er own thoughts
and it was evidently not the time to say more.

If I had hoped for a vision before I left the neighbourhood of that
strange House of Beauty where a spirit imprisoned appeared to await the
day of enlightenment I was disappointed. These things do not happen as
one expects or would choose. The wind bloweth where it listeth until the
laws which govern the inner life are understood, and then we would not
choose if we could for we know that all is better than well. In this
world, either in the blinded sight of daily life or in the clarity of
the true sight I have not since seen it, but that has mattered little,
for having heard an authentic word within its walls I have passed on my
way elsewhere.

Next day a letter from Olesen reached me.

"Dear Ormond, I hope you have had a good time at the House in the Woods.
I saw Rup Singh a few days ago and he wrote the odd message I enclose.
You know what these natives are, even the most sensible of them, and you
will humour the old fellow for he ages very fast and I think is breaking
up. But this was not what I wanted to say. I had a letter from a man I
had not seen for years--a fellow called Stephen Clifden, who lives in
Kashmir. As a matter of fact I had forgotten his existence but evidently
he has not repaid the compliment for he writes as follows--No, I had
better send you the note and you can do as you please. I am rushed off
my legs with work and the heat is hell with the lid off. And-"

But the rest was of no interest except to a friend of years' standing. I
read Rup Singh's message first. It was written in his own tongue.

"To the Honoured One who has attained to the favour of the Favourable.

"You have with open eyes seen what this humble one has dreamed but
has not known. If the thing be possible, write me this word that I may
depart in peace. 'With that one who in a former birth you loved all is
well. Fear nothing for him. The way is long but at the end the lamps of
love are lit and the Unstruck music is sounded. He lies at the feet of
Mercy and there awaits his hour.' And if it be not possible to write
these words, write nothing, O Honoured, for though it be in the hells my
soul shall find my King, and again I shall serve him as once I served."

I understood, and wrote those words as he had written them. Strange
mystery of life--that I who had not known should see, and that this man
whose fidelity had not deserted his broken King in his utter downfall