Said Bertram, "The earth has not a spectacle more fraught with meaning than this; the acknowledged monarch of terrestrial things bowing in dread—a dread of what? of that voice in his breast which, being silent, is yet the loudest thing he knows? Why is the innocence of that sacrificial lamb so pathetic to my sight? Why should religious rites in which I do not participate move me strangely and deeply?"

"These things are a shadow," said Atma, "and a shadow is created by a fact."

"I join in your prayer," said Bertram. "'Lead me from shadowy things to things that be.' Types are not for him who believes that the horizon of his sight bounds the possible."

"No," replied Atma, "better reject the image than accept it as the end of our desire. The faith of my fathers, which grasped after Truth, teaches me that if the outward semblance of divine verities lead captive not only my senses, to which its appeal is made, but my heart's allegiance, I am guilty of idolatry."

"How fair," said Bertram, "must be the thing imaged by earth's loveliest pageantry! What must be the song of whose melody broken snatches and stray notes reach us in the golden speech of those endowed with hearing to catch its echoes! What harmony of beatitude is taught by the mystery of heavenly colour! How dull must be our faculties, or how distant the bliss for which our souls yearn as from behind a lattice, seeing only as in a mirror of burnished silver, which, though it be never so bright, reflects but dimly! How unutterable are our transitory glimpses of eternal possibilities!"

"Therein," said Atma, "may lie the reason why evanescent beauty stirs us most. It may be more heavenly in meaning or affinity than things that remain. This has sometimes perplexed me.

"For, ever most our love is given To glories whose decadence fleet Has more of changeful earth than heaven;

The heart's astir, And sympathies leap forth to greet The mingling fair Of heavenly hues limned in empyreal bow Aloft in dewy air, but ere we know Their place and method true they fade away, And fancy follows still, though things as beauteous stay.

What joyous note, Warbled in bliss of upper air, May with the one death-song compare That floats among the reeds, and blends With wild wind's plaint, till silence ends In haunt remote Sweet life and song; They float away the reeds among.

"I beware me of types," he continued, "though I know nothing real. I am surrounded by images, my present state of being is a shadow, but I crave reality. The symbol is fair, but Truth is fairer. To that verity all types must yield, how beautiful soever they be, or meet to express their burden."

* * * * *

And yet how dear the transient joys of time, Their purport not the Pearl of our desire. Loved are these confines as immortal clime, And dear the hearth-flame as the altar fire; When fate accomplished wins her utmost bourne, And fulness ousts for aye fair images, Will doting mem'ry from their funeral pyre Rise phoenix-wise and earth-sick spirits yearn For fragrant flower, and sward, and changeful trees, For storied rose, and sweet poetic morn, For sound of bird, and brook, and murmuring bees, For luckless fancies of illusion born, What time in dark we dwelt and framed our lore? Woe, woe, if then regretful we should mourn "What wisdom left we on that human shore!" For brooding kindness can a charm beget, Not duly won, and from Heaven's parapet These terrene colours shine with starry gleam— But this is all a fable and a dream; A fable, for this axiom it brings, Immortal loves must love immortal things; Dream is it, for uncurbed it took its flight, And roamed afar, a fancy of the Night.



CHAPTER XIV.

The roses in the gardens of Lehna Singh hung their heads, the sunbeams danced no longer, and the pleasant fountains fell with monotonous plash on sullen pools, where goldfish hid themselves and sad swans floated apart. Moti wept in her bower, and Nature, which sympathizes with the good, grieved around her. The sun-birds flew away, for their gay plumage is not for times of mourning, but the doves lingered and hushed their wooing that they might not offend the disconsolate.

And this was Moti's garden, where happiness and beauty had once their dwelling.

Bloomy roses die, Wan the petals floating, Whirling on the breeze's sigh, Ah, the worms were gloating, This is by-and-bye.

In the great hall princes and nobles feasted with mirth and music. Laughter and outcries and mad revelry re-echoed through the stately archways and marble courts. Lal Singh was there, and great honour was rendered to him, for this was the time of his betrothal, and the bride was Moti. The festival had lasted for two days, and would be prolonged for many more. Moti was forgotten. The little maid who loved her lay on the floor at her feet and wept because Moti wept. Those who with zither and dance should have beguiled the hours, had stolen away to peep through latticed screens at the revelry.

Moti thought of Atma and moaned, but the little maid thought only of her mistress, and bewailed the fate that had joined her bright spirit by unseen bonds of love to one pre-doomed by inheritance to misfortune.

"For adversity loved his father's house," she sighed; "it is ill to consort with the unfortunate, for in time we share their woe."

But Moti wrung her beautiful hands and cried:

"Ah if this breath of mine might purchase his! Then death were fair and lovely as he said In that enchanted even hour when he Of love, and death, and moans, and constancy Told till dark things grew lovely, and o'erhead Sweet stars seemed ghosts, and shadow all that is.

But I have lost my life and yet not death Have won, and now to me shall joy be strange, And all my days the kindly winds that breathe From mirthful groves of Paradise shall change In my poor songless soul to wail, and sigh, And moan, and hollow silence—let me die!

