ATMÂ. 

A ROMANCE

BY

A. C. F. 

(CAROLINE AUGUSTA FRAZER)

 "When âtman (nom. Sing. Atmâ) occurs in philosophical treatises . .. It has generally been translated by soul, mind, or spirit. I tried myself to use one or other of these words, but the oftener I employed them the more I felt their inadequacy, and was driven at last to adopt . .. Self as the least liable to misunderstanding. "

 _Max Muller, in North American Review for June_, 1879. 

MONTREAL:

JOHN LOVELL & SON, 23 ST. NICHOLAS STREET. 

Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1891, by JOHN LOVELL& SON, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture and Statistics atOttawa. 

ATMÂ

CHAPTER I. 

 O that Decay were always beautiful! How soft the exit of the dying day, The dying season too, its disarray Is gold and scarlet, hues of gay misrule, So it in festive cheer may pass away; Fading is excellent in earth or air, With it no budding April may compare, Nor fragrant June with long love-laden hours; Sweet is decadence in the quiet bowers Where summer songs and mirth are fallen asleep, And sweet the woe when fading violets weep. 

 O that among things dearer in their wane Our fallen faiths might numbered be, that so Religions cherished in their hour of woe Might linger round the god-deserted fane, And worshippers be loath to leave and pray That old-time power return, until there may Issue a virtue, and the faith revive And holiness be there, and all the sphere Be filled with happy altars where shall thrive The mystic plants of faith and hope to bear Immortal fruitage of sweet charity; For I believe that every piety, And every thirst for truth is gift divine, The gifts of God are not to me unclean Though strangely honoured at an unknown shrine. In temples of the past my spirit fain For old-time strength and vigour would implore As in a ruined abbey, fairer for "The unimaginable touch of time" We long for the sincerity of yore. 

 But this is not man's mood, in his regime Sweet "calm decay" becomes mischance unmeet, And dying creeds sink to extinction, Hooted, and scorned, and sepultured in hate, Denied their rosary of good deeds and boon Of reverence and holy unction-- First in the list of crimes man writes defeat. 

 These purest dreams of this our low estate, White-robed vestals, fond and vain designs, I lay a wreath at your forgotten shrines. 

Nearly four hundred years ago, Nanuk, a man of a gentle spirit, livedin the Punjaub, and taught that God is a spirit. He enunciated thesolemn truth that no soul shall find God until it be first found of Him. This is true religion. The soul that apprehends it readjusts itsaffairs, looks unto God, and quietly waits for Him. The existence of anOmnipresent Holiness was alike the beginning and the burden of histheology, and in the light of that truth all the earth became holy tohim. His followers abjured idolatry and sought to know only theinvisible things of the spirit. He did not seek to establish a church;the truths which he knew, in their essence discountenance a visiblesemblance of divine authority, and Nanuk simply spoke them to him whowould hear, --emperor or beggar, --until in 1540 he went into thatspiritual world, which even here had been for him the real one. 

And then an oft-told story was repeated; a band of followers elected asuccessor, laws were necessary as their number increased, and a choiceof particular assembling places became expedient. And as

 "the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, "

so the laws passed into dogmas having equal weight with the truths thatNanuk had delivered, and the places became sacred. 

Nanuk's successors were ten, fulfilling a prophecy which thus limitedtheir number. The compilation of their sayings and doings to form a bookwhich as years went on was venerated more and more, and the founding ofOomritsur, chief of their holy places, were the principal things thattranspired in the history of the Khalsa during a century and a half, save that the brotherhood was greatly strengthened by Moslempersecution, occurring at intervals. 

But with the death of the ninth gooroo, by Moslem violence, and theaccession of his son Govind, the worldly fortunes of the Khalsa changed. Under the leadership of Govind, a young man of genius and enthusiasm, who comes before us in the two-fold character of religionist andmilitary hero, the Sikhs moved on to a national greatness not dreamed ofby Nanuk. Govind, who bestowed on himself and his followers the title ofSingh, or lion-hearted, hitherto an epithet appropriated in thisconnection by the Rajpoot nobility, devoted the strong energies of hisvigourous and daring nature to the purpose of establishing the faith ofNanuk by force of arms. To this end he constituted the sword a religioussymbol, and instituted a sort of worship of steel. The Khalsa became anaggressive force bent on the salvation of surrounding nations byviolence, and succeeded so well, that, eighty-five years after Govind'sdeath, the Sikhs, still retaining their character of a religiousfellowship, were consolidated into a powerful nation under RunjeetSingh. The dream of her tenth and last gooroo was realized, the Khalsawas at her height of worldly prosperity, but her life was no longer thespirit life which had been revealed to her first founder. 

And so under Asiatic skies as well as amid European civilization, manlaboured to redeem the world, making frantic war on the lying creeds ofpast ages and proclaiming the merits of his latest discovery. 

It is a strange development of human nature this animosity to creeds nolonger our own. Why, if I suffer the loss of faith and hope, must Ihasten to introduce my brother to my sad plight? I may do so, andperhaps enjoy good conscience in the act by vaunting that I shed lighton his spiritual vision. God help my brother if his light be from me. And God help me also, if I have attained so high rank among the blessedbefore I have learned that the human soul is beyond human aid; that inits eternal relations each soul travels in an orbit of its own and holdscorrespondence only with its Sun. 

CHAPTER II. 

A century and a half after, Govind Singh had kindled the hearts of hiscountrymen with his prophetic visions of a military church regnant onthe hills of Kashmir, there took place the struggle which we call thesecond Sikh war, culminating on the twenty-first of February in theBattle of Gugerat followed by the surrender of the Sikhs to the Britishunder Lord Gough and the disbandment of the Sikh army. And, lo, theKhalsa was as a tale that is told, its clang and clash of warlikeachievements a thing that could be no more, its Holy War transformed byfailure into a foolish chimera, and the only thing that lived was amemory lingering in quiet souls of the truths that Nanuk taught. 

 "For shapes that come, not at an earthly call, Will not depart when mortal voices bid. "

But many whose faith was in their religion rather than in God felt theirspirit falter, and believed that the universe grew dark. This is everthe weakness of disciples, and thus it is that while many flocking tothe new standard see all things made plain, others whose hopes areentwined about the displaced creeds suffer an eclipse of faith. 

Among those who in the fall of the Khalsa suffered life's last andsorest loss was Raee Singh, an aged man, in whose veins ran the blood ofthe gentle Nanuk. On that March morning when the disbanded army went tolay down their arms before a victorious foe, he descended the mountainslope very slowly. The rest walked in bands of five, of ten, of twenty, but Raee Singh walked alone. Although his flowing beard was white, hedid not bear himself erect in the dignity of years; his eyes were fixedon the ground, for the shadow of defeat and dishonour which rested onhim was hard to bear. 

Presently he stood before the tent of the British general. A great heapof weapons lay there glittering in the sun. As he looked, the pile grewlarger, for each Sikh cast his sword there. Raee also extended his arm, grasping his tulwar, but he did not let it go until an officer touchedhis shoulder and spoke. The blade fell then with a clang, and he turnedaway. He passed from the camp without seeing it, and took his homewardway as silently as he had come. The dreams of youth make the habit ofage, and Raee had revered the Khalsa in childhood, and in manhood he hadurged its high commission to his own hurt. As a Khivan proverb has it, "That which goes in with the milk only goes out with the soul, " and thesoul of Raee Singh gathered the fragments of its broken faith andprepared to depart with them to the Land of Restoration. 

He lay for four days, taking no food, and only wetting his lips with thewater which his sole surviving son proffered from time to time. Hisheart was crushed, he was full of years, his end was near; and his son, knowing this, was dumb with sorrow. On the evening of the fourth day heturned his face to the boy, and spoke, "Son, well beloved, My parting hour is nigh; A heavenly peace should glorify A life approved By God, by man, by mine own soul; The record of my stainless years unroll-- My years beset From infancy to age with pitfalls deep In pathway winding aye on mountain steep Of perilous obedience, and yet In bitterness of soul I lay me down, Of home bereft, with hope and creed o'erthrown In woe that will not weep; My reeling spirit ere from sense set free Is loosed from mooring, beaten to and fro, And in the throbbing, quick'ning flesh I know The lone desertion of the Shoreless Sea. O Brotherhood! O hope so high, so fair, That would the wreck of this sad world repair Had ye but stood! Can God forget? This Khalsa of his own supreme decree Vanquished, debased, in loss of liberty Has lost its own mysterious entity. And yet, and yet, A strange persuasion fills my breast that He Who wrecked my home, Who bade my people from their mountains flee And friendless roam, Will soon with tenderest pity welcome me, And, if my lips be dumb, Will frame the prayer that fills my dying breast, And give my heavy-laden spirit rest, And grant me what He will--His will is best. I go--I know not where, Upward or down, or toward the setting sun None knows, --some shadowy goal is won, Some unseen issue near, So oft with death I journeyed hand in hand, The spectral pageant of his border land I do not fear. 

 * * * * *

 Weep not when I have passed, but go thy way, Thou art not portionless nor service free, A warrior Sikh, for thee a high behest Abides, to claim thy true-sword's ministry. Go, Atmâ, from those echoing hillsides, lest The haunting voices of the vanished say 'Vain is thy travail, poor thine utmost store, We loved and laboured, lo, we are no more, ' And thy fond heart in fealty to our clay Fail in allegiance to the name we bore. Go, seek thy kinsman, to a brother's hand I gave possession of a gem more fair, More costly far than gold, than rubies rare, Thy part and heritage, of him demand Its just bestowal, and with dauntless tread Pursue the pathway of thy holy dead. "

When the old Sikh had ceased speaking, he lay greatly exhausted. Thenight deepened. It was a remote spot. Now and then the sound oftrampling feet or the tread of a horse climbing the difficult roadreached the ear. The hours were long and dreary, but they passed. Morning dawned, and Atmâ found himself alone. He had known that it wouldbe so, and yet it came with the sharpness of an unexpected blow. Hemourned, and, as is the way with mourners, he accused himself from hourto hour of having failed in duty to the departed during his lifetime. Looking on the face of the dead, he wondered much where the spirit thatso lately had seemed to be with the frame but a single identity, one andindivisible, had fled. He recalled his father's words, "Upward or down, or toward the setting sun, None knows, "

and with the recollection, the sense of loss deepened. An old cry roseto his lips, "Oh, that I knew where I might find him!"

The words by which his father had sought to comfort him still sounded inhis hearing, but Grief is stronger than Wisdom. Human speech is theleast potent of forces, and arguments that clash and clang bravely inthe tournament of words, slaying shadows, and planting the flag oftriumph over fallen fancies, on entering the lists to combat the fact ofDeath, but beat the air, and their lusty prowess only fetches a laughfrom out of the silence. 

CHAPTER III. 

After his father's death Atmâ betook himself to Lahore, where dweltLehna Singh, only brother of the departed Sikh. A man of a totallydifferent cast of mind, he had early adopted a commercial life, and now, in the enjoyment of a vast fortune, yet undiminished by thecontingencies of war, lived in luxury and opulence, his dwellingthronged by Sikhs whose possessions, unlike his own, had melted away inthe national catastrophe. The fact of his house being the rendezvous ofa discontented faction did not escape British vigilance, the more so asLehna Singh was one of the eight sirdars appointed to sit in councilwith the British Resident. But the confidence of his countrymen in himremained unshaken by the appearance among them of British envoys inmilitary state, bearing despatches to the friend of the national foe, and the questionable attitude of Lehna became to the Resident daily moreand more the subject of suspicious surmisings. 

Indeed, a whisper was afloat of secret messages from Feragpore, whither, before the war, had been removed the Ranee Junda Kovr, deposedQueen of the Punjaub, as a consequence of a detected plot against thelife of the Resident, which, together with her sullied reputation, --forshe had many lovers, --had induced the council to pronounce her an unfitguardian for the little Maharajah, her son. This clever woman, aconstant source of vexation to the Resident, had long forfeited therespect of friend and foe; but her intrepidity, cunning, andunscrupulous thirst for power conspired to render her formidable to theone, and to the other a partisan to be courted and retained. Hermessages of insolent defiance to the Durbar are historic, but of thecountless schemes and intrigues in which she continued to play the partof chief conspirator we have only heard a portion. Suffice it to saythat the faithlessness of her policy alike towards adversary, or ally, and the scandal of her retinue of lovers, had gained for her anill-repute, that combined with the watch set upon her movements by theBritish to render men chary of dealings with the little court atFeragpore, where she held mimic state. 

