"Proving," laughed the Rajah, "that he added the virtue of discretion to his multiform merits. But we turn not our backs on the question until my illustrious guest Atmâ Singh of the blood of the Holy Nanuk further expound the nature of life."
All turned to Atmâ. The frivolity of the Rajah was distasteful to him in connection with so grave a theme. His eyes involuntarily sought the glance of the young Englishman who had spoken. He was an officer in the British army and his name was Bertram. His expressive face kindled with kindly grace as the young Sikh claimed sympathy with him in his view of life as a battlefield.
"But not," said Atmâ, "that triumph crowns prowess in this fight. I know 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 nobler one than that on which human effort is rewarded by gain. I pray you continue."
"Behold the strength that comes from a convert," sneered some of the company, as with fervent though modest speech Atmâ spoke of the high courage and dauntless faith which transform defeat into Immortal victory.
A silence fell on the gay throng. Some were gloomy because reminded of their national discomfiture. Others looked coldly on Atmâ and muttered with 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 whose authorship I do not know.