Poor me! who fearless snatched at bliss so high, Witless! and yet to be of slight esteem And little worth is sometimes well, no dream Of high unrest, no awful afterglow Affrights us simple ones when that we die. Vain flickering lamps soon quenched—we but go From this brief day, this short transition, This interlude of farcial joy and woe, Back to our native, kind oblivion.

Can this be Moti, she who prates of being, And life, and death, and fallacy, and moan? Ah, how should I be fixed and steadfast? seeing All things about me shift, I need must change; Things which I thought were plain are waxen strange, Things are unfathomable which I deemed Shallow and bare; nay, maid, I do not rave, Sunbeams are mysteries, and Love that seemed All winged joy, and transport light as air, Ah me, but Love is deeper than the grave, Is deeper than the grave; I seek it there. Dear Death, bind Love for me, till that I die!

And he is doomed to die who loved me! O bitter, bitter end of tenderness! O doleful issue of my happiness! Weep, little maid, for one that loved me!

O might I with my last of mortal breath Bid him the cruel treachery to flee, And hear his voice and sink to happy death, So still might live the one that loved me!

Cease, kindly maid, arise, and whisper low, As moon to weeping clouds, until there rise Like pallid rainbow, wan with spectral glow, A thing of fearful joy athwart my skies, A hope, a joy e'en yet that this might be, That I should die for him who loved me.

I waste no life, no blame shall me dismay, For these brief days of mine are but a morn, A handful of poor violets, wind-worn, Or nurseling lily-buds which to mislay Were not the ill that to the perfect flower Might be if cruel hand should disarray Its starry splendour when in ripened hour It floats in tranquil state on Gunga's stream.

Make ready, little maid; sweet is the gleam That lightens this ill night, soft clouds will weep, The fervid bulbul still his song, beneath Our tallices the blinking jasmines sleep, The kindly myrtles shadow all our parth.

Speak, gentle maid, tell me it shall be so, That I shall find my love; speak and we go On pilgrimage more sweet than home-bent wing Of banished doves—now, I will chant of woe, And though my song be doleful, blithe I sing."

O Night! O Night so true! The promise of the Day is full of guile. Fair is the Day, but crafty is her smile; The friendly Night, it knows no subtle wile.

Dear Night! Bring weeping dew, And sad enchantments to undo the spells Of baleful day, while from thy silent cells Of dusk and slumber, still heart's-peace exhales.

O Night! O Night, pursue The bitter Day, and from her keeping wrest Those cruel spoils, and to my empty breast Give lethean calm, and dearest death, and rest.



CHAPTER XV.

The Rajah of Kashmir and his court went a-hunting on the day of Lal Singh's return to their good company. They swept down the valley, a gorgeous train of nobles and host of attendants with falcons girt for foray, and moved with much state and circumstance among the hills until the sun grew hot, when silken tents were pitched in a walnut grove near by a smoothly flowing river. Here they ate and drank and reposed while obsequious servants fanned them, and the sweet music of vinas blended with the murmur of the water and the droning of the bees.

The Rajah sat in the entrance of a crimson tent and enjoyed the delicious air. The nest-laden branches drooped above, the twittering of birds ceased, but gentle forms hopped lightly from twig to twig, and curious eyes peeped from leafy lurking-places. In the turban of the Rajah, the Sapphire of Fate shone with serene lustre like the blue water-lily of Kashmir. His fingers toyed idly with the plumage of a magnificent hawk, now unhooded but still wearing the leathern jesses and tiny tinkling bells of the chase. The leash by which it was held slipped gradually from the arm of an attendant and it was unconfined. Its keen eye knew all the ambushed flurry overhead, but it did not rise—a more curious prey lay nearer.

In a moment it was poised in air. Another second and it had gained possession of the Mystic Stone, the augur of weal to the Khalsa, its menace when borne by a foe, the portentous Sapphire of Fate!

All was consternation and clamour. The unlucky fellow who had slipped the leash, waving his wrist, sought to induce the bold robber to alight, but his cries were scarcely heard above the vociferation of the throng, and he was fain to tear his beard and curse the day of his birth. But as neither lamentation nor rage could restore the treasure, cooler heads dispatched a party of horsemen with falcons and lures to decoy the recreant.

With the first shout of dismay and horror Atma stood as if transfixed, enwrapt in thought, and did not stir nor speak until the rescuing party had long vanished across the plain, and Bertram touching him on the shoulder rallied him on his abstraction, and told him that the Nawab was about to beguile the time and reanimate the flagging spirits of the illustrious company with a tale. Repressing a sigh, Atma smiled and suffered his friend to lead him into the circle forming about the story-teller.

