But they speedily forgot the craft of the serpent, and pursued their walk, conversing as they went.

Some tenets, they found, were familiar to the minds of both, and these, they observed, might be called historical.  Such were the vague whisperings of things that occurred in the dawn of young Time before the earliest twilight of story—­traditions that linger as shades among the nations, vague hints of former greatness and of a calamity, a crime whose enormity is guessed by the magnitude of its shadow hovering over the earth, shrouding men’s cradles and darkening with a menace their tombs.  Such too were the joyful surmisings of a restoration, such the imaginings of

             “That bright eternal day
     Of which we priests and poets say
     Such truths as we expect for happy men.”

“Your story of the world’s creation is strangely in accord with ours,” said Bertram.  “Our narrative is more precise, but the things stated so clearly typify we know not what; and we and you are, I doubt not, wisest when we own ourselves ignorant.  Who can tell what is implied in the tale of the birth of Time out of Eternity, ascending through seven gradations to we know not what consummation when this seventh epoch of rest shall be run?”

“The words of the wise,” said Atma, “assign to all things perpetuity, which involves a repetition of the cycle of Seven.  Does the week of seven days repeating itself endlessly in time, image the seven epochs which, returning again and again, may constitute eternity?”

Bertram paused before he replied—­

“Your words move me, Atma Singh, for I have heard that on the first day of a new week a Representative Man rose from the dead.”

They reached the Burying Ground.  It was a lovely spot.  Fallen into disuse, the bewitching grace of carelessness was added to the architectural beauty of the tombs.  The verdure was rank, and luxuriant trees and marble tombs alike were festooned with clematis and jasmine.  Here they were pleased to find Nawab Khan and the servant, whom he dismissed on their arrival, and himself guided them to an old tomb simpler in form than the rest, but more tenderly and beautifully clothed in moss and wild flowers than any.  They sat down while the Nawab related the story of the maiden whose goodness it commemorated.

“Sangita,” said he, “was a princess of incomparable beauty and surpassing gentleness.  Her spirit was humble; and as the heavenly streams of wisdom and virtue seek lowly places, her nature shone every day with a purer lustre.  She loved tenderly a gazelle which she had reared, and which was the companion of her happy hours.  It was not of the King’s flocks but had been found in Sangita’s own garden, and none knew who had brought it there.  The talkative people, noting the sagacity of the pretty creature and the tender solicitude of its mistress, who crowned it anew with garlands every morning and fed it with sweetest milk and the loveliest flower