Atma - A Romance

Presently he awoke with a start. A rush of wind, a sudden plash of water

were followed by the whizzing of an arrow through the air. He was close

to the water. Softly peering through the reeds he saw, palpitating and

stricken with fear, a snowy swan. The arrow had missed the stainless

breast and it was unhurt. The wild creatures of his mountain home were

dear to Atma, and he would fain shield the beautiful bird.

Two youths emerged from the thicket at some distance from where he

stood. He went to meet them, smiling at the folly of his half-formed

intention of guiding them from their prey. After courteous salutation

they inquired whether he had seen the swan.

"It is a bird reared by ourselves," they said, "which strayed from us

two days ago. We thought to wound it in the wing and recover it, but the

creature is so wild that doubtless it is as well that it be killed

out-right."

Atma had slept, he told them, had been aroused by their approach, had

hardly realized the cause of his awakening. "The swan is difficult to

rear," he said, "if indeed such effort be not fruitless."

"It is fruitless," they assented, "but we need not search hereabout if

you have not seen it. You must have heard the flap of his wing had it

alighted near you," and they turned their steps in a contrary direction.

Atma watched their vain search until on the opposite side of the pool

they disappeared into the wood.

He stole a glance into the hiding place of the swan. The soft plumage

had not the dazzling purity which he had known, and the beautiful neck

that should be proudly curved, drooped.

"Poor imprisoned creature," he thought, "grown in bondage, alien to its

own nature of strength and beauty."

He watched it unperceived, timidly washing its plumage in the still

deep water. Soon it floated further from the bank. Now and then it

waited and listened. The story of its captivity was told again in its

stealthy, trembling happiness.

But high overhead, between it and a disc of blue sky, intervened a

stream of lordly birds flying south. From their ranks wafted a cry, and

as it fell there rose a wild echo, an unfamiliar note from the captive

swan.[1] It rose skyward, wearied wing and broken spirit forgotten. It

might be danger, but it was Home, and like a disembodied spirit it

ascended to a life that, altogether new, was to be for the first time

altogether familiar.