listened attentively. Later, when Mowbray had steeled his heart to endurance, Fra Pietro spoke gently to him, and, when the pair were stricken with sea-sickness, he tended them like a skilled nurse.

And so the days pa.s.sed until, with a favoring gale, they neared the Portuguese coast, and the _Sparta_, for thus was the ship named, bore up for Cape Finisterre and thence ran steadily, under the lee of the land, down to the harbor of Lisbon. Fra Pietro, with whom they had contracted a very real friendship, although his beliefs and opinions ran counter to theirs on almost every topic they discussed, was greatly concerned when the captain's edict went forth that during the vessel's stay in port the two prisoners must be chained in their cabin.

Yet he sought and obtained permission to visit them, and twice he brought them a goodly supply of fresh fruit and a flagon of the famed wine of Oporto. The _Sparta_ was not tied to a wharf. She dropped anchor well out in the harbor, and communication with the sh.o.r.e could only be made by means of a boat.

Fra Pietro came to see his English friends for the last time. There were always two sentries on duty at the cabin door now, so it was evident that Senor Caravellada meant to discharge his trust with scrupulous fidelity.

It is natural that the worthy monk, knowing full well the dreadful fate that awaited the two youths at the end of the voyage, should be much downcast during this farewell interview.

Yet there was a hesitancy in his manner that did not escape Walter's eyes. He produced his basket of grapes and peaches and rich pomegranates, while, this time, he carried three wicker-covered flasks of wine.

Then he began to laugh nervously.

"In one of these flagons, that with the broken seal," he said, "the wine is extraordinarily potent. It has the quality of sending a man into a sound sleep if he imbibe even a small measure, yet it tastes like other wine."

"Ah," exclaimed Roger, who had caught a hint from the close attention paid by Mowbray to the monk's words, "that should be a fine liquor if a man wanted to sleep but could not."

Fra Pietro held out a luscious bunch of grapes.

"Within a bowshot from this ship," he said, affecting a gaiety that should hide the serious nature of his words, "there is a Portuguese vessel, the _Sancta Trinidad_. She sails for the East Indies before dawn. The captain, an honorable man, would give safe asylum to those who were distressed, could they but reach his ship, and in this cl.u.s.ter of grapes is a file. My friends, may G.o.d prosper you! Though you are not of my faith I cannot but wish you well. I have striven hard ash.o.r.e to help you. I have pleaded with those in power, but my words have fallen on deaf ears. Now you know the extent of my poor resources. _Dominus vobisc.u.m! In ma.n.u.s tuas, Domine, commendo juventes._"

Tears sprang into his eyes, he lifted his hands to heaven as he called down a blessing on them, and the two bowed their heads before this good and true man, in whom the spirit of Christian charity triumphed over narrow conceptions of dogma.

His prayers seemed to abide with them. When night fell the men whose duty it was to maintain the watch indulged in a carouse, as those who had been ash.o.r.e not only returned full of liquor but carried with them a liberal supply of wine for their less fortunate comrades.

Hence, though Roger drugged two of the guard into torpor, no suspicion was aroused when the relief came, but the sergeant, growling at the drunkards, determined to take a turn himself on duty. Now this circ.u.mstance, at first forbidding, turned out to be providential. Walter had plied the file industriously on his shackles, but it was quite certain that several hours of severe labor would be needed before he could cut through his own and Roger's anklets. Sainton, with his great strength, might have pulled the staples from the floor, but this would be of little avail if they were compelled to swim to the ship described by Fra Pietro. Moreover, their freedom of movement would be so hampered that they might hardly hope to quit the vessel unperceived, even if a boat were moored to the stern.

As a last resource they determined to adopt this expedient, but the presence of the sergeant, in whose pouch rested the key of their leg irons, gave a new direction to their thoughts.

In the most friendly way, Roger plied him with the doctored wine.

Feeling himself becoming drowsy the man would have staggered out. At this, the very crisis of a desperate situation, Sainton gave a mighty tug at his chain. The restraining staple came away, tearing with it half a plank.