"Far back," began the Nawab, "far back in the ages whose annals are lost in story, when, Time and Eternity being nearer the point of their divergence, things preternatural and strange entered into the lives of men, there lived a mighty king of great renown, who, being stricken with a lingering but fatal malady, spent the last years of his life in adjusting the affairs of his kingdom and preparing all things to the single end that the reign of his successor, who was his only son, might excel in grandeur and dominion all other empires of that era. This son ascended the throne while still of tender years, and found that parental fondness had endowed him with unequalled power and dominion. His subjects, under the beneficent rule of the departed king, had become a great and prosperous nation; he was at peace with all neighbouring monarchs; his treasuries were filled to overflowing; and, more than all, the wisdom of the counsellors whom the king this father had appointed to instruct and guide his early years had sunk deep into a heart well-fitted by Nature to receive it, and his demeanour was such that the loyal affection which was his by inheritance soon changed to a heartfelt admiration and love of the virtues which all men perceived him to possess. Surely no monarch ever began to reign under more auspicious skies. One of his palaces, his chief pleasure-house, had been built for him by command of the late king, and was of unique excellence. Its progress during erection had been impatiently watched by the monarch, who desired to see it complete and be assured of its perfection before he closed his eyes on the world, so that the skilful builders who wrought day and night were distracted between the injunction laid on them that it should be in every part of unrivalled beauty, and the hourly repetition of the royal mandate that the task be accomplished immediately. But, notwithstanding, so well did they succeed that among all the wonderful palaces of that age and land there was none to compare with The Magic Isle, for thus was it called, because by ingenious device it floated on the bosom of one of the lakes by which that country was diversified. No bridge led to this palace, but gilded barges were ever ready to spread their silken sails and convey the king to and from the elysium, which sometimes, as if in coquetry, receded at his approach among flower-decked islands, and sometimes bore down to meet the gay flotilla, branches spread and garlands waving, like some enchanted vessel of unknown fashion and fragrance.

"But strange to tell, the young king grew every day more grave and pensive in the midst of all these delights. Music nor mirth could win him from the melancholy which overshadowed him. The truth was, that amid so much adulation as surrounded him, the idol of a nation, his soul no longer increased in wisdom; and loving virtue beyond all other things, he secretly bemoaned his defection whilst not perceiving its cause. His virtues, the cynosure of all eyes, withered like tender flowers meant to blossom in the shade, but unnaturally exposed to noon-day. His adoring people bewailed what they thought must be a foreshadowing of mortal illness, and the wise counsellors of his childhood vainly strove to fathom his mood. But those who know us best are ever the Unseen, and about the young monarch hovered the benignant influences that had watched his infancy, and now rightly interpreted the sorrow of his heart. In sooth, that this sorrow was matter of rejoicing in the Air, I gather from the joyous mien of that river-sprite which one day surprised him as he languidly mused in a balcony that overhung the water, and spoke to him in accents strange to his ear and yet at once comprehended.

"'Come, O king, my voice obey; Come where hidden things are seen; Come with me from garish day, Withering, blasting, grievous, vain, To retreat of mystery, Haunt of holy mystery.'

"These words, as I have related, were spoken in an unknown tongue, and yet my story gives the mystic speech in pleasant and familiar rhythm. I do not know how this may be," and Nawab Khan gravely shook his head, "but perchance in recounting his experience, the king, unable to exactly reproduce in his own tongue the message brought to him by the sprite, for the thoughts of the Immortals cannot be expressed in human speech, conveyed a semblance of it in such words as he could command, and sought to veil their incompetency by an agreeable measure. In like manner I think may the art of poetry have been invented. It is an effort to cover by wile of dulcet utterance the impotence of mortal speech to tell the things that belong to the spirit. And, after all, language as we know it is an uncertain interpreter of even human emotions. So many of our words, and they our dearest, are but symbols representing unknown quantities.

"But to return to my story," continued the Nawab, "the sprite waving her arms beckoned the king to follow her, and led the way towards the river's mouth. It entered the lake only a short distance from where they were. The king experienced a poignant grief when for a moment he feared that, unable to follow her, he must forever lose sight of his beauteous visitant. But in another instant he was stepping into a tiny skiff which suddenly appeared where a moment before had floated a lily. The magical craft followed its spirit guide, moving against the tide, impelled by unseen power, and ever and anon the sprite beckoned him onward. Soon they entered the river, which here was deep, broad, and smoothly flowing. Motion ceased when they were under a high overhanging bank whose drooping foliage screened them from view. Here his guide again spoke:

"'Ask and ye hear, O king, 'tis meet That mortal want should be replete From fulness of immortal state.'

"At once his soul's sadness found voice and he cried:

"'Tell me how may my increase in virtue resemble this river in its onward flow?'

"Then the spirit answered:

"'From veiled spring that river sweeps Whose swelling tides in glory Roll onward to th' infinite deeps, It is the soul's own story.'

"Again she beckoned him on, and without effort of his own he glided over the water until they paused again where a lotus flower rested on the tide. The bees clustered around it, attesting its sweetness, and when the king bent over it and breathed its odour he cried:

"'Ah, how shall my piety be pure like the lotus, and the savour of my virtues spread abroad?'

"And again the sprite replied:

"'Fairest flowers bloom unseen, Graces that are manifest Are of largess less serene; Ever veiled things are best.'

"When the eve deepened they were in a forest, a single star overhead shone through the gloom, and was reflected in the water. Looking upward the king asked for the third time:

"'How shall the days of my life be glorious and shine like the stars?'

"Ere she plunged beneath the flood to vanish forever, his guide answered:

"'Love, like the star, the shade of eve, Seclusion, heavenly rest, And calm, for these things interweave The bowers of the Blest?'