But of all these tales of craft and crime Atmâ knew nothing. To him allmen were valiant and all women fair and good, and the wife and child ofRunjeet Singh, the Lion of the Punjaub, were invested in his fondimaginings with ideal excellence. "To the pure all things are pure, " or, as a later genius has voiced it, "He who has been once good is forevergreat, " and Atmâ lived in the corrupt atmosphere of his uncle's house, and took no hurt; nay, his spiritual life by its own dynamic force grewand thrived, for, governed by other laws than those that control ourphysical natures, the food of the soul is what it desires it to be, andmoral poison has often served for nutriment. It is death to souls thatdesire death. In another sense than Bonaparte's, every man born unto theworld may say, "I make circumstances. "

And the spacious abode of Lehna Singh had loveliness enough to veil thesordid character of the life that was lived within its walls. Atmâ hadnot been ignorant of his kinsman's wealth and importance; but it is onething to hear of wealth and to ponder in critical mood the fleetingnature of this world's weal, and quite another to gaze with the eye onthe marvellous results of human thrift. He wandered through lofty andspacious apartments, whose marble arches seemed ever to reveal a fairerscene than had yet met his view. A mimic rivulet ran from room to roomin an alabaster channel, and the spray of perfumed fountains cooled theair. Flowers bloomed, leafy vines trailed over priceless screens, andcountless mirrors repeated the joyous beauty of the place. He beheldwith admiration the gilded and fretted walls and stately domes, the newdelights of a palace charmed every sense, and, appealing to poeticfancy, awoke a rapture whose fervency was due less to the entrancementof his present life than to the contemplative habit of one who had firstknown harmony whilst gazing on the stars, and awaked to theconsciousness of beauty among the eternal hills. The ripple of thestreamlet in these palace halls revived a half-forgotten music of theheart that had once responded to the gurgle of a brook. 

 "Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter. "

The sympathies that had once been in unison with the rustling thicketstirred into more definite life when an artificial breeze swept by andstirred the heavy foliage of rare plants. He had caught in other daysnotes of Nature's vast melody. Stray notes were here made to beat to asmaller measure. Thus Art interprets Nature. It was not The Song, but alight and pleasant carol, which pleased the sense of many, and to theear of the few brought a haunting pain of which they did not know themeaning. Such a one only sighed and said:

"In a former birth I was great and good, and my life was sublime. Theghost of its memory has touched me. "

 O melody divine, of fantasy And frenzied mem'ry wrought, advance From out the shades; O spectral utterance, Untwine thy chains, thy fair autocracy Unveil, have being, declare Thy state and tuneful sovereignty. 

 Ye gifted ears, To whom this burdened, sad creation Sings, now in tones of exultation Abruptly broken, Anon in direst lamentation Obscurely spoken, Possess your souls in hope, the time Is coming when th' harmonic chime Of circling spheres in chant sublime Will lead the music of the seas, And call the echoes of the breeze To one triumphal lay Whose harmony, whose heavenly harmony Sounding for aye In loud and solemn benedicite, Voices the glory of the Central Day, And through th' illimitable realms of air Is borne afar In wafted echoes that the strain prolong Through boundless space, and countless worlds among, Meas'ring the pulsing of each lonely star, And sounding ceaselessly from sphere to sphere That note of immortality That whispers in the sorrow of the sea, And in the sunrise, and the noonday's rest, And triumphs in the wild wind's meek surcease, And in the sad soul's yearning unexpressed, And unexpressive for perpetual peace. 

But the loveliest of Lehna Singh's possessions was Moti, his daughterand only child, the fame of whose beauty had even reached Atmâ in hismountain home. Of her he had dreamt through boyhood's years, and ahappy consciousness of her proximity foreshadowed the enchanted hourwhen he was to behold her and own that his fondest fancies were to herloveliness as darkness to noonday. Her name he had heard whispered inthe gay throng of her father's guests, on the memorable first evening ofhis arrival there; but, strange to tell, next day, when these firsthours in a palace seemed to his excited imagination a dream in whichmingled in wildest confusion the glitter of diamonds, the perfume of athousand flowers, the revel of dazzling colors, the bewildering music ofunknown instruments, and the intoxication of wonder and bliss, thererang through all only one articulate voice, sounding as if from someleafy ambush amid vague laughter and murmurs of speech, saying:

"But I tell you that Rajah Lal Singh means to pluck the rose of LehnaSingh's garden!"

CHAPTER IV. 

Atmâ loved to wander apart. One day he penetrated to a secluded court, whose beauty and silence charmed him more than anything he had hithertoseen. It was Moti's garden. 

 "High in air the fountain flung Its living gems, on sunbeams strung They wreathed and shook the mists among; A thousand roses audience held, For floral state the place was meet, With blissful light and joy replete, And depths of sweetness unrevealed. 

 Glittered and sparkled the revelling spray, Swelled and receded its silvery lay, Rustled the roses in fervid array, In fragrance declaring their costly acclaim, Wafting on soft winds the redolent fame Of fantasy, fountain, and tuneful refrain. 

 Joy, Happiness, and Bliss had here Alighted when from Eden driven, Poor wanderers of far other sphere They languished for their native heaven; And lingering they glamoured all the place, The flowers bloomed in airs of Paradise, That lulled the days to dreams of changeless peace. No marvel were it if to mortal eyes This garden seemed the threshold of the skies. 

 But fountain and roses and glittering spray, Ambrosial converse and redolent lay Saddened and dimmed in the radiant day, Unbroken the yellow sunbeams streamed, As ever the flashing jewels gleamed. But a shadow fell And a silent spell In homage of one who was fairer than they. 

 And who was the despot whose wondrous array Of tyrant charms thus over-wrought With hues of soft humility The joys of this enchanting spot? There stood she, envied of the closing day, Loved by the evening star, Moti, than costliest jewel of Cathay More rare and lovelier far. 

 * * * * *

 Weep balmy tears, O dear white Rose, and tell to am'rous airs They waste their sweetness on thy charms, and chide Their ling'ring dalliance, o'er the whole world wide Bid them on buoyant morning wings to move, And whisper "Love;" Fair winds, be tender of her blissful name, On soft Æolian strings weave dainty dream, Let but the dove Hear a faint echo of her happy name; But tell her worth, Say that at sight of her the evening dies Upon the earth, And bees and little flower bells still their mirth And jasmines whisp'ring of her starry eyes. 

 * * * * *

 And Atmâ spoke, with love and wonder bold, "Tread I the valley where the fadeless vine Drops dew immortal and sweet spices grow From fragrant roots which in that blessed mould, Watered by tears of penitential woe, Drank deep of primal peace and balm divine, When in the morn of time the tale was told Of forfeit happiness and ruined shrine? Tell me, O beauteous Spirit of the bower, Is it thy gentle task when others sleep, To guard all that a fallen world may keep Of pristine bliss and lost felicities, The fragrant memory of a purer hour, The healing aroma of Paradise?"

 Sweet then the blushing maid replied, "Among the roses I abide, I wake the bird, I watch the bee, No greater toil is set for me; But tell me, pray thee, with what charge indued You wander in this quiet solitude. "

 And Atmâ spoke with joyful fervency, "I hither came on embassy unguessed, Most blissful vision of my raptured view, The dusk delights of quietness and rest Desired I, nor thought to bid adieu To all content my fond heart ever knew. 

 Descending angels of my wisest dreams, Ye kindly genii, bending from above, Say, in th'allotment of my life's high themes, Were hours left for love? A great design and just my soul employs, Can high resolve and trancéd rest agree? Or is there aught than loss in changeful joys Of mortal love, most mortal in its wane Which I shall see And call aloud, 'O Love, ' in vain, in vain. "

 "Bloomy roses die, Sunbeams have no morrow, Sweetest songs give place to sigh, Ah, the speechless sorrow, Pain of by-and-bye. 

 I too well have known Gladness lives a-dying, Joys are often prized when flown, Loved when past replying, Sought when left alone. 

 Sad when roses pine, Ah, but love is dearer, Who would dare to quaff this wine Knowing Fate the bearer, Guileful fate of mine?

 Moti, peerless flower, Queen of love and gladness, Tell me in this happy hour, Will Joy turn to sadness, And Love's death-night lower?"

 Moti, wise as lovely, pondered, "'Mong the sunbeams I have wandered, With the flowers friendship made; Sweetest blossoms wither, But alike they fade, Roses die together, Beauteous death is made. 

 Comrades e'en in death are flowers, Always sweet are friendship's bowers. 

 Lightly sorrow touches twain, Only solitude is pain. "

 * * * * *

 Mild were the utterings of the cooing dove, Who did approve In myrtle ambuscade this tender lore; The constant plashing of the fountain spray Melted in easy numbers, dying away A quiet cadence, while for evermore Faded the eve in richest livery wove Of Tyrian dyes and amber woof t'allure The soft salaam of slowly sinking day. 

 Stars shone, and Atmâ said, "'Tis well to be, The things of earth are painted pleasantly. "

 But pleasantness is light and versatile, And moods must change and tranquil breezes veer, And o'er this blissful hour there came a chill And sullen shadows slowly creeping near In lengthening lines, and murkier dusk took form Of all things ominous, disastrous, ill, And as a mid-day gloom portending storm, A lowering fate made prophecy of fear, And Atmâ knew the menace in the air, As ghostly shudderings of our fearful life Foretell the advent of th' assassin's knife. Low sank his heart before the augury (For life was dearer on this eventide Than e'er before), and all dismayed, he cried, "These are the heralds of calamity That bid me hence, for all too well I know The pensive pageantry of mortal woe; O Love, my Love, this sweetest love may flee But ever grief has cruel constancy, Late I bode me with dull-shrouded sorrow, And well I know her doleful voice again. Hark! the breezes from the nightshade borrow A heavy burden of lament and pain, And where Delight held lately sweet hey-day, Now like spectres pallid moonbeams play, Very still the little rosebud sleeps, Heavily the drooping myrrh tree weeps Sluggish tears upon the darksome mould. "

 Quick then did Moti speak, by love made bold, "No cause is there, O Love, for sad affright, For I have read the portents of the night; Of envy dies the glowworm when the moon Is worshipped in the welkin, and the boon Of costly tears Dropped by the bleeding tree, to mortal cares Is healing balm; The rosebuds dream, Love, and the soft wind's sigh Is lullaby. And yet I know that sorry things befal Sometimes, withal, For once it was my grievous task to mourn A turtle-dove sore wounded by a thorn. "

 "O sweetest Dove, May grief be far from thee, Who lovest sorrow when thou lovest me; But changeful love May yet be fixed by grief no more to rove, And we by woe be bound in constancy. O Roses, bear me witness of my truth, Death with my love were life a thousand-fold, Dear death were fairer than immortal youth Could it life's weal in friendly arms enfold. Dark Angel of the River's brink, draw near, In stable grasp this sovereign hour assure, Cast icy glamour o'er my love's sweet cheer, Forever then shall that dear love endure, An end of sweets fair Chance may hold in store Were death of all the changeful moods of time, And boundless being of my love's sweet prime. 

 Ah, thorny Roses, prate ye still of ruth And would me my brief hour of bliss deny? And yet all happy things to love are sooth, But I, ah me, this destiny so high Weighs on my spirit like a drowsy spell, I cannot joy like those, nor stay, I fail Before the greatness of my high behest, Ah, high is holiness, but love is rest, Yes, love is rest, is rest; then blow, sweet gale Of soft forgetfulness about me still, And O, ye Roses, balmy breath exhale And all my consciousness with slumber fill. 

 And, O sweet Love, I pray you yield me now One little pearl from the fair coronal That crowns the loveliness of that calm brow, And I, where'er I be, will own its thrall, And gaze on it and dream until I see A phantom love, before whom I shall fall And pray, adoring white-robed purity. "

CHAPTER V. 

"Your lofty faith and devotion, my son, move me deeply. The heroicspirit of my brother Raee seems once more to incite me to deeds ofdaring which in these degenerate days would alas be vain. "

So spoke Lehna Singh in the midst of luxury and splendour that had beenamassed in no hazardous career of adventure or enterprise, but bymethods of coldest calculation and avarice. His listeners were hisnephew, whom he addressed, and the Rajah Lal Singh, chief favourite ofthe notorious Ranee, a man of cringing and servile demeanour, notwithstanding his rank, whose crafty smile followed the speaker'swords as he scrutinized the countenance of Atmâ, as if to learn theireffect. The apartment in which they sat was an inner chamber, small, secluded, and silent, for the fame of Lal, lately Wuzeer to the littleMaharajah, but for grave offences disgraced and removed from Lahore, wassuch as to demand caution on the part of those who would consort withhim. 

