Atma and Bertram in unconscious kinship drew to one another, forsaking frequently the mirth and glare of the court to converse of things that are hard to understand.  They were one evening in a shady retreat at the foot of the Rajah’s terraced gardens.

“I confess,” said Atma, “that the fixedness of fate engages my thought frequently, though hitherto unprofitably.  No doubt the teachers of your land have spoken and written much on a subject so perplexing.”

“They have,” replied Bertram; “it has ever been a favourite whetstone for the human reason.  It has been frequently solved to the satisfaction of the performer, but no solution has yet won the universal acceptance that is the badge of truth.”

“It may be,” said Atma, “that the answer lies not anywhere beneath our sky.”

A rustle in the foliage behind them drew the attention of both.  A gleam of vivid colour was visible when they quickly turned, and Atma was in the act of parting the myrtle boughs, when, anticipating him, Lal Singh stepped forth from retreat.  Silken attire and splendour of jewelled turban were insufficient to dignify his crestfallen demeanour, which, however, changed rapidly when he darted a glance of rage and hate at Bertram, who had greeted his sudden appearance with a scornful laugh.

“No doubt,” he said, “the English Sahib and Atma Singh have grave secrets whose discussion calls for deep retirement.”

“No doubt of it,” laughed Bertram, “but, Rajah Lal, the yellow vestments of a noble Sikh,” for the Rajah wore his state dress, “are so ill fitted for ambuscade that I promptly refuse to admit you to our councils.”

What answer the Rajah, whose stealthy face grew livid at this sally, might have made, was stopped by Atma, who, well aware of the danger to his companion from such an enemy, and all unknowing of his own place in the Rajah’s esteem, interposed with courteous speech.

“We are on our way,” said he, “to the Moslem burial-place near by, the tombs of which have become interesting through the tales of Nawab Khan.  Bertram Sahib jests, we will be gratified by Rajah Lal Singh joining us.”

The Rajah had regained self-possession and declined the proffered courtesy in his usual cold and sneering manner, adding with a crafty smile and with covert meaning, which perplexed and startled Bertram: 

“It is a wise man who familiarizes himself with the grave.  For me; I must deny myself, for I go tomorrow to take part in festivities the reverse of funereal.  I commend the propriety and aptness of your researches, Atma Singh.”

So saying he withdrew with a salaam that failed to cover the swift scowl he bestowed on Bertram.

“There goes an enemy, Atma Singh,” said Bertram, watching the retreating figure arrayed in barbaric splendour, the profusion of the enormous emeralds that adorned his yellow robe so subduing its hue that Bertram’s thrust was unmerited, as far as his attire was concerned at least.  “He is a foe to fear, unless I greatly mistake, an enemy of the serpent kind,” he continued.