Such truths as we expect for happy men."
"Your story of the world's creation is strangely in accord with ours," said Bertram. "Our narrative is more precise, but the things stated so clearly typify we know not what; and we and you are, I doubt not, wisest when we own ourselves ignorant. Who can tell what is implied in the tale of the birth of Time out of Eternity, ascending through seven gradations to we know not what consummation when this seventh epoch of rest shall be run?"
"The words of the wise," said Atmâ, "assign to all things perpetuity, which involves a repetition of the cycle of Seven. Does the week of seven days repeating itself endlessly in time, image the seven epochs which, returning again and again, may constitute eternity?"
Bertram paused before he replied—
"Your words move me, Atmâ Singh, for I have heard that on the first day of a new week a Representative Man rose from the dead."
They reached the Burying Ground. It was a lovely spot. Fallen into disuse, the bewitching grace of carelessness was added to the architectural beauty of the tombs. The verdure was rank, and luxuriant trees and marble tombs alike were festooned with clematis and jasmine. Here they were pleased to find Nawab Khan and the servant, whom he dismissed on their arrival, and himself guided them to an old tomb simpler in form than the rest, but more tenderly and beautifully clothed in moss and wild flowers than any. They sat down while the Nawab related the story of the maiden whose goodness it commemorated.
"Sangita," said he, "was a princess of incomparable beauty and surpassing gentleness. Her spirit was humble; and as the heavenly streams of wisdom and virtue seek lowly places, her nature shone every day with a purer lustre. She loved tenderly a gazelle which she had reared, and which was the companion of her happy hours. It was not of the King's flocks but had been found in Sangita's own garden, and none knew who had brought it there. The talkative people, noting the sagacity of the pretty creature and the tender solicitude of its mistress, who crowned it anew with garlands every morning and fed it with sweetest milk and the loveliest flower buds, whispered to one another of its mysterious appearance, and alleged for it miraculous origin. One day as it fed among lilies, the princess near by, overcome by the heat, slumbered. She slept long and heavily, and when she awoke her favourite was nowhere to be seen. Calling and weeping, she wandered through vale and glade, searching the hare's covert, but starting back, for she descried a viper there; peering into the den of a wild beast and shuddering, for it was strewn with bones; hastening to a gorgeous clump of bloom where she thought it might have rested, but the splendid blossoms were poisonous and she turned away. All the dark, damp, dangerous night she sought, and it was morning when she found the gentle creature stretched on the moss, its piteous eyes glazed over with death, for it had been pursued and had sunk from exhaustion.
In delirious ravings Sangita told her people that when she knelt on the moss, and, wringing her hands, bewailed that it had not sought the shelter of a Secure Resting Place, the gazelle reproached her.
'I know not of that country,' it said, 'it is not here.'
And this, although the wild speech of a fevered brain, gained credit with the populace, and the Wild Gazelle cherished by the good princess became a memory fraught with awe and superstition. For me, I believe that the devout and good heart utters wisdom unawares, and that the tongue habituated to golden speech may drop riches even when the light of reason is withdrawn. The sickness of Sangita was mortal, but her mind cleared before she expired, and she then obtained from the King her father a promise that over her ashes should be erected a lodge whose door, never fastened, might afford a Haven of Retreat such as her fevered dream desired!"