"Before I can explain to you, " proceeded Lehna, "the last words of mydeparted brother, I have a tale to unfold, a tale which will reveal toyou in how high a degree your coming has been opportune. In thesetroubled days a loyal, brave, and trusty friend of the Khalsa is far toseek, and it is in quest of such a one that my honoured guest Rajah LalSingh has, in the face of much peril, come to me from the Maharanee, nowat Feragpore, whither she was sent by Purwunnah, under seal of herinfant son, the Maharajah, thus made in tender years the instrument ofhis mother's disgrace. But on the cruel affronts of our enemies I neednot dwell. These things are known to all. The plans which I am about toreveal to you, Atmâ Singh relate to the future, and speak not ofdisgrace, but of hope; know that in the treasures of Runjeet Singh therewas one jewel--a sapphire--of magical property. To its holder it ensuredsuccess in war. This jewel, the late Maharajah received from my hands. It was a family heirloom, and descended to your father, the eldest sonof our house, through countless generations. Being, when we were bothyoung, in sore straits, and hard pressed for money, he parted with thistalisman to me, on condition that after his death I should return it tohis eldest surviving son. You may guess the poignancy of the grief withwhich I tell you then that this heirloom is no longer mine. Many yearsago I gave it into the hands of Runjeet Singh for a time, in the beliefthat its potency would aid our national fortunes" (what equivalent Lehnareceived, he doubtless deemed it irrelevant to state). "The brilliancyof his career attests its worth. It should have been long ago restoredto me, but my efforts to regain it were repeatedly baffled, until I wasfain to content myself with the reflection that at least it served thecause, and to trust in the future for its recovery. Believing it to bein the treasury at Lahore, and firmly believing in its potency, those ofus who knew of its existence never abandoned hope until itsdisappearance was, alas! ascertained beyond a doubt. To such, eachdefeat of the Khalsa caused amazement deeper than consternation. Theoverthrow of the Sikh power seemed a thing incredible until the recentconfiscation and plunder of the treasuries, when it became certain toother vigilant onlookers as well as to myself that the Sapphire of Fatewas not in the possession of the true rulers of the Punjaub at the timeof their downfall. Contrast the victorious progress of the Lion of thePunjaub with the fallen fortunes of his family, when robbed of what wenow believe to be the talisman of his fortunes. Not only does the Raneebelieve that the recovery of this gem will ensure the prosperity of thedescendants of Runjeet Singh, but I do firmly believe that itsre-possession will rally the Sikh forces to form again a conqueringfaith. Son of Raee, have you the courage to serve the Ranee, to regainthis, your inheritance, and in obedience to your father's dying words, to devote it and your own life to a fallen house, whose foes are thefoes of the Khalsa?"

Atmâ remained silent during some minutes, plunged in thought, andunconscious of the anxious scrutiny of his companions, who, bendingforward, awaited his reply in breathless suspense. It was a shock toknow that the heritage which was certainly his had passed from theguardianship of the kinsman to whom it had been entrusted, andindignation mingled with gentler reflections. He had not known the storyof the Sapphire, and his thoughts reverted to his father, the meaning ofwhose reticence on a subject, which must have been full of humiliationand pain, his son sadly divined, and recalling his dying words, indelibly printed on his memory, he felt his high commission to be againrenewed and vivified. Perhaps the gentle image of Moti, ever present tofond imagination, dispelled the rising clouds of distrust andresentment, and bade him meet her father's demand with response of likespirit. So now recalling the ingenuous emotion which had glowed in hisface during Lehna's tragic account of the recent career of Junda Kowr, he asked where the Sapphire of Fate was to be found. 

"At the Court of Golab Singh, " replied his uncle, dramatically. "GolabSingh, once a horseman in the employ of Runjeet Singh, now by Britishmachinations usurper of the crown of Kashmir. If you, Atmâ, are a trueand faithful adherent of the Khalsa, you will thither repair as an envoyof the Maharanee, and will count her reward lightly won by dangerencountered for the faith. "

"Inform her highness of my instant readiness to perform her request, "replied Atmâ. 

Happiness overspread the countenance of Lehna. With a gentle sigh ofrelief, he abandoned the heroic and magnanimous strain in which hisspeech had flown, and which to so acute and wary a man of affairs wasperhaps unfamiliar. He exchanged a glance of satisfaction with theRajah, who leaned back among his silken cushions in an attitude ofgreater comfort than he had allowed to himself during the precedinganxious half-hour. 

It only remained to instruct the young Sikh as to the course and mannerof his journey, which was to be first to Ferazpore to receive thecommands of Junda Kowr, thence to Jummoo, where Golab Singh, therecently appointed ruler of Kashmir, held his brilliant court. 

These matters satisfactorily arranged, Rajah Lal with stately ceremonytook his leave, and Atmâ found himself alone with his kinsman, whoproceeded to matters of not less interest. 

"I am honoured, " he said, "by your proposed alliance with my house, " forAtmâ had disclosed to her father his love for Moti. "I am honoured anddeeply moved; but I defer this consummation of my cherished wish untilall may know that among many suitors, I chose, to be the husband of myonly child, a leal soldier of the Khalsa. But your high nature will, Iperceive, count this prize lightly won by peril endured for the Khalsa. You go to-morrow to Ferazpore, where you will meet again Rajah Lal, whohas perhaps more influence with our clever Ranee than many a better man. He repairs thither this evening, and will no doubt prepare for you afavourable reception, and you will, " he added, laughing, "in allprobability be received with the overflowing kindness and unveiledconfidence which our British friends deprecate!"

This covert allusion was not understood by the young Sikh, in whosethoughts all men were valiant and all women fair and good. But heexperienced a shade of annoyance on learning that he must owe anythingto the good offices of Lal Singh. An echo seemed to sound faint and faras in a dream; "Rajah Lal, " it seemed to say, "means to pluck the Roseof Lehna Singh's garden. "

CHAPTER VI. 

A subdued light stole through the latticed windows of the house of JundaKowr, revealing a court whose hush and shadow contrasted with the busylife that Atmâ had left behind him. The silence and pleasing coolnesswere in harmonious unison with the gleaming alabaster arches, and thesubdued loveliness of arrangement was more agreeable to sense than LehnaSingh's ornate magnificence. A lace-like screen hung before a loftyrecess. So plain it seemed that one wondered at seeing it motionless inthe breeze made by the silken punkah swinging slowly to and fro beforeit. It was of most delicately wrought ivory, and veiled from the courtwhere female attendants flitted noiselessly about a group of threepersons engaged in earnest conversation. One, a woman whose black eyeshad none of the languor of her race, reclined among embroideredcushions. The splendour of her jewels proclaimed the Ranee. Emeralds, rubies, and diamonds glittered on brow and arms. Before her on acushion lay a carefully folded and voluminous letter. Lal Singh lolledat her side, and his gaze like hers was fixed on the ingenuouscountenance of Atmâ Singh, who stood before the Ranee. She wore no veil, and as Atmâ encountered the gaze of her bold black eyes, he rememberedthe sneer of Lehna Singh. 

"Come near, " she commanded; "you come to me from our good friend, LehnaSingh. Let me hear what word you bring from him. "

"I come, Maharanee, " replied Atmâ modestly, "to obey your behests in allthings, but especially to undertake a perilous mission, which I amassured will result in benefit to the faithful adherents of the Khalsa, as well as to the interests of your highness and the Maharajah. "

"I have heard, " said the Ranee, "much of your devotion, courage, andunswerving integrity, which render you peculiarly fitted for anenterprise requiring singular daring and fidelity. Lehna Singh has notscrupled to say that peril of life itself will even be welcome to sobrilliant a spirit. "

Her mocking tone brought the blood to Atmâ's cheek, he scarce knew why. 

"It is the high calling of a Sikh, " said he, "to encounter danger, andby the sword to confirm the Khalsa. "

"It is a training that makes good soldiers, " returned the Ranee, "but asmy claims may prove less potent than those of the Khalsa, I promise thaton your successful return you shall receive from my hands rare andcostly jewels, and gold whose yellow lustre will bid the treasuries ofthe world to open. "

"On the other hand, " interrupted Rajah Lal, "remember that if we arebetrayed, from that moment you are surrounded by countless and powerfulfoes, whose revenge you shall not elude. "

The lion-heart of Atmâ beat high at this threat, to which he deigned noreply. 

"My reward has been named, Maharanee, " he said, "than which the worldcan hold no dearer. I will fulfil your embassy and return to you, butthe prize for which I labour needs no enhancement to make it worthy. "

The Maharanee sought the eye of her companion with a glance ofsatisfaction, but the Rajah's gaze was rivetted on Atmâ, whilst hisfeatures were distorted as if by a moment's uncontrollable rage. Thetransport passed as quickly as it had come, and he sank back to hisformer negligent posture. But the Ranee had seen, and a look of startledand angry intelligence lighted her eyes. 

Her instructions bound Atmâ to convey to Golab Singh the letter beforeher, which Rajah Lal placed as she spoke in a casket. It was anexpedition of some peril, as the country was occupied by the British andtheir native allies, to whom a messenger on his way to any court must bean object of suspicion. In addition to this the friendly reception atthe Court of Jummoo of an envoy of Junda Kowr was altogether a matter ofconjecture. 

Further directions regarding his movements in Kashmir would, the Raneeinformed him, be conveyed to him from time to time by trusted servants. 

"A female servant, " she said, "by name Nama, has frequently beenemployed by me on missions requiring great tact and caution. Her I willshortly send to the borders of Kashmir, and if you repair in fittingseason to the Sacred Well of Purity you will there receive from her anycommunication I may have to make. " The subject of the fateful sapphireshe lightly dismissed. "If we receive through this slave a good reportof the demeanour of this new-made Rajah, this horse-boy in my husband'sservice, Rajah Lal Singh will join you at the court of Kashmir, and therecovery of the missing jewel, which I am told forms a prominentornament in Golab Singh's attire, will then no doubt engage theattention of you both. "

At present it was evident that the introduction of an emissary of JundaKowr into the councils of Golab Singh was the chief end in view. Nothought of danger entered the heart of Atmâ as he went out from thepresence of the Maharanee to enter upon an enterprise which was to be inits course and issue as unlike the anticipations of his ardent heart asis the solemn pilgrimage of life unknown to the dreams of childhood. 

The affront of a threat and the alluring promises of riches were alikeforgotten, and the star that led his exultant steps shone with thetwofold radiance of love and loyalty. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Atmâ directed his steps on the morning following his interview withJunda Kowr northward towards the confines of Kashmir. It was a lovelymorning. A humid mist veiled the distant mountains, towards which hissteps tended. Seen through its tender swaying folds, how vague andbeautiful their savage slopes appeared. Light and shade, ominous gloomand shining crag were hid from view. How often thus the morn of life, "In dim eclipse disastrous twilight sheds. "

A twilight not dispelled until the light dawns on a retrospect whosebitterness could not be borne unless seen side by side with the otherpicture of Paradise. 

But he had no thoughts other than of glad anticipation. Past pain andrecent unrest were forgotten in the renewed joy of freedom. He cast careto the breeze for he had not lived long enough to know that thediscontent which is the birthright of the children of Adam is notdependent on circumstances, but often attains most baleful activity whenevents seem least likely to harass the spirit. It was the morning oflife and of love, and the obscurity in which youth walks is no dull hazebut a golden glamour. 

In one old form of the creation story is told the first utterance ofNature, the cry of chaos, "Let love be!" Through what inspiration ofwisdom it comes to us out of the silence we do not know, but feel thatthe earlier tale of a divine mandate, "Light be!" is not at variancewith it. The cry of chaos lingers in the heart of the race, and each newman in the morning of his being utters it in no doubt of its fulfilmentin his own destiny. He loves mankind, and would be beloved; he lovesnature, and perceives no relentless purpose in her variable moods; andperhaps most of all he loves his own soul with a love whosedisenchantment is to be the sorest agony that an eternity can afford. 

The cry of chaos lingers, and the story of creation is repeated in eachlife history. The cry meets with no response, but instead, relentlessly, surely, aye, and most mercifully, the facts and events group themselvesabout the cowering spirit, that before Love celestial Light may arise. It is a terrible destiny, devised by a God, and only possible in itsseverity for creatures to whom it has been declared, "Behold, ye aregods!"

