CHAPTER XI.
Rajah Lal Singh arrived at Jummoo a few weeks later in much pomp and state. No hidden or hazardous mission was his. His gorgeous train of armed attendants mounted on richly caparisoned horses traversed the public roads, winding like a brilliant serpent through the vales of Kashmir. He brought tidings of the daily increasing quiet and peace now resting on the torn and war-spent Punjaub. Festivities were heightened after his arrival, and revelry held sway day and night.
Atmâ and Bertram in unconscious kinship drew to one another, forsaking frequently the mirth and glare of the court to converse of things that are hard to understand. They were one evening in a shady retreat at the foot of the Rajah's terraced gardens.
"I confess," said Atmâ, "that the fixedness of fate engages my thought frequently, though hitherto unprofitably. No doubt the teachers of your land have spoken and written much on a subject so perplexing."
"They have," replied Bertram; "it has ever been a favourite whetstone for the human reason. It has been frequently solved to the satisfaction of the performer, but no solution has yet won the universal acceptance that is the badge of truth."
"It may be," said Atmâ, "that the answer lies not anywhere beneath our sky."
A rustle in the foliage behind them drew the attention of both. A gleam of vivid colour was visible when they quickly turned, and Atmâ was in the act of parting the myrtle boughs, when, anticipating him, Lal Singh stepped forth from retreat. Silken attire and splendour of jewelled turban were insufficient to dignify his crestfallen demeanour, which, however, changed rapidly when he darted a glance of rage and hate at Bertram, who had greeted his sudden appearance with a scornful laugh.
"No doubt," he said, "the English Sahib and Atmâ Singh have grave secrets whose discussion calls for deep retirement."
"No doubt of it," laughed Bertram, "but, Rajah Lal, the yellow vestments of a noble Sikh," for the Rajah wore his state dress, "are so ill fitted for ambuscade that I promptly refuse to admit you to our councils."
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 to his companion from such an enemy, and all unknowing of his own place in the Rajah's esteem, interposed with courteous speech.