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 overwhelming
stroke of calamity. It was midnight, and the moon shone on the old
Moslem Burial Place, where he awaited the coming of Bertram. The trees
cast long black shadows, and here and there the monuments gleamed like
silver. His mind had not yet grasped the full enormity of the conspiracy
of which he was the victim, but he knew that the perfidy of Lal and the
loss of the Sapphire meant death to his hopes of winning victory for the
Khalsa. But his heart was strangely still. He had been waiting since
sundown, but he did not doubt his friend, and interrupted his
meditations every now and then to look expectantly in the direction
whence he knew he must come. At length a figure emerged from the
darkness and silence at the further end of a long avenue leading from
the entrance, and Atmâ knew the form and step grown in those past days
of pleasant intercourse so dear and familiar. He went to meet his
friend; Bertram's face was graver than he had known it in the past, and
the kindly eyes were full of questioning.
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 on
their way to Lahore, where I must join them. I could not go without an
effort to meet you here, not only because you bade me, but I also
desired it, for I have been full of distressful perplexity, refusing to
doubt you, my friend whom I have believed leal and true."
"But you are grieved no longer," returned Atmâ. "As your eyes meet mine,
their sadness vanishes like the clouds of morning before the light of
day."
Bertram smiled. "True, the candour of your ingenuous gaze does much to
reassure me. I gather from your brief reply to my brother officer that
loyalty to your nation and faith forbids you to speak openly, but surely
this much you can tell me, for I ask concerning yourself alone:--Can it
be that you who have seemed an embodiment of truth and candour have all
this time been contemplating the destruction of your host, and my
destruction also," he added slowly, "whose hand has so often been
clasped in yours? Truth and Purity seemed dear to you, Atmâ Singh. Can
it be possible that you and I have together searched into heavenly
truth, while one of us held in his heart the foulest treachery?"
"I know of no treachery to Golab Singh," replied Atmâ steadfastly. "As
for you, brother of my love, reflect that the dear hope, faint and
distant though it be now, of the triumph of the Khalsa need not imply
disgrace nor disaster to your people, who, unwillingly at first,
burdened themselves with the affairs of the Punjaub. The later treachery
at Mooltan has been abundantly expiated by the innocent as well as the
guilty."
He stopped abruptly, for a sound like distant sobbing broke the
stillness. They listened, but it was not repeated.
"Atmâ, I believe you. I can perceive your position, and how, so
unhappily, you have been able to reconcile insidious intrigue with
sentiments of honour and purity. But I have much to tell you, for I
would warn you against enemies on all sides. Rajah Lal, for some reason
your mortal foe, has convinced Golab Singh that you connived at his
death by means of the poison discovered in the casket." Here the
Englishman's eyes sought Atmâ's with sorrowful question in their blue
depths, but he received no other response than a frank and fearless
gaze. "He accuses you," continued Bertram, "of conspiring to rob him,
Lal Singh, of his bride," Atmâ started, "for it seems his betrothal was
celebrated during his recent absence from Kashmir. But I have startled
you, Atmâ Singh, tell me--"
A woman's scream interrupted him. It sounded near by, and both sprang
forward, when Bertram, recollecting himself, stayed his companion.
"Halt," he said, "you must remain concealed. I will go alone if we hear
more."
Another shriek rent the air, and he hastened forward, Atmâ proceeding
slowly in the same direction by a more circuitous way. He was stunned by
what he had just heard. It seemed to him that the shriek which had
broken into the midst of Bertram's communication had been his own, and
that it was being repeated on all sides. In reality the only sound that
now disturbed the night was the echo of his own and Bertram's footsteps,
the latter hurried and irregular for the ground was uneven.
A few moments passed and the steps ceased, and Atmâ standing still heard
a smothered exclamation. Another voice spoke from a distance angrily,
and, fearing for his friend, he now hastened forward rapidly, though
still cautiously. When he reached the spot, he found Bertram kneeling
beside a prostrate female form, a small and childlike figure. The veil,
torn aside, was stained with blood, and Atmâ's heart stood still, for
the unconscious form was that of Moti's little maid. He failed to see
Bertram's imperative gesture, motioning him back, and Bertram then spoke
in rapid though subdued accents.
"Go back, I entreat you; no one will harm me, but your life is marked--"
He had better not have spoken. There was a cry of fiendish glee and then
the report of a gun, and Bertram fell back with a groan. A shriek of
triumph rose at a distance. "The traitor Atmâ is dead!" A noise of the
flying feet of Lal's minions and then silence. Atmâ stood alone. With
anguished heart he raised the unconscious head which his own love had
lured to destruction. To his unspeakable joy the eyes opened, and the
loved voice faintly strove to bid him fly. The effort made him swoon
again, and when he next revived it was to ask for water. Atmâ ran to a
rill which he had noted before, and speedily returned with a draught.
After drinking, Bertram raised himself slightly, and directing his
friend's attention to the body of the servant-maid he whispered:
"With her last breath she bade me search the tomb." Until now Atmâ had
not observed that they were in the shadow of Sangita's tomb. The vines
were torn from its ancient portal, which hung open on broken hinge.
"Go," said Bertram, but Atmâ would first staunch and bind his wound.
At length he might leave him, and then lifting the door and the trailing
vines aside to allow the moonlight to penetrate he looked in. A moment
later he had entered. He remained long, so long that Bertram, uneasy and
suffering, called him again and again, but without response. Half an
hour--an hour passed, and then he feebly and painfully crept to the
doorway of the tomb. He saw Atmâ prostrate on the damp sepulchral mould,
his face buried in his hands, and beside him lay still, and cold, and
lifeless, a girl attired in bridal finery, with jewels gleaming on her
dark hair and on her stiffening arms. It was Moti.
Ah, the worms were gloating,
This is by-and-bye.