How fair is Night, how hushed the scene,
Earth's teeming hosts are here no longer seen,
Only a chosen few,
A happy few,
The blooming cereus and the blessed dew
Ordained have been
To weave beneath the solemn moon and still,
Some holy rite, some mystic pledge fulfil.
That loveliest star fades from my sight,
Leaves the fond presence of the doting night,
And softly sinks awhile,
A little while,
Its radiance into brief exile
From mourning night.
So shall my blissful flame of life expire,
So fail from light, and love, and life's desire.
So pondered Atma in that strange calm that follows an overwhelming
stroke of calamity. It was midnight, and the moon shone on the old
Moslem Burial Place, where he awaited the coming of Bertram. The trees
cast long black shadows, and here and there the monuments gleamed like
silver. His mind had not yet grasped the full enormity of the conspiracy
of which he was the victim, but he knew that the perfidy of Lal and the
loss of the Sapphire meant death to his hopes of winning victory for the
Khalsa. But his heart was strangely still. He had been waiting since
sundown, but he did not doubt his friend, and interrupted his
meditations every now and then to look expectantly in the direction
whence he knew he must come. At length a figure emerged from the
darkness and silence at the further end of a long avenue leading from
the entrance, and Atma knew the form and step grown in those past days
of pleasant intercourse so dear and familiar. He went to meet his
friend; Bertram's face was graver than he had known it in the past, and
the kindly eyes were full of questioning.
Atma spoke first, and the joyful tone of his voice surprised himself.
Perhaps he was more hopeful at heart than he knew.
"My heart was assured that you would come, Bertram Sahib."
"My English friends," replied Bertram, "have left Jummoo, and are now on
their way to Lahore, where I must join them. I could not go without an
effort to meet you here, not only because you bade me, but I also
desired it, for I have been full of distressful perplexity, refusing to
doubt you, my friend whom I have believed leal and true."
"But you are grieved no longer," returned Atma. "As your eyes meet mine,
their sadness vanishes like the clouds of morning before the light of
day."
Bertram smiled. "True, the candour of your ingenuous gaze does much to
reassure me. I gather from your brief reply to my brother officer that
loyalty to your nation and faith forbids you to speak openly, but surely
this much you can tell me, for I ask concerning yourself alone:--Can it
be that you who have seemed an embodiment of truth and candour have all
this time been contemplating the destruction of your host, and my
destruction also," he added slowly, "whose hand has so often been
clasped in yours? Truth and Purity seemed dear to you, Atma Singh. Can
it be possible that you and I have together searched into heavenly
truth, while one of us held in his heart the foulest treachery?"