CHAPTER VIII.

One night Atma dreamed a dream which greatly disturbed his waking thoughts.  He lay in the shadow of an overhanging rock, and in deep sleep fancied that he descried therein a door which was securely barred.  But although it was closed, there issued from it aroma of most subtle perfumes, which seemed to enter the brain and incite the energies to a maddening desire of possession, while there floated around him strains of music whose sweetness filled the soul with sorrow of itself.  In his dream he tried the heavy bolts in vain.  All was fast.  He yielded to despair, and dashed himself against the rocky portal in anguish of disappointment.  But grief wore itself out, and he thought that he presently lay on the ground, bruised and exhausted.  The charmed fragrance still enwrapt him, and the seductive melody filled the air.  Sad and benumbed he yielded himself to their influence, and his ear then detected in the ethereal harmony an articulate utterance.  An ineffable intonation melodiously spoke: 

     “It opes to a key that is golden,
     Within it a spirit lies folden,
     The soul of all matchless delight. 
     All graces familiar or olden,
     Propitious thine entrance invite.”

He now dimly perceived the golden key to glitter in the air.  It came near to him, and he took it into his hand from where it lay on a pillow of mist.  When he held it, the rocky door, though still fastened, no longer hid from view the loveliness of the grotto.  He saw walls bedecked with gleaming jewels, marvellous flowers, and countless silver lamps, whilst everywhere were traced in precious gems the sayings of the Wise of all ages.  Winged creatures, whose looks spoke of loving and perfect service, seemed to await his command.

A great fear seized him lest so beautiful a vision should presently fade, and he would have rushed to unbar the entrance, his eyes dimming with tears of love and sorrow.  But a second voice sounded from above more solemnly sweet than the first—­

          “Beware! beware! 
     To abide none enter there;
     All you see is but a portal
     Leading on to the Immortal;
     Though it be so fair, so fair,
     Enter, not to tarry there;
     Idle tears, your torrent stay—­
     Beauty, it is consecrate
     And can never fade away;
     Change it will, be re-create,
     Born from narrow things to great.”

But the first voice pleaded again.  Together they sang, and strangely enough they harmonized.  Not that the celestial utterance lent itself to the lighter measure, but the nearer song took a softer cadence and borrowed a new persuasion from the greater.  Passionate grew the pleading, more alluring the radiant retreat.  The heart of Atma, ever open to the influence of the good, cried to the solemn voice above for help.

“Give also light,” he said, “that I may see beyond the portal!”