At noon Atmâ rested beside a pool. It was a sequestered spot surroundedby thickets. The rushes grew rank and tall on the margin and in thewater. The soft cooing of the doves hidden in the wood broke thestillness. He ate of the slender fare which he carried, and reclined ona flower couch until sleep closed his eyes. The doves cooed on, andbright lizards watched him. 

Presently he awoke with a start. A rush of wind, a sudden plash of waterwere followed by the whizzing of an arrow through the air. He was closeto the water. Softly peering through the reeds he saw, palpitating andstricken with fear, a snowy swan. The arrow had missed the stainlessbreast and it was unhurt. The wild creatures of his mountain home weredear to Atmâ, and he would fain shield the beautiful bird. 

Two youths emerged from the thicket at some distance from where hestood. He went to meet them, smiling at the folly of his half-formedintention of guiding them from their prey. After courteous salutationthey inquired whether he had seen the swan. 

"It is a bird reared by ourselves, " they said, "which strayed from ustwo days ago. We thought to wound it in the wing and recover it, but thecreature is so wild that doubtless it is as well that it be killedout-right. "

Atmâ had slept, he told them, had been aroused by their approach, hadhardly realized the cause of his awakening. "The swan is difficult torear, " he said, "if indeed such effort be not fruitless. "

"It is fruitless, " they assented, "but we need not search hereabout ifyou have not seen it. You must have heard the flap of his wing had italighted near you, " and they turned their steps in a contrary direction. Atmâ watched their vain search until on the opposite side of the poolthey disappeared into the wood. 

He stole a glance into the hiding place of the swan. The soft plumagehad not the dazzling purity which he had known, and the beautiful neckthat should be proudly curved, drooped. 

"Poor imprisoned creature, " he thought, "grown in bondage, alien to itsown nature of strength and beauty. "

He watched it unperceived, timidly washing its plumage in the stilldeep water. Soon it floated further from the bank. Now and then itwaited and listened. The story of its captivity was told again in itsstealthy, trembling happiness. 

But high overhead, between it and a disc of blue sky, intervened astream of lordly birds flying south. From their ranks wafted a cry, andas it fell there rose a wild echo, an unfamiliar note from the captiveswan. [1] It rose skyward, wearied wing and broken spirit forgotten. Itmight be danger, but it was Home, and like a disembodied spirit itascended to a life that, altogether new, was to be for the first timealtogether familiar. 

A thought of kindred saddened the heart of Atmâ. In the loss of parentsand brethren lay, he thought, the sole cause of the heaviness thatoppressed him. Their restoration would have made existence complete. Hehad lost them before he had awakened to the knowledge that those we loveare even, when nearest, very far away. Humanity does not hear the voiceof kindred on earth. 

 I find In all the earth Like things with like combined, How happy, happy from their birth Are silly things, in guileless mirth Who seek them out and greatly love their kind. 

 How e'en The crafty snake, Like dove of gentle mien, Doth with his fellows converse take The love-notes well from wood and brake That tell betwixt some lives some barriers intervene. 

 Ah me, Shall only one Of golden things that be, One only underneath the sun In dolour here life's journey run, Speeding the way alone to great Eternity?

 The Soul It sits apart, Craving a prison dole Of ruth and healing for its hurt, As piteous captive should cajole, Vainly, unheeding ear afar in stranger mart. 

FOOTNOTE:

[1] That this incident is suggested by Hans Andersen's beautiful storyis so evident as scarcely to need acknowledgment. The thoughts embodiedhere occurred to me in such early childhood that I do not experience asense of guilt in thus appropriating the lesson which I have no doubtthe writer intended. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

One night Atmâ dreamed a dream which greatly disturbed his wakingthoughts. He lay in the shadow of an overhanging rock, and in deep sleepfancied that he descried therein a door which was securely barred. Butalthough it was closed, there issued from it aroma of most subtleperfumes, which seemed to enter the brain and incite the energies to amaddening desire of possession, while there floated around him strainsof music whose sweetness filled the soul with sorrow of itself. In hisdream he tried the heavy bolts in vain. All was fast. He yielded todespair, and dashed himself against the rocky portal in anguish ofdisappointment. But grief wore itself out, and he thought that hepresently lay on the ground, bruised and exhausted. The charmedfragrance still enwrapt him, and the seductive melody filled the air. Sad and benumbed he yielded himself to their influence, and his ear thendetected in the ethereal harmony an articulate utterance. An ineffableintonation melodiously spoke:

 "It opes to a key that is golden, Within it a spirit lies folden, The soul of all matchless delight. All graces familiar or olden, Propitious thine entrance invite. "

He now dimly perceived the golden key to glitter in the air. It camenear to him, and he took it into his hand from where it lay on a pillowof mist. When he held it, the rocky door, though still fastened, nolonger hid from view the loveliness of the grotto. He saw walls bedeckedwith gleaming jewels, marvellous flowers, and countless silver lamps, whilst everywhere were traced in precious gems the sayings of the Wiseof all ages. Winged creatures, whose looks spoke of loving and perfectservice, seemed to await his command. 

A great fear seized him lest so beautiful a vision should presentlyfade, and he would have rushed to unbar the entrance, his eyes dimmingwith tears of love and sorrow. But a second voice sounded from abovemore solemnly sweet than the first--

 "Beware! beware! To abide none enter there; All you see is but a portal Leading on to the Immortal; Though it be so fair, so fair, Enter, not to tarry there; Idle tears, your torrent stay-- Beauty, it is consecrate And can never fade away; Change it will, be re-create, Born from narrow things to great. "

But the first voice pleaded again. Together they sang, and strangelyenough they harmonized. Not that the celestial utterance lent itself tothe lighter measure, but the nearer song took a softer cadence andborrowed a new persuasion from the greater. Passionate grew thepleading, more alluring the radiant retreat. The heart of Atmâ, everopen to the influence of the good, cried to the solemn voice above forhelp. 

"Give also light, " he said, "that I may see beyond the portal!"

But the sound of his own voice was strange in the land of dreams, andwith that he awoke. It was evening, and he arose and looked at thesilent and frowning cliff, and even passed his hand over its face toconvince himself that he was still awake. A significance attached itselfto his dream, and he pondered it long and wisely. The teachings of thefounder of his Faith came into his mind, and the lesson of his visionseemed plain. He resolved to trust the conduct of his steps to an unseenGuidance, and reverently owned that a Benign Presence had watched hisslumbers. As he reflected, a belief grew that this massive rock markednot only a halting place in his journey, but a chief interval in hislife. 

"The way, " he said, "is very long. Of what use but to mislead in thatcourse is my bodily sight, which bids me doubt the reality of all thehigher truths which my inner consciousness affirms?"

The stars were coming out, and looking upward he remembered hischildhood's hope that beyond their radiant ranks was the Home ofSpirits, and thus he prayed:

 "Father of Lights, these lesser beacons hide, My way is long, this desert plain is wide, Darken mine eyes so I behold my guide. 

 The way is long, it leads among the stars. How should I roam that shimmering vault of night? How halt where yon bright orb his lamp uprears In glistering chains of light, To list 'mid ringing spheres for that strange psalm? The sum of agony were surely this-- To hear the Blessed Wind 'mid waving palm; The pearly gates to miss Whose glorious light is not of moon nor sun; To list the river's flow, and stand undone. 

 Light of the Realms of bliss, be Thou mine eye; So shall my homeless soul, when death is nigh, With joy a mansion in the heavens descry. "

CHAPTER IX. 

As Atmâ drew near to the confines of Kashmir he trod a secluded vale, and followed the windings of a broad stream whose banks were thicklywooded. As he pursued his way through a thicket he heard voices in gayconverse, and stayed his steps until, peering through the heavy foliage, he descried below the overhanging river-bank two dark-eyed girls. Theywere seated on a broad stone, and one laved her feet in the water andbent over the swift current; but the head of the other, wreathed inscarlet blossoms, was uplifted, and in the bright face half turnedtowards him he recognized an attendant of Moti. She listened as ifsuspecting his approach, but soon apparently satisfied, she resumed herlight chatter with her companion. Atmâ heard his own name, and gatheredthat they sought him. He made himself known, and the elder, who wasNama, the Maharanee's trusted servant, related how her mistress greatlydesiring a sprig of White Ak, a tree of great virtue in incantations, had commissioned her to obtain it in the forest near by. She had alsobeen charged, she said, to meet Atmâ Singh, and bring her illustriousmistress tidings of his welfare. 

Although, as a true Sikh, Atmâ worshipped an Idea, and held in scorn allmaterial semblance of the supernatural, he knew that magic was largelypractised by professed adherents of the Khalsa, and so heard her errandwithout surprise, though guessing that its timely performance had inview some other purpose concerning himself. This became certain whenNana made known to him that she was not then to return home, but tolinger here and in the neighbourhood of the Sacred Well, spoken of bythe Ranee, for an indefinite time, while the girl beside her at oncereturning, would bear to Ferazpore as well as to the house of his uncletidings of his present safety. As Nama spoke, Atmâ fancied once that thelittle maid standing by sought to engage his attention by a mute sign, but, ere he could be sure, she desisted and became engrossed in theadjustment of the crown of scarlet flowers with which she had bedeckedher head. A dim suspicion of treachery rose in his breast, a vaguemisgiving. He rapidly recalled to mind the affectionate language of hiskinsman, the promises of the Ranee, and perhaps stronger than all rosethe dear vanity of royal youth, which cannot believe itself scorned. Were not all the high hopes of his life at stake? It is not possiblethat when youth hazards all, the venture should fail. But the forebodingremained. It was akin to the shudder which tells us that some one stepson the sod beneath which we are to lie. The analysis of these subtlemelancholies is hard to read. A breath may summon them and they lingerunbidden, and whether they point only to the dim shadows they invokefrom the past, or whether their warning be of the future, we cannot say. Even as I write a sadness oppresses me, born of I know not what. 

 If any asked me whence it came, This languor of my soul to-day, And why I muse in piteous frame While all the glowing world is gay, I could not tell, I only mourn, And wonder how to life it stirred, The memory of that distant morn, As then I wondered had I heard That grief could ever sink to sleep Nor aye that stony vigil keep. 

 Enter ye dreams of vanished woe, The spectral griefs of long ago; I fold my hands, in dreamlike trance, I see their shadowy train advance-- Phantom forms like shades of eld, Memory-prints or forms beheld, I cannot know, they fade away; Faintly their voices seem to say, "You loved us not that distant day, " And, lo, my foolish tears o'erflow. Can this be I who fain would know Those bitter griefs of long ago?

As Atmâ approached the city of Jummoo he found himself again by ariver-side, and seeing a small boat he entered it and was soon glidingwith the current. It was night when he floated among the trees of thePalace gardens. Thousands of lights glittered through the foliage. Theair was burdened with perfume. High above the sombre umbrage roseslender snowy spires, around which the moonbeams lingered lovingly. Heleft the little skiff and trod the terraced ascent. A meanderingbrooklet, tributary of the larger stream, was spanned by fairy-likebridges. He hesitated among the intersecting ways, mazy, enchanting, andflower-bordered. The living air was full of subdued sound. Bubblingwater, tinkling bells, and the mingling of many voices made music whichwas borne on perfumed winds. This was the fairest spot in all sunnyKashmir, where the nightingale sings perpetually in groves of citron, magnolia, and pomegranate. 

He reached the splendid portico which was the chief entrance of thePalace. Its carven and gilded roof was supported by alabaster columns. It had been a day of pomp and festival, and courtiers still in theiryellow robes of state reclined here, languidly enjoying the cool nightair. Atmâ ascended the broad steps where officers of state weremarshalled in lines, gold-hilted swords at their sides, and theirgorgeous attire glittering with jewels. Here he requested an audience ofthe Rajah, and, preceded by a servant bearing his credentials, he passedthrough lofty and magnificent chambers to an ante-room where he resteduntil summoned to the presence of Golab Singh, whom he found in an innercourt lit by rose-hued lamps. The air was cool, delicious and fragrant, the stillness and the softened light were in pleasing contrast to thedazzling splendour of the halls and room he had traversed. Here in analcove were seated three or four men. The Maharajah received him withaffability, and made gravely courteous enquiries for the health andwell-being of Junda Kowr. He welcomed her envoy, and would know of thedifficulties and dangers of his journey thither, and added gracefulflattery to his commiseration. Then, after much courteous discourse, heconfided the young Sikh to the care of attendants, with many injunctionsregarding his comfort and refreshment. And Atmâ went out from the augustpresence with heart elate, for he had instantly observed in the turbanof Golab Singh a gem which by its size and hue he knew must be noneother than the Sapphire of Fate, whose magical renown might yet in histrue hands rally a degenerate Khalsa until such time as the disciples ofNanuk might again know good from evil, and reverence Truth alone. 

