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.

     If any asked me whence it came,
       This languor of my soul to-day,
     And why I muse in piteous frame
       While all the glowing world is gay,
     I could not tell, I only mourn,
       And wonder how to life it stirred,
     The memory of that distant morn,
       As then I wondered had I heard
     That grief could ever sink to sleep
       Nor aye that stony vigil keep.

     Enter ye dreams of vanished woe,
     The spectral griefs of long ago;
     I fold my hands, in dreamlike trance,
     I see their shadowy train advance—­
     Phantom forms like shades of eld,
     Memory-prints or forms beheld,
     I cannot know, they fade away;
     Faintly their voices seem to say,
     “You loved us not that distant day,”
     And, lo, my foolish tears o’erflow. 
     Can this be I who fain would know
     Those bitter griefs of long ago?