As Atma drew near to the confines of Kashmir he trod a secluded vale,
and followed the windings of a broad stream whose banks were thickly
wooded. As he pursued his way through a thicket he heard voices in gay
converse, and stayed his steps until, peering through the heavy foliage,
he descried below the overhanging river-bank two dark-eyed girls. They
were seated on a broad stone, and one laved her feet in the water and
bent over the swift current; but the head of the other, wreathed in
scarlet blossoms, was uplifted, and in the bright face half turned
towards him he recognized an attendant of Moti. She listened as if
suspecting his approach, but soon apparently satisfied, she resumed her
light chatter with her companion. Atma heard his own name, and gathered
that they sought him. He made himself known, and the elder, who was
Nama, the Maharanee's trusted servant, related how her mistress greatly
desiring a sprig of White Ak, a tree of great virtue in incantations,
had commissioned her to obtain it in the forest near by. She had also
been charged, she said, to meet Atma Singh, and bring her illustrious
mistress tidings of his welfare.
Although, as a true Sikh, Atma worshipped an Idea, and held in scorn all
material semblance of the supernatural, he knew that magic was largely
practised by professed adherents of the Khalsa, and so heard her errand
without surprise, though guessing that its timely performance had in
view some other purpose concerning himself. This became certain when
Nana made known to him that she was not then to return home, but to
linger here and in the neighbourhood of the Sacred Well, spoken of by
the Ranee, for an indefinite time, while the girl beside her at once
returning, would bear to Ferazpore as well as to the house of his uncle
tidings of his present safety. As Nama spoke, Atma fancied once that the
little maid standing by sought to engage his attention by a mute sign,
but, ere he could be sure, she desisted and became engrossed in the
adjustment of the crown of scarlet flowers with which she had bedecked
her head. A dim suspicion of treachery rose in his breast, a vague
misgiving. He rapidly recalled to mind the affectionate language of his
kinsman, the promises of the Ranee, and perhaps stronger than all rose
the dear vanity of royal youth, which cannot believe itself scorned.
Were not all the high hopes of his life at stake? It is not possible
that when youth hazards all, the venture should fail. But the foreboding
remained. It was akin to the shudder which tells us that some one steps
on the sod beneath which we are to lie. The analysis of these subtle
melancholies is hard to read. A breath may summon them and they linger
unbidden, and whether they point only to the dim shadows they invoke
from the past, or whether their warning be of the future, we cannot say.
Even as I write a sadness oppresses me, born of I know not what.