An hour later, as he left the sumptuous baths where obsequious slaveshad attended him, an officer of state approached him with a message fromthe Rajah. 

"Atmâ Singh, there are within these walls Englishmen who hold command inthe British army. As a true friend and servitor to the Ranee, and theMaharajah's esteemed guest, do not divulge nor let them suspect thatyou had lately audience of her highness. "

For Golab Singh, notwithstanding the cruelty of his administration, wasfriend to all, Christian, Musselman, Brahmin, or Sikh, and did not loveto be suspected of an undue sympathy with any, not even when suchsympathy might wear the cloak of patriotic loyalty. 

CHAPTER X. 

On the morrow the Rajah of Kashmir sat in the terraced garden and talkedof life. Those who sat with him had lately braved death on battlefield, but death had forborne to touch them, and they rejoiced in existence. All around them the story was repeated; the deepening shade spoke ofanother shadow, but the flashing sunbeams chased the thought ere itchilled; eaves fluttering to the mould said, "Ponder the grave, " but theshining air stirred and sent them whirling aloft. Death and Life enacteda drama. 

 * * * * *

The human comedy ends in woe, but Nature tenderly masks her catastrophe, and her sorrows are hung with gayest colours and adorned with fairesteffects. This is seen at sunset. The evening saddens, the earth melts, and in my egoism I hail a fellow mourner. I would protract the moment ofthe sun's entombment. 

 "There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not if I could be gay. "

It is the mood of little griefs. An unquiet wind murmurs, but it doesnot rise to a wail. 

 I fain would bid th' Æolian tones prolong To mourn the jolly Day's discomfiture, And, mindful of mine own estate, among The buds and grieving trees my plaint outpour, That sweets must fade though Night will aye endure. But crafty Nature, fancy to beguile From her disaster, which, alas! is mine, Bids to the front in radiant defile A trooping host whose pomps incarnadine The faded trophies of the dying day, And, lest I fail before so brave array, She decks the quiet clouds where fancies dwell With sweet translucent gleam and melting hue To woo my swooning sense with softer spell Of blissful pink and hyacinthine blue. 

 * * * * *

"Life, " said the Rajah, "is the fairest of flowers, and its beauty andfragrance are for him who plucks. "

"Plucks, " sighed one, "to find it wither in his grasp. "

Said the Rajah, "To do justice to life, one must forget death. "

"Forgetfulness may be desirable, " said another, "but how shall it beattained? How deny the tyrant who at each sunset demands his tributedues of sleep, and enwraps my vassal being in dull oblivion?"

"By ill-conditioned fears, " replied the Rajah, "men invite evil. To himwho desires the solace of ghostly companionship shall the spectrestroop, a phantom in every shadow, and with him make their abode. He whofears is already overcome. To the man who would live there must be nodeath. For me, I love the rosy, teeming present; to-morrow is with thegods, and I for one, " he added laughing, "will not be guilty of animpious theft by anticipating their gifts. "

"Life, " said an Englishman, "is a battle-field in which victory is tothe valiant. To my mind the effort after forgetfulness is no lessdisquieting than the fear you would shun. Death, could we but believeit, is simple and natural as Life. "

But this he said, not knowing that

 "Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be. "

"It is true, " spoke the Venerable Nawab Khan, a Musselman of devoutpiety, "and to what purpose do we struggle? The inevitable is not to beaverted

 Tho', sliding through lush grass, the shining snake, Loving the sun, a sinuous way doth take, Its fixed journey to its home 'twill make. Even as in tranquil vale reluctant rill, In sportive twinings nigh its parent hill, Proceedeth onward to the ocean still. 

"Life is a dream, " continued the pious man, "and the first condition ofits happiness is peace. For me I am weary of battle-fields, and feel nodesire to grasp after illusive flowers and fading grass. If anticipatedevil is the shadow of life, the vain toils of restless ambition are itsmenace. Vain toil it is! To labour, to suffer, to sorely strive that wemay accomplish--our destiny! For that is what our utmost effort alikewith our quietude will achieve. "

"And, " demanded the Rajah, "is it then life to breathe? Suchtranquillity will breed torpor rather than dream. If the immobility ofFate be the theme and burden of my days I dare the more. Let us bare ourbreasts to the arrows of Fortune, let us invite the shafts of Chance, let us taunt Fate, let us dare our doom, why should we fear? The handsof Destiny are also bound, and not one pang the more shall we feel forour hardihood. "

But one who reclined on a couch of roses and breathed their languorousfragrance, chided the fervency of this discourse, saying:

 "If Life be a flower, Light, facile, and free, Be the grasp that would hold it; From a halcyon sea Let the breezes that stir it Blow thoughtlessly; No breath of care should chill it, Nor sad foreboding thrill it, For honey-dew lies hid Beneath a fragile lid, And ardent clutch will spill it. "

"Ay, " cried the Rajah, "I like the counsel of the flowers. 

 Obeissance to the blast Make, mock when it is past, And rise like a washen rose, deliciously, Forgetful of sorrow, Unheeding the morrow, And meeting all destinies, mad, merrily; If Life be a flower, 'tis fairest of all If for it you fear fortune's pitiless thrall, With the Tulip's proud beauty Its wisdom combine, And bear to the contest A goblet of wine!"

"Ah, " sighed the pensive one, "but the flower is the poppy, for he whopossesses it presently falls asleep. "

But his gentle conceit was unheard, for Nawab Khan related a story. 

"One sought, " said he, "the cave where dwelt a holy hermit of greatreputation for wisdom and learning. He sate him down before theentrance, and listened with patience and fortitude to the grave andweighty saws which like bats increase in darkness. Having presentlyearned the right of a disciple, he plied the sage with questions, as:--What is the material and constitution of the soul? Where are laidthe bones of Seth? What bounds the credulity of mankind? These and manymore did the Wise answer in difficult words whose sound carriedconviction. 'He knows all things, ' thought the inquirer, 'I need not toply him with riddles to whom all things are plain. I will rather seekcounsel for myself concerning what lies at hand. ' With that he put thequestion, 'What think you of human life?' The hermit, who had haltedhitherto at no question, arose, turned him about, and in silencewithdrew to the depths of his grotto. "[2]

"Proving, " laughed the Rajah, "that he added the virtue of discretion tohis multiform merits. But we turn not our backs on the question until myillustrious guest Atmâ Singh of the blood of the Holy Nanuk furtherexpound the nature of life. "

All turned to Atmâ. The frivolity of the Rajah was distasteful to him inconnection with so grave a theme. His eyes involuntarily sought theglance of the young Englishman who had spoken. He was an officer in theBritish army and his name was Bertram. His expressive face kindled withkindly grace as the young Sikh claimed sympathy with him in his view oflife as a battlefield. 

"But not, " said Atmâ, "that triumph crowns prowess in this fight. Iknow that life is a battle in which sooner or later we must all succumb, but we die knowing that the right is stronger through our struggle. "

"I am rebuked, Atmâ Singh, " said Bertram; "your battlefield is a noblerone than that on which human effort is rewarded by gain. I pray youcontinue. "

"Behold the strength that comes from a convert, " sneered some of thecompany, as with fervent though modest speech Atmâ spoke of the highcourage and dauntless faith which transform defeat into Immortalvictory. 

A silence fell on the gay throng. Some were gloomy because reminded oftheir national discomfiture. Others looked coldly on Atmâ and mutteredwith discontent--

"He speaks of life as a thing that is yet to be. "

FOOTNOTE:

[2] I have taken the liberty here of altering a well-known fable whoseauthorship I do not know. 

CHAPTER XI. 

Rajah Lal Singh arrived at Jummoo a few weeks later in much pomp andstate. No hidden or hazardous mission was his. His gorgeous train ofarmed attendants mounted on richly caparisoned horses traversed thepublic roads, winding like a brilliant serpent through the vales ofKashmir. He brought tidings of the daily increasing quiet and peace nowresting on the torn and war-spent Punjaub. Festivities were heightenedafter his arrival, and revelry held sway day and night. 

Atmâ and Bertram in unconscious kinship drew to one another, forsakingfrequently the mirth and glare of the court to converse of things thatare hard to understand. They were one evening in a shady retreat at thefoot of the Rajah's terraced gardens. 

"I confess, " said Atmâ, "that the fixedness of fate engages my thoughtfrequently, though hitherto unprofitably. No doubt the teachers of yourland have spoken and written much on a subject so perplexing. "

"They have, " replied Bertram; "it has ever been a favourite whetstonefor the human reason. It has been frequently solved to the satisfactionof the performer, but no solution has yet won the universal acceptancethat is the badge of truth. "

"It may be, " said Atmâ, "that the answer lies not anywhere beneath oursky. "

A rustle in the foliage behind them drew the attention of both. A gleamof vivid colour was visible when they quickly turned, and Atmâ was inthe act of parting the myrtle boughs, when, anticipating him, Lal Singhstepped forth from retreat. Silken attire and splendour of jewelledturban were insufficient to dignify his crestfallen demeanour, which, however, changed rapidly when he darted a glance of rage and hate atBertram, who had greeted his sudden appearance with a scornful laugh. 

"No doubt, " he said, "the English Sahib and Atmâ Singh have gravesecrets whose discussion calls for deep retirement. "

"No doubt of it, " laughed Bertram, "but, Rajah Lal, the yellow vestmentsof a noble Sikh, " for the Rajah wore his state dress, "are so illfitted for ambuscade that I promptly refuse to admit you to ourcouncils. "

What answer the Rajah, whose stealthy face grew livid at this sally, might have made, was stopped by Atmâ, who, well aware of the danger tohis companion from such an enemy, and all unknowing of his own place inthe Rajah's esteem, interposed with courteous speech. 

"We are on our way, " said he, "to the Moslem burial-place near by, thetombs of which have become interesting through the tales of Nawab Khan. Bertram Sahib jests, we will be gratified by Rajah Lal Singh joiningus. "

The Rajah had regained self-possession and declined the profferedcourtesy in his usual cold and sneering manner, adding with a craftysmile and with covert meaning, which perplexed and startled Bertram:

"It is a wise man who familiarizes himself with the grave. For me; Imust deny myself, for I go tomorrow to take part in festivities thereverse of funereal. I commend the propriety and aptness of yourresearches, Atmâ Singh. "

So saying he withdrew with a salaam that failed to cover the swiftscowl he bestowed on Bertram. 

"There goes an enemy, Atmâ Singh, " said Bertram, watching the retreatingfigure arrayed in barbaric splendour, the profusion of the enormousemeralds that adorned his yellow robe so subduing its hue that Bertram'sthrust was unmerited, as far as his attire was concerned at least. "Heis a foe to fear, unless I greatly mistake, an enemy of the serpentkind, " he continued. 

But they speedily forgot the craft of the serpent, and pursued theirwalk, conversing as they went. 

Some tenets, they found, were familiar to the minds of both, and these, they observed, might be called historical. Such were the vaguewhisperings of things that occurred in the dawn of young Time before theearliest twilight of story--traditions that linger as shades among thenations, vague hints of former greatness and of a calamity, a crimewhose enormity is guessed by the magnitude of its shadow hovering overthe earth, shrouding men's cradles and darkening with a menace theirtombs. Such too were the joyful surmisings of a restoration, such theimaginings of

 "That bright eternal day Of which we priests and poets say Such truths as we expect for happy men. "

"Your story of the world's creation is strangely in accord with ours, "said Bertram. "Our narrative is more precise, but the things stated soclearly typify we know not what; and we and you are, I doubt not, wisestwhen we own ourselves ignorant. Who can tell what is implied in the taleof the birth of Time out of Eternity, ascending through seven gradationsto we know not what consummation when this seventh epoch of rest shallbe run?"

"The words of the wise, " said Atmâ, "assign to all things perpetuity, which involves a repetition of the cycle of Seven. Does the week ofseven days repeating itself endlessly in time, image the seven epochswhich, returning again and again, may constitute eternity?"

