ter drinking, Bertram raised himself slightly, and directing his
friend's attention to the body of the servant-maid he whispered:

"With her last breath she bade me search the tomb." Until now Atma had
not observed that they were in the shadow of Sangita's tomb. The vines
were torn from its ancient portal, which hung open on broken hinge.

"Go," said Bertram, but Atma would first staunch and bind his wound.

At length he might leave him, and then lifting the door and the trailing
vines aside to allow the moonlight to penetrate he looked in. A moment
later he had entered. He remained long, so long that Bertram, uneasy and
suffering, called him again and again, but without response. Half an
hour--an hour passed, and then he feebly and painfully crept to the
doorway of the tomb. He saw Atma prostrate on the damp sepulchral mould,
his face buried in his hands, and beside him lay still, and cold, and
lifeless, a girl attired in bridal finery, with jewels gleaming on her
dark hair and on her stiffening arms. It was Moti.

Ah, the worms were gloating,
This is by-and-bye.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Far retired in the woody recesses to the south of Jummoo, thither come
by a winding labyrinth of ways were the fugitives. Bertram, languid and
pale, lay on a couch of moss and leaves built by his friend. His gaze
rested on Atma with compassion, for he knew that his wound was of the
spirit, and he feared that without a balm the sore must be mortal. The
soul dies sometimes before we say of the man "he is dead," and at that
strange death we shudder lest it should know no awakening.

Atma sat near by, dumb and unheeding. His fingers toyed idly with a
Pearl, on which he gazed as if seeing other forms than those about him.
For many hours he was silent, rising at times to proffer food and water
to the wounded man, but oblivious of his own needs, and only
half-conscious that he was not alone. Daylight faded and stars came out
before he spoke, addressing none and looking away into silence:--

"O swift-winged Time,
Bearing to what unknown estate,
What silent clime,
The burden of our hopes and fears,
The story of our smiles and tears,
And hapless fate?

Those vanished days,
Their golden light can none restore;
Those sovereign rays
That set o'er western seas to-night,
This tranquil moon that shines so bright,
Have paled before
Retu