"The king was now at the river's secret source, and on the bank above the deep pool he saw a man of a more princely aspect than any he had ever known. He stood grand and divine, extending his hand with a most benignant smile, and the story goes that the king perceived that he held a luminous gem, some say a diamond and some an emerald—both stones, as has often been proved, having magical potency. I cannot tell what it was, but the king reached out his own hand to touch it, when instantly, he knew not how, it seemed that something, a Resolve, a Desire, who can say what, went from him into the bright orb, bearing which the creature of light arose through the air, ascending higher and higher, bearing the jewel which shone like the everlasting stars. And the king knew that his soul's life had gone to other regions beyond the knowledge and speech of men.

"The magical skiff bore him swiftly down the stream and disappeared as he stepped from it to his palace. And tradition has it that his heaviness of heart was gone from that night, and that his soul increased in excellence and beauty, but that of its hidden life he was ever averse to tell."



CHAPTER XVI.

When the Nawab had concluded his tale, much discourse ensued regarding the unusual occurrences he had related and their significance.

"And," said the Rajah, who was a lover of verse, "how true it is that poetry lends an illusive charm to conceptions ordinary in themselves, like a lovely screen which bestows a grace on the scantiness it only half conceals. Poetry hath an advantage over prose."

"But an advantage compensated on the other hand by the elusiveness of its lightsome spirit, its grace so easily lost," said a poet who wrote songs for the pleasure of the Court. "The charm of poetry," he said sadly, "is too ethereal to live in sordid company, and perishes oft in the handling that had only proved the vigour of prose."

* * * * *

It is a primary characteristic of poetry that it cannot be translated. The most that a translator can do is to express in another tongue the main thought embodied, and enshrine it in a new poem. I have in changing some dainty wind-blossom of song from one dialect to another of the same language witnessed its instant transition into the realms of prose, and regarded the metamorphosis with the guilty awe of one who deals unwittingly in baleful magic.

* * * * *

And now they spoke of the marvellous properties of precious stones, a topic suggested, no doubt, by the story-teller's mention of a gleaming jewel, and probably still more by the unspoken anxiety with which many noted the non-return of the party who had gone in quest of the Sapphire.

"The diamond is possessed of many occult powers," said a courtier.

"Ay," replied another, "among gems the diamond has greater subtlety than all others."

"I would like," said one, "to wear a circlet of well-chosen stones to serve as oracle and counsellor. The opal should assure me of my friend's fealty, the invisible slaves of the diamond should guard my fortunes, the serpent that cast its harmful eye on me would be blinded by my emerald, for, in fine, I believe that vassal genii attend each gem, and obey the behests of him who holds it."

"The diamond," said the poet, "guards the destinies of lovers."

"Love," said Atma smiling, "is its own security, for it makes no unwilling captive."

The look of hatred and rage which Lal Singh darted at him startled the onlookers.

"The worst of sorcerers," said he, "are those who disclaim the use of enchantment. Success in love, Atma Singh, means sometimes to die like a dog."

But the Nawab interposed with moderate speech. "It is," said he, "a wise man who knows the omens of the future, and is thereby guided."

"The services of a skilful necromancer are greatly needed at the present," whispered a courtier.

Many of the company were now standing, scanning with anxious gaze the distant horizon. They looked far a-field, but high overhead the robber looked down on them. There was the falcon mid-way between earth and sky. Now it began to sink. Swiftly it fell, and a cry escaped the lips of the few who observed it. The bird's keeper was off with the expedition, but as it reached the earth, a very few yards from the Rajah's circle, a dozen men were instantly upon it. Foremost was Atma Singh, his hand it was that grasped it. It was tired, and stood on his left wrist with anything but the air of a convicted thief, as with head bent sideways it inspected the throng. Atma strode forward to the Rajah, and a dismayed cry arose that the Sapphire was lost indeed. The bird no longer held it. Atma took no heed, but advancing made obeisance before Golab Singh, and extended to him his captive.

"Your clemency, Maharajah," he said, "for the truant."

"Had he brought back the Sapphire he might have gained mercy," said the Rajah, with more anger, Bertram thought, than he had ever seen him display. "Take away the knave out of my sight, and despatch a horseman at once to the Palace with command that four hundred men forthwith search all this plain, with every tree on it and every stream that crosses it, until they find the jewel."

Lal Singh since his angry outburst had stood aside, his narrow face contracted, and had not ceased to watch Atma from the moment when he seized the falcon. His cunning eyes followed the young Sikh as he bowed before the Ruler of Kashmir, and now gliding forward he cringed before Golab Singh, as he hissed in a voice nearly inarticulate with triumph and hate, "Maharajah, the plain is wide; before entering on so extensive an undertaking, order someone more trusty than Atma Singh to recover the stone by searching the leal descendant of the holy Nanuk! I, though less lofty of sentiment and aspiration, am filled with horror and grief, because I have perceived him to take the Sapphire from the bird the moment it touched ground."

The effect of this charge can hardly be described: indignation on the part of some, among whom were Atma's British friends, at what they felt assured must be a groundless accusation; suspicion and anger on the part of others. "Let him immediately be seized and searched," commanded the Rajah.