Bertram paused before he replied--

"Your words move me, Atmâ Singh, for I have heard that on the first dayof a new week a Representative Man rose from the dead. "

They reached the Burying Ground. It was a lovely spot. Fallen intodisuse, the bewitching grace of carelessness was added to thearchitectural beauty of the tombs. The verdure was rank, and luxurianttrees and marble tombs alike were festooned with clematis and jasmine. Here they were pleased to find Nawab Khan and the servant, whom hedismissed on their arrival, and himself guided them to an old tombsimpler in form than the rest, but more tenderly and beautifully clothedin moss and wild flowers than any. They sat down while the Nawab relatedthe story of the maiden whose goodness it commemorated. 

"Sangita, " said he, "was a princess of incomparable beauty andsurpassing gentleness. Her spirit was humble; and as the heavenlystreams of wisdom and virtue seek lowly places, her nature shone everyday with a purer lustre. She loved tenderly a gazelle which she hadreared, and which was the companion of her happy hours. It was not ofthe King's flocks but had been found in Sangita's own garden, and noneknew who had brought it there. The talkative people, noting the sagacityof the pretty creature and the tender solicitude of its mistress, whocrowned it anew with garlands every morning and fed it with sweetestmilk and the loveliest flower buds, whispered to one another of itsmysterious appearance, and alleged for it miraculous origin. One day asit fed among lilies, the princess near by, overcome by the heat, slumbered. She slept long and heavily, and when she awoke her favouritewas nowhere to be seen. Calling and weeping, she wandered through valeand glade, searching the hare's covert, but starting back, for shedescried a viper there; peering into the den of a wild beast andshuddering, for it was strewn with bones; hastening to a gorgeous clumpof bloom where she thought it might have rested, but the splendidblossoms were poisonous and she turned away. All the dark, damp, dangerous night she sought, and it was morning when she found the gentlecreature stretched on the moss, its piteous eyes glazed over with death, for it had been pursued and had sunk from exhaustion. 

In delirious ravings Sangita told her people that when she knelt on themoss, and, wringing her hands, bewailed that it had not sought theshelter of a Secure Resting Place, the gazelle reproached her. 

'I know not of that country, ' it said, 'it is not here. '

And this, although the wild speech of a fevered brain, gained creditwith the populace, and the Wild Gazelle cherished by the good princessbecame a memory fraught with awe and superstition. For me, I believethat the devout and good heart utters wisdom unawares, and that thetongue habituated to golden speech may drop riches even when the lightof reason is withdrawn. The sickness of Sangita was mortal, but her mindcleared before she expired, and she then obtained from the King herfather a promise that over her ashes should be erected a lodge whosedoor, never fastened, might afford a Haven of Retreat such as herfevered dream desired!"

They looked on the tomb, its walls gleamed white through the foliagethat draped it. It was old and neglected. The door was nearly concealedfrom view by the luxuriant growth of many years, and when they examinedit closely they found that it hung on one rusty hinge. 

"May we believe, " asked Bertram, "that the tender fancy of the dyingprincess was ever verified by the actual shelter here of a fugitive?"

"The story is ancient, " replied Nawab Khan, "and I cannot say. Thelesson she taught would forbid the finding anywhere a Place of Rest. "

But it neared the hour of the devout man's prayers and he left them. 

"Nawab Khan, " said Atmâ, "speaks not as he believes, for many are theHavens of the Mohammedan. "

"Ay, " said Bertram, "and does not every creed too soon become a secureretreat to the spirit of man to which God has denied the repose ofcertainty. We crave knowledge which is withheld more earnestly than wedesire faith or hope, and we eagerly make even its semblance a foothold. It appears to me, my friend, with whom I am grown bold, that you and Imay find in our less material beliefs as false a haven as the pilgrimfinds in his Mecca. "

"You say well, " said Atmâ thoughtfully, "it is not new to me. Thoughtsfor which I cannot account have been borne in upon my soul, waking andsleeping, by riverside or on mountain height, and I know and believethat he who would find God must close his eyes and his ears. "

"And the soul, " said Bertram, "that knows an infallible guide, be itvoice of other man, or of his own reason, or volume of mystery, orwhatever it be, that soul walks not by faith. But why speak of a soulfinding God? The soul of man must be first found of Him, and it seems tome that until thus adopted no soul would prefer faith to knowledge--thusmuch might we learn of Nawab Khan. "

And as they returned to the Palace, they continued this grave discourse, lamenting the sadness and sin of the world, and Atmâ, greatly moved, told that his life's purpose, of which he might not fully speak, involved the conquest of evil and the redemption of the world by meanswhose greatness was worthy of the end. And Bertram, sometimes assenting, often silent, hoped that at last, by each and all means employed by man, the whole world might be redeemed. He was a Christian and devout, buthe, too, desired to redeem the world. His dream was one with Atmâ's. Butthe highest dreams are soonest dissolved, for the dispelling ofillusions and breaking of idols is God's benison, and is given soonestto those whom He approves. 

CHAPTER XII. 

There was fear of Evil Influence, pestilence and death in the country, and as the time of new moon drew near, propitiatory sacrifices wereprepared. A number of the courtiers of Golab Singh declared theirintention of visiting sacred places and offering gifts. Many who abjuredthese rites went also as to a festival. On such an errand many supposedLal Singh to be gone, although his prolonged absence led to unspokensurmisings among those who looked on him as the emissary of a politicalparty, but at the close of a fierce contest men are chary of speech, andnone spoke his suspicions. At all events he had disappeared the dayafter the events of our last chapter. 

Atmâ resolved to take this opportunity of attempting to communicate withthe Maharanee, and intimated his purpose of resorting to the Welldesignated by Nama. It was of course on the southern border of Kashmir, and entailed a long pilgrimage. Bertram, tired of splendour, wouldaccompany him. Together they set out on horseback, followed byattendants who bore gifts for the Shrine. They rode forward, leavingtheir retinue, and conversed as was their wont. 

Atmâ fain would know why his friend so devoutly went on pilgrimage. 

"I suppose, " said Bertram laughing, "that the Nawab would tell you, though the ass goes to Mecca he becomes not a pilgrim thereby. But AtmâSingh, if I mistake not, your own creed does not recognize the rites weare to witness; I ask, then, in my turn, why, since our mission ismeaningless, does your choice of a destination lead us to the mostdistant of the sacred places?"

"I do not say that the Shrine is without sanctity to me, " replied Atmâevasively, "and the place is one of great attractiveness, while thejourney thither, though longer, is more agreeable than other routes. Butyour jesting challenge reminds me of what once befel the holy Nanuk, thefounder of the Sikh religion. He slept in the heat of the day on agrassy bank with his feet turned westward. A Mohammedan priest findinghim, struck him and demanded how he dared direct his feet towards thesacred city of Mecca. 'How dare you, infidel dog, to turn your feettowards God?' he demanded. The wise one responded:

 'Though past the highest heaven of heavens I rise, Though cowering in the deep I hide mine eyes, I roam but through the Mosque his hands have wrought, Show me, O Moulvie, where thy God is not!'"

"Your wise man spoke a great truth, " said Bertram. "The earth is aTemple, it was designed for a House of Prayer, and in it God has placednot a sect nor a nation, but all mankind. Many a Holy of Holies has manraised within this temple, and vainly have the builders sought by everydevice of loveliness, sensuous or shadowy, to achieve for theirinventions the Beauty of Holiness. Your Nanuk was divinely taught, forleaving alike the Material and the Ideal, he grasped the True. "

Now they paused where sat a mendicant who besought charity. Atmâbestowed a gift, saying, "Our great teacher said:

 'The beggar's face a mirror is, in it We best learn how our zeal in heaven appears. Pause then and look--nor pious alms omit, Lest on its brightness fall an angel's tears. '"

Then Bertram, pleased with this, asked more regarding the founder of theSikh faith, and Atmâ related what things the teacher had accounted holy. "This, " he said, "did he instruct:

 'The hearts that justice and soft pity shrine Are the true Mecca, loved of the Divine. 

 Who doth in good deeds duteous hours engage, Performs for God an holy pilgrimage. 

 Who to his own hurt speaks the truth, he tells The Mystic Speech that pious rite excels. 

 Rude orisons of alien He will bless If they are offered but in faithfulness. '"

"It is good, " said Bertram, "modes of worship are many, faiths arenearly as various as the temperaments of mankind, but virtue is one. Nouniversal intuition prompts to a form of ritual as acceptable to God, but the moral sense of all the race points unswervingly to the pole-starof the soul--Truth, another name for Purity. 

"Many, " he continued, "have been the self-ordained guides of the humanconscience, blind leaders of the blind, would-be saviours of the world!Why should a mazed wandering soul be so eager to summon followers, soready to point the way? What strange prompting of love or daring ishere? It surely is not from desire of applause that men seek theleadership on the road to heaven, for what man so decried in the historyof the world as he who arrogates to himself the place and name ofPriest? And yet priest and poet are akin. The man who seeks the place ofmediator and interpreter betwixt his fellows and the Unknowable mustneeds be an idealist, and if he deal with illusion who so unfortunate ashe?"

They halted that night where two streams met. Bathed in moonlight it wasa scene of great beauty and repose, a confluence of the beatitudes ofearth and air. Peace filled their souls so that they perceived theunexpressive adoration of the river, and the trees, and the solemnmoonlight. It was such an hour as makes poets of men, and Atmâ raisedhis head and spoke:

 "At tranquil eve is proper time for prayer, When winds are fair, And gracious shadows 'mong the myrtles move. The list'ning eve it was ordained for prayer. 

 By the soft murmur of thy cooing dove Teach me to love; Grant that thy starry front fill my death's night With joyful light; And hushed as on this bank the violet's close Be my repose. 

 Abide Love, Happiness, and Peace till shining morn From the same birth that gave the past be borne. "

Bertram:

 "Fair are these hillside haunts at even calm, And sweet the fragrance of each flowery spray. Dew of the Spirit, fall in heavenly balm Upon my slumbers; bounteous Lord, I pray, Like one who sang thy praise in other way, Bless Thou the wicked, for the Good, I know, Are blessed already, blessed they come and go. "

CHAPTER XIII. 

The shrine of the Well of Purity was on a dainty islet which lay in thecentre of a small lake. The grotto was almost concealed from view, butmoving forms of worshippers were visible among the trees when Atmâ andBertram drew near to the water's edge. A band of laughing girls carryingladen baskets of corn, and rice, and flowers were leaving the shore in alight skiff. It was a lovely scene, the shining lake reflecting againthe gem-like mound of foliage which rested on its breast. Bertram gazedon the picture, whilst Atmâ, whose quick and expectant eyes haddiscerned the form of Nama near at hand, followed her unnoticed by hiscompanion. The Maharanee, Nama related, had sent to Atmâ Singh the goldwhich she carried, in token of her approval of her loyal servitor, andalso a box of onyx which she prayed him to open and read words containedtherein, retaining meanwhile possession of the casket and its contentsuntil further tidings. With many reverences Nama further informed himthat the Fairest of all the Lilies pined for him, was grieving at hisabsence, but was now to be gladdened by the prospect of his speedyreturn, which tidings the Maharanee had deputed her to convey forthwithto the household of Lehna Singh. Notwithstanding the joy of knowinghimself an object of tender solicitude, a vague foreboding once againfilled the soul of Atmâ. When the woman left him he consideredthoughtfully the messages he had just received, slowly meanwhile undoingthe claspings of the onyx box and raised the lid. Immediately a powerfulodour issued from it and almost overcame him. He reeled and gasped forbreath, nearly losing consciousness. However, having seated himself, hepresently recovered, and somewhat more cautiously opening the casket, hedrew from it a paper which contained a strangely worded commendation ofhimself, "The staunch and courageous friend of the Ranee, the Restorerof the Sapphire of Fate, the foe of whatever was inimical or false tothe Sikh interest. " Thought Atmâ, "This praise is no doubt won by thegood report conveyed to her by Lal Singh, who, notwithstanding faults, can be generous as well as just to a Sikh brother. "

He remained seated for some time, his head supported on his hand, for hestill felt giddy, thinking painfully and earnestly. The numbing effectsof the odour he had inhaled testified to its poisonous nature, but noprecautions, he reflected, had been taken to ensure its effect; on thecontrary, its immediate result was to alarm and warn the rash meddlerere mischief could be wrought. Nama also had hastened away, as notexpecting any such terrible issue, of which certain tidings would bedesired if murder such as he dreamed of had been contemplated. It couldnot be, he thought, and Rajah Lal would explain on his return what nowappeared so mysterious. 

