"We are on our way," said he, "to the Moslem burial-place near by, the tombs of which have become interesting through the tales of Nawab Khan. Bertram Sahib jests, we will be gratified by Rajah Lal Singh joining us."
The Rajah had regained self-possession and declined the proffered courtesy in his usual cold and sneering manner, adding with a crafty smile and with covert meaning, which perplexed and startled Bertram:
"It is a wise man who familiarizes himself with the grave. For me; I must deny myself, for I go tomorrow to take part in festivities the reverse of funereal. I commend the propriety and aptness of your researches, Atmâ Singh."
So saying he withdrew with a salaam that failed to cover the swift scowl he bestowed on Bertram.
"There goes an enemy, Atmâ Singh," said Bertram, watching the retreating figure arrayed in barbaric splendour, the profusion of the enormous emeralds that adorned his yellow robe so subduing its hue that Bertram's thrust was unmerited, as far as his attire was concerned at least. "He is a foe to fear, unless I greatly mistake, an enemy of the serpent kind," he continued.
But they speedily forgot the craft of the serpent, and pursued their walk, conversing as they went.
Some tenets, they found, were familiar to the minds of both, and these, they observed, might be called historical. Such were the vague whisperings of things that occurred in the dawn of young Time before the earliest twilight of story—traditions that linger as shades among the nations, vague hints of former greatness and of a calamity, a crime whose enormity is guessed by the magnitude of its shadow hovering over the earth, shrouding men's cradles and darkening with a menace their tombs. Such too were the joyful surmisings of a restoration, such the imaginings of
"That bright eternal day
Of which we priests and poets say