The first part of his command was already obeyed, and almost before a protest could be uttered, Atma's arms were bound behind him and Golab Singh's servants proceeded zealously to search his person. In silence and with lips compressed, Bertram and his brother officers looked on whilst he submitted to this indignity, no syllable escaping him from the moment when he fixed his accusing gaze on his foe. But when a tiny onyx-box of curious workmanship was produced from the folds of his girdle, and laid before the Rajah of Kashmir, he did not repeat the look, although on its appearance Lal uttered an exulting exclamation.

The onyx-box was all that rewarded the scrutiny of the Rajah's servants. "Open it!" he commanded, and forthwith the fatal casket was unclosed. Golab Singh, bending over it, inhaled the strong and subtle odour that had nearly overcome Atma the morning he received the box from the hands of Nama at the sacred shrine. The Maharajah turned pale, and with difficulty recovered his breath. "Miscreant!" cried the courtiers.

Now a paper was unfolded bearing the seal and superscription of the Maharanee Junda Kowr, the dangerous foe of the British to whom Golab Singh owed his throne.

"An emissary of the Ranee," cried some.

"A spy," shouted others, while Golab Singh had thoughts which it would not have been prudent to utter aloud in that mixed assemblage.

"A despatch from the Ranee withheld by this traitor for who knows what villainous purpose!"

"He shall pay the penalty," he thundered, "before the sun rise to-morrow. Carry him bound to a dungeon!"

Now an Englishman who stood beside him touched the prisoner on the shoulder. His face had grown stern, and he narrowly searched Atma's countenance as he spoke gravely but gently enough. "Have you no word to say, Atma Singh, when you are accused of playing so base a conspirator's part against the life of your host and of your friends?"

Then Atma spoke and proudly, "No word, Sahib, which a Sikh may utter."

Excitement prevailed and great consternation. Englishmen exchanged glances; plots, they believed, of an unguessed extent surrounded them. Musselmen and Sikhs looked at one another with fierce suspicion. "Where," their faces asked, "are his accomplices?" And no look of doubt fell on his denouncer. The Rajah's rage increased every moment, adding to the commotion which delayed the fulfilment of his commands. To enhance the confusion, the party of horsemen now returned. They pressed around, hearing and giving tidings. In the tumult Bertram reached Atma's side, but before he could speak, Atma whispered in his ear, "Meet me in the Moslem Burying ground to-morrow night." Then with a sudden and strong effort, swift as a bird, he freed himself from the excited uncertain grasp that held him, and springing upon a horse he was off on the wings of the wind. A score of men scrambled to their saddles, but they were in confusion, and their horses were tired, whilst Atma had mounted a fresh horse just brought forward for his own safe escort to prison. In the disorder, he gained a few priceless moments of time, and threading well his way between the groves that dotted the plain, he was soon lost to view.



CHAPTER XVII.

How fair is Night, how hushed the scene, Earth's teeming hosts are here no longer seen, Only a chosen few, A happy few, The blooming cereus and the blessed dew Ordained have been To weave beneath the solemn moon and still, Some holy rite, some mystic pledge fulfil.

That loveliest star fades from my sight, Leaves the fond presence of the doting night, And softly sinks awhile, A little while, Its radiance into brief exile From mourning night. So shall my blissful flame of life expire, So fail from light, and love, and life's desire.

So pondered Atma in that strange calm that follows an overwhelming stroke of calamity. It was midnight, and the moon shone on the old Moslem Burial Place, where he awaited the coming of Bertram. The trees cast long black shadows, and here and there the monuments gleamed like silver. His mind had not yet grasped the full enormity of the conspiracy of which he was the victim, but he knew that the perfidy of Lal and the loss of the Sapphire meant death to his hopes of winning victory for the Khalsa. But his heart was strangely still. He had been waiting since sundown, but he did not doubt his friend, and interrupted his meditations every now and then to look expectantly in the direction whence he knew he must come. At length a figure emerged from the darkness and silence at the further end of a long avenue leading from the entrance, and Atma knew the form and step grown in those past days of pleasant intercourse so dear and familiar. He went to meet his friend; Bertram's face was graver than he had known it in the past, and the kindly eyes were full of questioning.

Atma spoke first, and the joyful tone of his voice surprised himself. Perhaps he was more hopeful at heart than he knew.

"My heart was assured that you would come, Bertram Sahib."

"My English friends," replied Bertram, "have left Jummoo, and are now on their way to Lahore, where I must join them. I could not go without an effort to meet you here, not only because you bade me, but I also desired it, for I have been full of distressful perplexity, refusing to doubt you, my friend whom I have believed leal and true."

"But you are grieved no longer," returned Atma. "As your eyes meet mine, their sadness vanishes like the clouds of morning before the light of day."

Bertram smiled. "True, the candour of your ingenuous gaze does much to reassure me. I gather from your brief reply to my brother officer that loyalty to your nation and faith forbids you to speak openly, but surely this much you can tell me, for I ask concerning yourself alone:—Can it be that you who have seemed an embodiment of truth and candour have all this time been contemplating the destruction of your host, and my destruction also," he added slowly, "whose hand has so often been clasped in yours? Truth and Purity seemed dear to you, Atma Singh. Can it be possible that you and I have together searched into heavenly truth, while one of us held in his heart the foulest treachery?"