Returning the paper to its case he secured it about his attire andsought Bertram, who had wandered along the woody banks of the lake, andwhom he found at some distance away, listening to the rare song of aswan, distant and strange and sweet. Soon it glided into death at theopposite shore. It brought back to Atmâ's mind the morning when a noblebird had by his aid escaped its captors. He recalled its subsequentrestoration to its kind, and the sympathy and undefined aspirationsawakened in his breast. 

They entered a boat and crossed the water, landing speedily on the soft, damp islet sward. The grotto was still clad in morning freshness, forthe strong beams of the sun had not yet penetrated to the heart of thesacred grove. The entrance was hung with garlands, votive offerings fromthe poorer pilgrims. More costly gifts lay near and all around kneltworshippers. 

A new party arrived, bringing a snowy fleeced lamb to be offered insacrifice. It was decked with wreaths, and bleated piteously. Presentlyit was killed, and its blood was caught in vessels to be taken home andsmeared on doors and walls to drive away blight and pestilence from thedwellings of men. While this was being done, the crowd looked oncarelessly or curiously. But Bertram and Atmâ noticed that the man whohad made this offering looked upwards with famished eyes and despairing, and a groan escaped his lips, and to Bertram it seemed as if he said:

"Behold I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannotperceive him. "

They stood apart, watching the scene. Then Atmâ presented his gift forthe enriching of the shrine, and withdrawing aside he knelt on the grassand prayed, "Bright God and Only God! Not to be understood! Illume the darkened twilight of thine earth; The dewdrop of so little worth Is garnished from the riches of the sun; Lead me from shadowy things to things that be, Lest, all undone, I lose in dreams my dream's reality; Thy Home is in the Fatherland of Light, Strong God and Bright! In still beatitude and boundless might! I veil mine eyes, Thy holy Quietness I seek with sighs. "

Said Bertram, "The earth has not a spectacle more fraught with meaningthan this; the acknowledged monarch of terrestrial things bowing indread--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 thatsacrificial lamb so pathetic to my sight? Why should religious rites inwhich I do not participate move me strangely and deeply?"

"These things are a shadow, " said Atmâ, "and a shadow is created by afact. "

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

"No, " replied Atmâ, "better reject the image than accept it as the endof our desire. The faith of my fathers, which grasped after Truth, teaches me that if the outward semblance of divine verities lead captivenot only my senses, to which its appeal is made, but my heart'sallegiance, I am guilty of idolatry. "

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

"Therein, " said Atmâ, "may lie the reason why evanescent beauty stirsus most. It may be more heavenly in meaning or affinity than things thatremain. 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 amsurrounded by images, my present state of being is a shadow, but Icrave reality. The symbol is fair, but Truth is fairer. To that verityall types must yield, how beautiful soever they be, or meet to expresstheir 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 sunbeamsdanced no longer, and the pleasant fountains fell with monotonous plashon sullen pools, where goldfish hid themselves and sad swans floatedapart. Moti wept in her bower, and Nature, which sympathizes with thegood, grieved around her. The sun-birds flew away, for their gay plumageis not for times of mourning, but the doves lingered and hushed theirwooing that they might not offend the disconsolate. 

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

 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 statelyarchways and marble courts. Lal Singh was there, and great honour wasrendered to him, for this was the time of his betrothal, and the bridewas Moti. The festival had lasted for two days, and would be prolongedfor many more. Moti was forgotten. The little maid who loved her lay onthe floor at her feet and wept because Moti wept. Those who with zitherand dance should have beguiled the hours, had stolen away to peepthrough latticed screens at the revelry. 

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

"For adversity loved his father's house, " she sighed; "it is ill toconsort 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 quenchéd--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 wingéd 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 lovéd 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 lovéd 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 LalSingh's return to their good company. They swept down the valley, agorgeous train of nobles and host of attendants with falcons girt forforay, and moved with much state and circumstance among the hills untilthe sun grew hot, when silken tents were pitched in a walnut grove nearby a smoothly flowing river. Here they ate and drank and reposed whileobsequious servants fanned them, and the sweet music of vinas blendedwith the murmur of the water and the droning of the bees. 

The Rajah sat in the entrance of a crimson tent and enjoyed thedelicious air. The nest-laden branches drooped above, the twittering ofbirds ceased, but gentle forms hopped lightly from twig to twig, andcurious eyes peeped from leafy lurking-places. In the turban of theRajah, the Sapphire of Fate shone with serene lustre like the bluewater-lily of Kashmir. His fingers toyed idly with the plumage of amagnificent hawk, now unhooded but still wearing the leathern jessesand tiny tinkling bells of the chase. The leash by which it was heldslipped gradually from the arm of an attendant and it was unconfined. Its keen eye knew all the ambushed flurry overhead, but it did notrise--a more curious prey lay nearer. 

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

All was consternation and clamour. The unlucky fellow who had slippedthe 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 asneither lamentation nor rage could restore the treasure, cooler headsdispatched a party of horsemen with falcons and lures to decoy therecreant. 

With the first shout of dismay and horror Atmâ stood as if transfixed, enwrapt in thought, and did not stir nor speak until the rescuing partyhad long vanished across the plain, and Bertram touching him on theshoulder rallied him on his abstraction, and told him that the Nawabwas about to beguile the time and reanimate the flagging spirits of theillustrious company with a tale. Repressing a sigh, Atmâ smiled andsuffered his friend to lead him into the circle forming about thestory-teller. 

"Far back, " began the Nawab, "far back in the ages whose annals are lostin story, when, Time and Eternity being nearer the point of theirdivergence, things preternatural and strange entered into the lives ofmen, there lived a mighty king of great renown, who, being stricken witha lingering but fatal malady, spent the last years of his life inadjusting the affairs of his kingdom and preparing all things to thesingle end that the reign of his successor, who was his only son, mightexcel in grandeur and dominion all other empires of that era. This sonascended the throne while still of tender years, and found that parentalfondness had endowed him with unequalled power and dominion. Hissubjects, under the beneficent rule of the departed king, had become agreat and prosperous nation; he was at peace with all neighbouringmonarchs; his treasuries were filled to overflowing; and, more than all, the wisdom of the counsellors whom the king this father had appointed toinstruct and guide his early years had sunk deep into a heartwell-fitted by Nature to receive it, and his demeanour was such that theloyal affection which was his by inheritance soon changed to a heartfeltadmiration and love of the virtues which all men perceived him topossess. Surely no monarch ever began to reign under more auspiciousskies. One of his palaces, his chief pleasure-house, had been built forhim by command of the late king, and was of unique excellence. Itsprogress during erection had been impatiently watched by the monarch, who desired to see it complete and be assured of its perfection beforehe closed his eyes on the world, so that the skilful builders whowrought day and night were distracted between the injunction laid onthem that it should be in every part of unrivalled beauty, and thehourly repetition of the royal mandate that the task be accomplishedimmediately. But, notwithstanding, so well did they succeed that amongall the wonderful palaces of that age and land there was none to comparewith The Magic Isle, for thus was it called, because by ingenious deviceit floated on the bosom of one of the lakes by which that country wasdiversified. No bridge led to this palace, but gilded barges were everready to spread their silken sails and convey the king to and from theelysium, which sometimes, as if in coquetry, receded at his approachamong flower-decked islands, and sometimes bore down to meet the gayflotilla, branches spread and garlands waving, like some enchantedvessel of unknown fashion and fragrance. 

"But strange to tell, the young king grew every day more grave andpensive in the midst of all these delights. Music nor mirth could winhim from the melancholy which overshadowed him. The truth was, that amidso much adulation as surrounded him, the idol of a nation, his soul nolonger increased in wisdom; and loving virtue beyond all other things, he secretly bemoaned his defection whilst not perceiving its cause. Hisvirtues, the cynosure of all eyes, withered like tender flowers meant toblossom in the shade, but unnaturally exposed to noon-day. His adoringpeople bewailed what they thought must be a foreshadowing of mortalillness, and the wise counsellors of his childhood vainly strove tofathom his mood. But those who know us best are ever the Unseen, andabout the young monarch hovered the benignant influences that hadwatched his infancy, and now rightly interpreted the sorrow of hisheart. In sooth, that this sorrow was matter of rejoicing in the Air, Igather from the joyous mien of that river-sprite which one day surprisedhim as he languidly mused in a balcony that overhung the water, andspoke 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, andyet my story gives the mystic speech in pleasant and familiar rhythm. Ido not know how this may be, " and Nawab Khan gravely shook his head, "but perchance in recounting his experience, the king, unable to exactlyreproduce 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 soughtto veil their incompetency by an agreeable measure. In like manner Ithink may the art of poetry have been invented. It is an effort tocover by wile of dulcet utterance the impotence of mortal speech to tellthe things that belong to the spirit. And, after all, language as weknow it is an uncertain interpreter of even human emotions. So many ofour words, and they our dearest, are but symbols representing unknownquantities. 

"But to return to my story, " continued the Nawab, "the sprite waving herarms beckoned the king to follow her, and led the way towards theriver's mouth. It entered the lake only a short distance from where theywere. The king experienced a poignant grief when for a moment he fearedthat, unable to follow her, he must forever lose sight of his beauteousvisitant. But in another instant he was stepping into a tiny skiff whichsuddenly appeared where a moment before had floated a lily. The magicalcraft followed its spirit guide, moving against the tide, impelled byunseen power, and ever and anon the sprite beckoned him onward. Soonthey entered the river, which here was deep, broad, and smoothlyflowing. Motion ceased when they were under a high overhanging bankwhose drooping foliage screened them from view. Here his guide againspoke:

 "'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 itsonward 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 overthe water until they paused again where a lotus flower rested on thetide. The bees clustered around it, attesting its sweetness, and whenthe king bent over it and breathed its odour he cried:

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

"And again the sprite replied:

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

"When the eve deepened they were in a forest, a single star overheadshone through the gloom, and was reflected in the water. Looking upwardthe 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 guideanswered:

 "'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 abovethe deep pool he saw a man of a more princely aspect than any he hadever known. He stood grand and divine, extending his hand with a mostbenignant smile, and the story goes that the king perceived that he helda luminous gem, some say a diamond and some an emerald--both stones, ashas often been proved, having magical potency. I cannot tell what itwas, 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 cansay what, went from him into the bright orb, bearing which the creatureof light arose through the air, ascending higher and higher, bearing thejewel which shone like the everlasting stars. And the king knew that hissoul's life had gone to other regions beyond the knowledge and speech ofmen. 

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

CHAPTER XVI. 

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

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

"But an advantage compensated on the other hand by the elusiveness ofits lightsome spirit, its grace so easily lost, " said a poet who wrotesongs for the pleasure of the Court. "The charm of poetry, " he saidsadly, "is too ethereal to live in sordid company, and perishes oft inthe 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 themain thought embodied, and enshrine it in a new poem. I have inchanging some dainty wind-blossom of song from one dialect to another ofthe same language witnessed its instant transition into the realms ofprose, and regarded the metamorphosis with the guilty awe of one whodeals unwittingly in baleful magic. 

 * * * * *

And now they spoke of the marvellous properties of precious stones, atopic suggested, no doubt, by the story-teller's mention of a gleamingjewel, and probably still more by the unspoken anxiety with which manynoted 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 thanall others. "

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

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

"Love, " said Atmâ smiling, "is its own security, for it makes nounwilling captive. "

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

"The worst of sorcerers, " said he, "are those who disclaim the use ofenchantment. Success in love, Atmâ Singh, means sometimes to die like adog. "

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

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

Many of the company were now standing, scanning with anxious gaze thedistant horizon. They looked far a-field, but high overhead the robberlooked 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 thefew who observed it. The bird's keeper was off with the expedition, butas it reached the earth, a very few yards from the Rajah's circle, adozen men were instantly upon it. Foremost was Atmâ Singh, his hand itwas that grasped it. It was tired, and stood on his left wrist withanything but the air of a convicted thief, as with head bent sideways itinspected the throng. Atmâ strode forward to the Rajah, and a dismayedcry arose that the Sapphire was lost indeed. The bird no longer held it. Atmâ took no heed, but advancing made obeisance before Golab Singh, andextended to him his captive. 