[Ill.u.s.tration: In a minute or less they were free.]

Startled almost into full consciousness the sergeant sprang towards him, with sword half drawn. So there was no help for it but to a.s.sist the action of the wine. Roger grabbed him by the neck and held him, wriggling, until, to say the least, he was willing to lie very still.

In a minute, or less, they were free. They knew that the hour was long past midnight. The dawn would soon be upon them and there was no time to be lost.

Walter seized the sergeant's sword and Roger took the sentry's halberd.

They would fight for their lives now, even if they were compelled to face the whole ship's company. But fortune still favored them. The watch on deck were mustered forward, and the clinking of a can, together with the manner of such speech as they overheard, told them that conviviality was well established there. So they crept to the after part, Roger going almost on all fours to hide his stature. Sure enough, a boat was moored there. They climbed down into her, cast off, and a strong tide quickly carried them away from the _Sparta_.

They looked about for the _Sancta Trinidad_, and guessed aright that a fine brig, moored about a cable's length distant from the _Sparta_, must be the vessel spoken of by Fra Pietro.

Rowing quietly towards her they hailed her by name and were answered.

They were hoisted aboard, and a stoutly built, black-bearded man, who came at the cry of the watch, met them cordially:--

"Ah!" he cried, "Eenglish! One dam big fella! I haf wait you dis hour an' fear you no come."

Instantly, though it meant the loss of a good anchor and length of rope, the cable was slipped, a sail or two shaken out, and yards were squared.

The ship got some way on her and began to move. In the ghostly light the _Sparta_ looked like a great bird asleep on the dim waste of waters.

Soon her outlines faded and were lost in the gloom. As the sails filled and more canvas was spread the _Sancta Trinidad_ showed her mettle and spurned the lively waves from her well tapered bows. The hills merged into the low-lying clouds, the lights ash.o.r.e became smaller and smaller until they vanished altogether, the ship was well out to sea, and the two youths were saved, they hoped, from the devildoms of Spain.

They went to seek the captain, who greeted them again in the most friendly manner.

"No tank me," he said, smiling until his teeth gleamed. "You tank Fra Pietro. Him good man. Him come my house an' nurse my son when him sick wid plague. _Por Dios!_ I do anytink for Fra Pietro!"

CHAPTER VI

"For her own person, It beggared all description."

_Shakespeare_, "Antony and Cleopatra."

The road from Delhi, as it neared Agra, wound through a suburb of walled gardens. Between occasional gaps in the crumbling masonry, or when the lofty gates happened to be left open, the pa.s.ser-by caught glimpses of green lawns bordered with flowers and shaded by leafy mango-trees.

Diving into a ravine scarred with dry water-courses, the road pa.s.sed a Hindu shrine and a Mahomedan tomb. On the opposing crest it cut a cl.u.s.ter of hovels in twain; thence it ran by the side of a long, low caravansary, and finally vanished, like a stream suddenly emboweled in the earth, within the dark portals of the Delhi Gate of the chief Mogul city.

Two Europeans, mounted on st.u.r.dy cobs of the famed Waziri breed, drew rein at the entrance to the caravansary. One of them held up an authoritative hand to the sumpter train which followed.

"Here we reach the end of a long journey, Roger," said he. "Agra lies within the gate, the Palace stands beyond the bazaar, and this is the rest-house spoken of by Rasul, our native friend at Delhi. The hour is yet early to seek an audience of the Emperor. Let us refresh ourselves here, make some needed change in our garments, and then hire a guide to lead us to the house of Itimad-ud-Daula, for they say that he alone possesseth Akbar's ear."

"That is another way of saying that he shall first possess himself of a moiety of our goods. Well, be it so. 'Tis a strange land at the best.

Let us cram his maw, and mayhap he will tell us a more homely manner of addressing him. It pa.s.seth my understanding how thou dost mouth this lingo, Walter. Ecod, I can carry it off bravely with a Mahomed or a Ram Charan, but when it comes to Iti--what d'ye call him?--my jaws clag and my tongue falters in the path like a blind man's staff."