"I know of no treachery to Golab Singh," replied Atma steadfastly. "As for you, brother of my love, reflect that the dear hope, faint and distant though it be now, of the triumph of the Khalsa need not imply disgrace nor disaster to your people, who, unwillingly at first, burdened themselves with the affairs of the Punjaub. The later treachery at Mooltan has been abundantly expiated by the innocent as well as the guilty."

He stopped abruptly, for a sound like distant sobbing broke the stillness. They listened, but it was not repeated.

"Atma, I believe you. I can perceive your position, and how, so unhappily, you have been able to reconcile insidious intrigue with sentiments of honour and purity. But I have much to tell you, for I would warn you against enemies on all sides. Rajah Lal, for some reason your mortal foe, has convinced Golab Singh that you connived at his death by means of the poison discovered in the casket." Here the Englishman's eyes sought Atma's with sorrowful question in their blue depths, but he received no other response than a frank and fearless gaze. "He accuses you," continued Bertram, "of conspiring to rob him, Lal Singh, of his bride," Atma started, "for it seems his betrothal was celebrated during his recent absence from Kashmir. But I have startled you, Atma Singh, tell me—"

A woman's scream interrupted him. It sounded near by, and both sprang forward, when Bertram, recollecting himself, stayed his companion.

"Halt," he said, "you must remain concealed. I will go alone if we hear more."

Another shriek rent the air, and he hastened forward, Atma proceeding slowly in the same direction by a more circuitous way. He was stunned by what he had just heard. It seemed to him that the shriek which had broken into the midst of Bertram's communication had been his own, and that it was being repeated on all sides. In reality the only sound that now disturbed the night was the echo of his own and Bertram's footsteps, the latter hurried and irregular for the ground was uneven.

A few moments passed and the steps ceased, and Atma standing still heard a smothered exclamation. Another voice spoke from a distance angrily, and, fearing for his friend, he now hastened forward rapidly, though still cautiously. When he reached the spot, he found Bertram kneeling beside a prostrate female form, a small and childlike figure. The veil, torn aside, was stained with blood, and Atma's heart stood still, for the unconscious form was that of Moti's little maid. He failed to see Bertram's imperative gesture, motioning him back, and Bertram then spoke in rapid though subdued accents.

"Go back, I entreat you; no one will harm me, but your life is marked—"

He had better not have spoken. There was a cry of fiendish glee and then the report of a gun, and Bertram fell back with a groan. A shriek of triumph rose at a distance. "The traitor Atma is dead!" A noise of the flying feet of Lal's minions and then silence. Atma stood alone. With anguished heart he raised the unconscious head which his own love had lured to destruction. To his unspeakable joy the eyes opened, and the loved voice faintly strove to bid him fly. The effort made him swoon again, and when he next revived it was to ask for water. Atma ran to a rill which he had noted before, and speedily returned with a draught. After drinking, Bertram raised himself slightly, and directing his friend's attention to the body of the servant-maid he whispered:

"With her last breath she bade me search the tomb." Until now Atma had not observed that they were in the shadow of Sangita's tomb. The vines were torn from its ancient portal, which hung open on broken hinge.

"Go," said Bertram, but Atma would first staunch and bind his wound.

At length he might leave him, and then lifting the door and the trailing vines aside to allow the moonlight to penetrate he looked in. A moment later he had entered. He remained long, so long that Bertram, uneasy and suffering, called him again and again, but without response. Half an hour—an hour passed, and then he feebly and painfully crept to the doorway of the tomb. He saw Atma prostrate on the damp sepulchral mould, his face buried in his hands, and beside him lay still, and cold, and lifeless, a girl attired in bridal finery, with jewels gleaming on her dark hair and on her stiffening arms. It was Moti.

Ah, the worms were gloating, This is by-and-bye.



CHAPTER XVIII.

Far retired in the woody recesses to the south of Jummoo, thither come by a winding labyrinth of ways were the fugitives. Bertram, languid and pale, lay on a couch of moss and leaves built by his friend. His gaze rested on Atma with compassion, for he knew that his wound was of the spirit, and he feared that without a balm the sore must be mortal. The soul dies sometimes before we say of the man "he is dead," and at that strange death we shudder lest it should know no awakening.

Atma sat near by, dumb and unheeding. His fingers toyed idly with a Pearl, on which he gazed as if seeing other forms than those about him. For many hours he was silent, rising at times to proffer food and water to the wounded man, but oblivious of his own needs, and only half-conscious that he was not alone. Daylight faded and stars came out before he spoke, addressing none and looking away into silence:—

"O swift-winged Time, Bearing to what unknown estate, What silent clime, The burden of our hopes and fears, The story of our smiles and tears, And hapless fate?

Those vanished days, Their golden light can none restore; Those sovereign rays That set o'er western seas to-night, This tranquil moon that shines so bright, Have paled before Returning in their time, but, oh! The golden light of long ago Returns no more.

This little Pearl, Of water born, shall year by year Imprison in its tiny sphere Those fleeting tints whose mystic strife And shadowy whirl Of colour seem a form of life; Nor ever shall their sea-born home Dissolve in foam; But this frail build of love and trust Will sink to dust."