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

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

Lal Singh since his angry outburst had stood aside, his narrow facecontracted, and had not ceased to watch Atmâ from the moment when heseized the falcon. His cunning eyes followed the young Sikh as he bowedbefore the Ruler of Kashmir, and now gliding forward he cringed beforeGolab Singh, as he hissed in a voice nearly inarticulate with triumphand hate, "Maharajah, the plain is wide; before entering on so extensivean undertaking, order someone more trusty than Atmâ Singh to recover thestone by searching the leal descendant of the holy Nanuk! I, though lesslofty of sentiment and aspiration, am filled with horror and grief, because I have perceived him to take the Sapphire from the bird themoment it touched ground. "

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

The first part of his command was already obeyed, and almost before aprotest could be uttered, Atmâ's arms were bound behind him and GolabSingh's servants proceeded zealously to search his person. In silenceand with lips compressed, Bertram and his brother officers looked onwhilst he submitted to this indignity, no syllable escaping him fromthe moment when he fixed his accusing gaze on his foe. But when a tinyonyx-box of curious workmanship was produced from the folds of hisgirdle, and laid before the Rajah of Kashmir, he did not repeat thelook, 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 thathad nearly overcome Atmâ the morning he received the box from the handsof Nama at the sacred shrine. The Maharajah turned pale, and withdifficulty recovered his breath. "Miscreant!" cried the courtiers. 

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

"An emissary of the Ranee, " cried some. 

"A spy, " shouted others, while Golab Singh had thoughts which it wouldnot have been prudent to utter aloud in that mixed assemblage. 

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

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

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

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

Excitement prevailed and great consternation. Englishmen exchangedglances; 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 doubtfell on his denouncer. The Rajah's rage increased every moment, addingto the commotion which delayed the fulfilment of his commands. Toenhance the confusion, the party of horsemen now returned. They pressedaround, hearing and giving tidings. In the tumult Bertram reachedAtmâ's side, but before he could speak, Atmâ whispered in his ear, "Meetme in the Moslem Burying ground to-morrow night. " Then with a sudden andstrong effort, swift as a bird, he freed himself from the exciteduncertain grasp that held him, and springing upon a horse he was off onthe wings of the wind. A score of men scrambled to their saddles, butthey were in confusion, and their horses were tired, whilst Atmâ hadmounted a fresh horse just brought forward for his own safe escort toprison. In the disorder, he gained a few priceless moments of time, andthreading well his way between the groves that dotted the plain, he wassoon 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 Atmâ in that strange calm that follows an overwhelmingstroke of calamity. It was midnight, and the moon shone on the oldMoslem Burial Place, where he awaited the coming of Bertram. The treescast long black shadows, and here and there the monuments gleamed likesilver. His mind had not yet grasped the full enormity of the conspiracyof which he was the victim, but he knew that the perfidy of Lal and theloss of the Sapphire meant death to his hopes of winning victory for theKhalsa. But his heart was strangely still. He had been waiting sincesundown, but he did not doubt his friend, and interrupted hismeditations every now and then to look expectantly in the directionwhence he knew he must come. At length a figure emerged from thedarkness and silence at the further end of a long avenue leading fromthe entrance, and Atmâ knew the form and step grown in those past daysof pleasant intercourse so dear and familiar. He went to meet hisfriend; Bertram's face was graver than he had known it in the past, andthe kindly eyes were full of questioning. 

Atmâ 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 ontheir way to Lahore, where I must join them. I could not go without aneffort to meet you here, not only because you bade me, but I alsodesired it, for I have been full of distressful perplexity, refusing todoubt you, my friend whom I have believed leal and true. "

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

Bertram smiled. "True, the candour of your ingenuous gaze does much toreassure me. I gather from your brief reply to my brother officer thatloyalty to your nation and faith forbids you to speak openly, but surelythis much you can tell me, for I ask concerning yourself alone:--Can itbe that you who have seemed an embodiment of truth and candour have allthis time been contemplating the destruction of your host, and mydestruction also, " he added slowly, "whose hand has so often beenclasped in yours? Truth and Purity seemed dear to you, Atmâ Singh. Canit be possible that you and I have together searched into heavenlytruth, while one of us held in his heart the foulest treachery?"

"I know of no treachery to Golab Singh, " replied Atmâ steadfastly. "Asfor you, brother of my love, reflect that the dear hope, faint anddistant though it be now, of the triumph of the Khalsa need not implydisgrace nor disaster to your people, who, unwillingly at first, burdened themselves with the affairs of the Punjaub. The later treacheryat Mooltan has been abundantly expiated by the innocent as well as theguilty. "

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

"Atmâ, I believe you. I can perceive your position, and how, sounhappily, you have been able to reconcile insidious intrigue withsentiments of honour and purity. But I have much to tell you, for Iwould warn you against enemies on all sides. Rajah Lal, for some reasonyour mortal foe, has convinced Golab Singh that you connived at hisdeath by means of the poison discovered in the casket. " Here theEnglishman's eyes sought Atmâ's with sorrowful question in their bluedepths, but he received no other response than a frank and fearlessgaze. "He accuses you, " continued Bertram, "of conspiring to rob him, Lal Singh, of his bride, " Atmâ started, "for it seems his betrothal wascelebrated during his recent absence from Kashmir. But I have startledyou, Atmâ Singh, tell me--"

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

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

Another shriek rent the air, and he hastened forward, Atmâ proceedingslowly in the same direction by a more circuitous way. He was stunned bywhat he had just heard. It seemed to him that the shriek which hadbroken into the midst of Bertram's communication had been his own, andthat it was being repeated on all sides. In reality the only sound thatnow 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 Atmâ standing still hearda smothered exclamation. Another voice spoke from a distance angrily, and, fearing for his friend, he now hastened forward rapidly, thoughstill cautiously. When he reached the spot, he found Bertram kneelingbeside a prostrate female form, a small and childlike figure. The veil, torn aside, was stained with blood, and Atmâ's heart stood still, forthe unconscious form was that of Moti's little maid. He failed to seeBertram's imperative gesture, motioning him back, and Bertram then spokein 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 thenthe report of a gun, and Bertram fell back with a groan. A shriek oftriumph rose at a distance. "The traitor Atmâ is dead!" A noise of theflying feet of Lal's minions and then silence. Atmâ stood alone. Withanguished heart he raised the unconscious head which his own love hadlured to destruction. To his unspeakable joy the eyes opened, and theloved voice faintly strove to bid him fly. The effort made him swoonagain, and when he next revived it was to ask for water. Atmâ ran to arill which he had noted before, and speedily returned with a draught. After drinking, Bertram raised himself slightly, and directing hisfriend's attention to the body of the servant-maid he whispered:

"With her last breath she bade me search the tomb. " Until now Atmâ hadnot observed that they were in the shadow of Sangita's tomb. The vineswere torn from its ancient portal, which hung open on broken hinge. 

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

At length he might leave him, and then lifting the door and the trailingvines aside to allow the moonlight to penetrate he looked in. A momentlater he had entered. He remained long, so long that Bertram, uneasy andsuffering, called him again and again, but without response. Half anhour--an hour passed, and then he feebly and painfully crept to thedoorway of the tomb. He saw Atmâ prostrate on the damp sepulchral mould, his face buried in his hands, and beside him lay still, and cold, andlifeless, a girl attired in bridal finery, with jewels gleaming on herdark 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 comeby a winding labyrinth of ways were the fugitives. Bertram, languid andpale, lay on a couch of moss and leaves built by his friend. His gazerested on Atmâ with compassion, for he knew that his wound was of thespirit, and he feared that without a balm the sore must be mortal. Thesoul dies sometimes before we say of the man "he is dead, " and at thatstrange death we shudder lest it should know no awakening. 

Atmâ sat near by, dumb and unheeding. His fingers toyed idly with aPearl, 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 waterto the wounded man, but oblivious of his own needs, and onlyhalf-conscious that he was not alone. Daylight faded and stars came outbefore 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 richlyfreighted goes down, and straightway the owner laments, not his owndeprivation, but that "all flesh is grass. " "Vanity of vanities, " hecries, "all is vanity, " and we but guess at his hurt. A mysteriousconsciousness is wiser than his reason, and connects the broken currentof his life with a mighty movement which he knows afar, but cannot tellwhether it be of Time or Eternity. He who designed all, "did not He makeone?"

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

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

But to Atmâ it was the symbol of a lost love. He looked on itlistlessly. It seemed a long while since Moti died, for in his heartjoy, and hope, and youth had died since. The immortal destiny of man, abelief dear to the Sikh, seemed a thing indifferent. Death might not befinal, 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 hadnot 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, Atmâ went away. In thought Bertram followed him, full of sad solicitude. 

He strode along the heights. The cooling air and the sense of isolationwere grateful to his worn spirit. He wandered far until he found himselfin a rocky fortress, vast, black and terrible. The lowering peaks aboveinclined their giant heads to one another in awful conclave, and theghastly moonbeams pierced to the gloom below, where they enwrapped thelonely form of Atmâ in a phosphorescent glare. The winds broke among thecliffs, and with shrieks and fearful laughter proclaimed the darkcouncils of the peaks, and in the din were heard mutterings andimprecations. A transport seized the soul of Atmâ. The horrible glee ofthe 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 Atmâ; whom thou hadst designed For life of sanctity and holy quest. Lord, I am Atmâ, and I have transgressed; I sought the Present whom we may not seek, The Future whom I slighted went before And waited arméd 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, andhis strength grew less. The unseen powers that throng the air and watchour ways arranged about him the phantasmagoria of dissolution. It wasthe waning of the moon. A tender mist, which had long veiled a mountaincrest, now unfolded its depths and was wafted away. A star shot acrossthe welkin and was no more seen. Summer blossoms faded with the dyingseason. The music of the pine-boughs had a more melancholy cadence, andbirds of passage took their flight. Atmâ marked these things, and oftenwithdrew to lament. 

One evening they watched the shadows lengthening. Atmâ's heart wasoppressed, but Bertram looked on the shifting scene with happy undauntedsmile. In voice pathetic only from mortal weakness and strong withimmortality 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. "

_Atmâ:_

 "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. "

_Atmâ:_

 "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. "

_Atmâ:_

 "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 mountainfastness, and Atmâ knew once more that the human soul is lonely, whichhe had been fain to doubt or deny in the pleasant delusion offriendship. He lived alone, and, after a while, with returning mentalhealth, he sometimes gave way to bitter reflection on these, his wasteddays, though knowing himself unable still to take up the broken threadof active existence. But, growing stronger, he was at last able toperceive that this apparently barren season was the best harvest time ofhis life, for, adrift from human ties and from religions, he was at lastalone with God. His battles were sore to fight, the solid earth seemedgone 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 haveall cried, but the instinct of the soul happily arrested him then. Happily, for it is strangely true that he who loses faith in man willsoon lose faith in God. It is as if the great heart of the Racé, recoiling from suicidal impulse, warned the individual from treasonagainst his kind--a suggestion of the unity underlying all createdthings. This the best religions have known, and have founded on it a lawthat he who loves God must love his brother also. Apprehending this, Atmâ grew again in heart to forgive his fellowmen who had so sorelysinned against him, and, musing on their ways he pitied them, and knewthat the true attitude towards humanity is one of pity. He pitied men intheir crimes, in their unbeliefs, and in their faiths, and presently hesaw in these faiths which he had decried a spiritual beauty. His owncreed, grown hateful to him as the vainest of delusions, reasserted itsclaims to reverence, and the voice that had cried to his childhood outof the desert of silence and mystery that surrounds every human soulspoke to him again as a voice of inspiration. Every man's faith is thefaith of his fathers, the faith learned on his mother's knee. He, who, increasing knowledge, discerns the different degrees of darkness thatcharacterize our religious theories, and chooses for himself one fromamong them, increases his soul's sorrow, for our light is darkness, andGod is not to be found for searching. "It is not by our feet or changeof place that men leave Thee nor return unto Thee. " The quietness ofhabit is more conducive to spirituality than the progress whose gain isso infinitesimal, and whose heavy price is the destruction of the habitof faith. It is better to believe a falsehood than to doubt a truth. Thehabitual attitude of the soul, its upward gaze is more important thanthe quality of the veil through which it discerns the Eternal. Duringthe days when Atmâ lived without the religion which was so mortal thatit died in his heart because he found that its friends were false, heknew God, for this veil was removed, and when the weakness of humannature again demanded the support of habit and formula, he turned to themystic rites and prayers endeared and hallowed by association, but heknew now that God is a spirit, for spirit with spirit had met. Asilence, born of great reverence, rested upon him, and he no moreclamoured to save the world. The fall of the Khalsa no longer meant thedownfall of God, and in time even the heartache for the vanquishment ofhis early dreams disappeared. 

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

And so this story of religion that called itself heavenly, and love thatwas most mortal, is over. Atmâ 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.