That loveliest star fades from my sight,
Leaves the fond presence of the doting night,
And softly sinks awhile,
A little while,
Its radiance into brief exile
From mourning night. 
So shall my blissful flame of life expire,
So fail from light, and love, and life’s desire.

So pondered Atma in that strange calm that follows an overwhelming stroke of calamity.  It was midnight, and the moon shone on the old Moslem Burial Place, where he awaited the coming of Bertram.  The trees cast long black shadows, and here and there the monuments gleamed like silver.  His mind had not yet grasped the full enormity of the conspiracy of which he was the victim, but he knew that the perfidy of Lal and the loss of the Sapphire meant death to his hopes of winning victory for the Khalsa.  But his heart was strangely still.  He had been waiting since sundown, but he did not doubt his friend, and interrupted his meditations every now and then to look expectantly in the direction whence he knew he must come.  At length a figure emerged from the darkness and silence at the further end of a long avenue leading from the entrance, and Atma knew the form and step grown in those past days of pleasant intercourse so dear and familiar.  He went to meet his friend; Bertram’s face was graver than he had known it in the past, and the kindly eyes were full of questioning.

Atma spoke first, and the joyful tone of his voice surprised himself.  Perhaps he was more hopeful at heart than he knew.

“My heart was assured that you would come, Bertram Sahib.”

“My English friends,” replied Bertram, “have left Jummoo, and are now on their way to Lahore, where I must join them.  I could not go without an effort to meet you here, not only because you bade me, but I also desired it, for I have been full of distressful perplexity, refusing to doubt you, my friend whom I have believed leal and true.”

“But you are grieved no longer,” returned Atma.  “As your eyes meet mine, their sadness vanishes like the clouds of morning before the light of day.”

Bertram smiled.  “True, the candour of your ingenuous gaze does much to reassure me.  I gather from your brief reply to my brother officer that loyalty to your nation and faith forbids you to speak openly, but surely this much you can tell me, for I ask concerning yourself alone:—­Can it be that you who have seemed an embodiment of truth and candour have all this time been contemplating the destruction of your host, and my destruction also,” he added slowly, “whose hand has so often been clasped in yours?  Truth and Purity seemed dear to you, Atma Singh.  Can it be possible that you and I have together searched into heavenly truth, while one of us held in his heart the foulest treachery?”

“I know of no treachery to Golab Singh,” replied Atma steadfastly.  “As for you, brother of my love, reflect that the dear hope, faint and distant though it be now, of the triumph of the Khalsa need not imply disgrace nor disaster to your people, who, unwillingly at first, burdened themselves with the affairs of the Punjaub.  The later treachery at Mooltan has been abundantly expiated by the innocent as well as the guilty.”