Storia do Mogor : or, Mogul India, 1653-1708 / by Niccolao Manucci, Venetian ; tr., with introduction and notes, by William Irvine.

Storia do Mogor, or, Mogul India, 1653-1708 / by Niccolao Manucci, Venetian ; tr., with introduction and notes, by William Irvine.

  • Manucci, Niccolò, 1639-approximately 1717.
Date:
1907-08
Catalogue details

Licence: In copyright

Credit: Storia do Mogor, or, Mogul India, 1653-1708 / by Niccolao Manucci, Venetian ; tr., with introduction and notes, by William Irvine. Source: Wellcome Collection.

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    We came forth by a postern-gate, when we saw some thirty men with swords in their hands, who came at me, saying : ‘ Let us kill him ; he, too, is of the eunuch’s force.’ The man with me then laid one arm upon me, and, waving the other hand, demanded in the king’s name that they should not kill me nor lay hands on me. But they were keen to plunder me, and told him he had become my advocate simply to strip me himself; but, grieve him as it might, they meant to kill me and appro- priate my clothes. Recognising their purpose and seeing them approach, I took off my turban there and then, and the rest of my vestments, being left with nothing but my under-drawers and my shirt. I threw the clothes to them, and my defender conducted me a little farther ; then he said I might go on in security, as I was now out of danger. But just as I imagined I was free there came towards me a soldier, a Hindu rustic, holding a drawn sword, who, with many abusive terms and threats, requested me to make over my shirt to him. Enraged at finding myself amidst so much persecution and so many affronts, I said he might kill me if he liked, but I would never give him the shirt. Overwhelming him with abuse, I provided him with cause for despatching me; but he did not want to damage the shirt, so he allowed me to live. In the end I decided to give up the shirt, so I took it off in a rage, rather than lose my life. With my head sunk, I went on my way, running considerable danger, although stripped naked and full of grief and shame. I sought [266] the house of one of my friends, a professing Mahomedan, whose name was Dulah (? Dulha), a man of learning, from whom I had received much kindness. On my way a woman met me and offered me a sheet with which to cover myself, saying that when I got home I could send it back to her. But, not willing to be indebted to her, I declined, and went on my way in the same pitiable state. When I was only a little distance from my friend’s house I saw coming towards me the captain of infantry, whose teeth I had broken with a stone. He recognised me, but took compassion on my plight, and lowering his head, made no attempt to do me harm. Thence in a few more steps I got into the house of my friend Dulha, to whom I recounted all that had happened to me.