The magnitude of his calamity had dulled the sharpness of each stroke, and thus it was not of loss of love, faith and fortune that he spoke, but of the frailty of life. This is our habit. A ship too richly freighted goes down, and straightway the owner laments, not his own deprivation, but that "all flesh is grass." "Vanity of vanities," he cries, "all is vanity," and we but guess at his hurt. A mysterious consciousness is wiser than his reason, and connects the broken current of his life with a mighty movement which he knows afar, but cannot tell whether it be of Time or Eternity. He who designed all, "did not He make one?"

Our days are empty, how should they be otherwise in a world whose very vanity is infinite?

"Imperial Sorrow loves her sway, or I had sooner broken your vigil, my brother," said Bertram. "I perceive that the falsity of life appals your spirit. It is true that the faint lustre of that tiny orb will long survive these poor frames of ours; it is a fitting emblem of the deathless tenant within."

But to Atma it was the symbol of a lost love. He looked on it listlessly. It seemed a long while since Moti died, for in his heart joy, and hope, and youth had died since. The immortal destiny of man, a belief dear to the Sikh, seemed a thing indifferent. Death might not be final, but it was yesterday he mourned, and of it he said: "it is past."

He knew of the soul's Immortality, but of the Continuity of Life he had not heard,

* * * * *

Dear Life, cling close, true friend, thro' well or ill, Mine aye, we cannot part our company. Though breathing cease and busy heart be still, Together will we wake eternally.

Strange Life, in whose immeasurable clasp, The past, the present and the vast to be Mingle,—O Time, the world is for thy grasp, I and my life for immortality.

Those bygone hours that were too bright to stay, And vanished from my sight like morning mist, Will dawn again, and, ne'er to fade away, The fleeting moments endlessly exist.

The present lives, the past and future twine; My life, my days forevermore endure. My life—it comes I know not whence, but mine For aye 'twill be, indissolubly sure.

* * * * *

When the night drew on, Atma went away. In thought Bertram followed him, full of sad solicitude.

He strode along the heights. The cooling air and the sense of isolation were grateful to his worn spirit. He wandered far until he found himself in a rocky fortress, vast, black and terrible. The lowering peaks above inclined their giant heads to one another in awful conclave, and the ghastly moonbeams pierced to the gloom below, where they enwrapped the lonely form of Atma in a phosphorescent glare. The winds broke among the cliffs, and with shrieks and fearful laughter proclaimed the dark councils of the peaks, and in the din were heard mutterings and imprecations. A transport seized the soul of Atma. The horrible glee of the night awoke wrath, and he hurled defiance to the mocking winds.

"What! are th' infernal powers moved for me, That all the hosts of hell me welcome give, And claim me comrade in their revelry? Abhorrent things, I am not yours, I live, I know I live because I think on death! I live, dead things, to revel among tombs, A ghoul, henceforth I feast on buried joys, My soul the burial-place, where lie, beneath A fearful night of cries and hellish spumes, My lovely youth with jovial convoys, Hopes, happy-eyed, and linked solaces, And in the lapse of hateful years they will— My guileless joys, my rose-hued memories— Corrupt and rot and turn to venomed ill.

O cherished dreams of Truth! O sacred bond Unlovely grown! O faith so mutable! Shades of my fathers, not august but fond! How hollow were the darlings of my dream! But she, O Lotus-flower, my promised bride, Star of my youth, my pure unspotted dove! Again I see her in her gentle pride, Her starry eyes meet mine with melting beam; Unsightly grief approach not near my Love, Flee from her presence, O thou gaunt Despair, Good Time, embalm her daintily and fair, Link her sweet fame with hymns and fragrancy. And happy stars, and blissful utterance, And with all transports that immortal be. Fold her, good Time, from my remembrance, O, this is bitterest mortality, That living heart of love should be the urn Where lie the ashes of our joys that turn To bitterness, and all our lives o'erflow Till dearest love be grown a hateful woe; My sun of youth has set, methinks it should Have set with such a splendour as had all My sober days with mellow light imbued; O bitter sun of youth whose knavish pledge Of high-born hope and holy privilege But led me undefended to my fall, O lamentable day when I was born! What shapes are those that mock me with their scorn? What trumpet-call is this within my breast? I am grown wise, my senses are increased, It is the breath of fiends that drowns my speech, The bellowing of devils as they feast. I am the taunt of devils, and they preach Of death, of cursing, and of endless woe; The lightnings of this devil-tempest show Horrors not dreamed of

* * * * *

O thou Vengeful Power, I am forspent, if merit there can be In self accusing, in this darkest hour O hear me, and I pray thee pity me, For I have sinned, O fool, unwise and blind! And I am Atma; whom thou hadst designed For life of sanctity and holy quest. Lord, I am Atma, and I have transgressed; I sought the Present whom we may not seek, The Future whom I slighted went before And waited armed and my goods did take. This is my sin that sent on high behest I slept; Lord, as one waited at thy golden door A hundred years, and snatched a little rest, And waked to see the closing gateway drawn And lived thereafter only in the dawn Of that brief moment's light, so also I Must dream of wasted radiance till I die."



CHAPTER XIX.

The quiet days were passing slowly. Bertram's wound did not heal, and his strength grew less. The unseen powers that throng the air and watch our ways arranged about him the phantasmagoria of dissolution. It was the waning of the moon. A tender mist, which had long veiled a mountain crest, now unfolded its depths and was wafted away. A star shot across the welkin and was no more seen. Summer blossoms faded with the dying season. The music of the pine-boughs had a more melancholy cadence, and birds of passage took their flight. Atma marked these things, and often withdrew to lament.

One evening they watched the shadows lengthening. Atma's heart was oppressed, but Bertram looked on the shifting scene with happy undaunted smile. In voice pathetic only from mortal weakness and strong with immortality he said:

"When mists and dreams and shadows flee, And happy hills so far and high Bend low in benedicite, I know the break of day is nigh.

Thus have I watched in daisied mead A grayer heaven bending low, And heard the music of a brook In meet response more softly flow, Until at mystic signal given From realm entranced the spell was riven, The sunbeams glanced, The wavelets danced, And gladness spread from earth to heaven.

This little flower Right bravely blooming at my feet So dainty, sweet, Has missed the spirit of the hour. But stay, the tender calyx thrills, It feels the silence of the hills, Behold it droops, in haste to be At one with that hushed company."

Atma:

"Not day, but night, beloved friend, Long doleful night, The shadows of the eve portend."

Bertram:

"Watcher unseeing! what of the night! 'Tis past and gone. I know th' advance and joy of light! Look how for it all things put on Such hues as in comparison The earth and sky to darkness turn, Hues of the sard, and chrysolite And sapphire herald in the morn."

Atma:

"Ah! woe is me for day so quickly past, For morning fled, and noontide unexpressed."

Bertram:

"The subtly-quickening breath of morn my inmost being is borne, And I behold th' unearthly train Of solemn splendours that pertain To seraph state, Such as our glories symbolize. They sweep in countless bright convoys Athwart my blissful view, they seem Completion of all pleasure known Or loved, and of our fairest dream End and interpretation."

Atma:

"Let be, my friend; so it be morn to thee I make no moan, though thy day's dawn shall be Night of desertion and lament to me."



CHAPTER XX.

Death, whether it be day or night, overtook Bertram in the mountain fastness, and Atma knew once more that the human soul is lonely, which he had been fain to doubt or deny in the pleasant delusion of friendship. He lived alone, and, after a while, with returning mental health, he sometimes gave way to bitter reflection on these, his wasted days, though knowing himself unable still to take up the broken thread of active existence. But, growing stronger, he was at last able to perceive that this apparently barren season was the best harvest time of his life, for, adrift from human ties and from religions, he was at last alone with God. His battles were sore to fight, the solid earth seemed gone from beneath his feet, and the heavens were become an illusion. There was a time when he cried out that "all men are liars," as we have all cried, but the instinct of the soul happily arrested him then. Happily, for it is strangely true that he who loses faith in man will soon lose faith in God. It is as if the great heart of the Race, recoiling from suicidal impulse, warned the individual from treason against his kind—a suggestion of the unity underlying all created things. This the best religions have known, and have founded on it a law that he who loves God must love his brother also. Apprehending this, Atma grew again in heart to forgive his fellowmen who had so sorely sinned against him, and, musing on their ways he pitied them, and knew that the true attitude towards humanity is one of pity. He pitied men in their crimes, in their unbeliefs, and in their faiths, and presently he saw in these faiths which he had decried a spiritual beauty. His own creed, grown hateful to him as the vainest of delusions, reasserted its claims to reverence, and the voice that had cried to his childhood out of the desert of silence and mystery that surrounds every human soul spoke to him again as a voice of inspiration. Every man's faith is the faith of his fathers, the faith learned on his mother's knee. He, who, increasing knowledge, discerns the different degrees of darkness that characterize our religious theories, and chooses for himself one from among them, increases his soul's sorrow, for our light is darkness, and God is not to be found for searching. "It is not by our feet or change of place that men leave Thee nor return unto Thee." The quietness of habit is more conducive to spirituality than the progress whose gain is so infinitesimal, and whose heavy price is the destruction of the habit of faith. It is better to believe a falsehood than to doubt a truth. The habitual attitude of the soul, its upward gaze is more important than the quality of the veil through which it discerns the Eternal. During the days when Atma lived without the religion which was so mortal that it died in his heart because he found that its friends were false, he knew God, for this veil was removed, and when the weakness of human nature again demanded the support of habit and formula, he turned to the mystic rites and prayers endeared and hallowed by association, but he knew now that God is a spirit, for spirit with spirit had met. A silence, born of great reverence, rested upon him, and he no more clamoured to save the world. The fall of the Khalsa no longer meant the downfall of God, and in time even the heartache for the vanquishment of his early dreams disappeared.

And the memory of his love? Love is transient, but frozen lips and closed eyes can speak with a power unknown to the living, and the power abides to a longer day than the living voice had controlled. And so the night of his mourning was long, but the longest night has a dawn, and it seems to me that the saddest thing I can say in ending my tale is that the morning dawned and grief was forgotten. It is sad that we forget joys; it is sadder to forget sorrows.

And so this story of religion that called itself heavenly, and love that was most mortal, is over. Atma had had of earth's most beautiful things,

"O Love, Religion, Music—all That's left of Eden upon earth,"—

but no—Love and Religion are not left.

THE END.