He stopped abruptly, for a sound like distant sobbing broke the stillness.  They listened, but it was not repeated.

“Atma, I believe you.  I can perceive your position, and how, so unhappily, you have been able to reconcile insidious intrigue with sentiments of honour and purity.  But I have much to tell you, for I would warn you against enemies on all sides.  Rajah Lal, for some reason your mortal foe, has convinced Golab Singh that you connived at his death by means of the poison discovered in the casket.”  Here the Englishman’s eyes sought Atma’s with sorrowful question in their blue depths, but he received no other response than a frank and fearless gaze.  “He accuses you,” continued Bertram, “of conspiring to rob him, Lal Singh, of his bride,” Atma started, “for it seems his betrothal was celebrated during his recent absence from Kashmir.  But I have startled you, Atma Singh, tell me—­”

A woman’s scream interrupted him.  It sounded near by, and both sprang forward, when Bertram, recollecting himself, stayed his companion.

“Halt,” he said, “you must remain concealed.  I will go alone if we hear more.”

Another shriek rent the air, and he hastened forward, Atma proceeding slowly in the same direction by a more circuitous way.  He was stunned by what he had just heard.  It seemed to him that the shriek which had broken into the midst of Bertram’s communication had been his own, and that it was being repeated on all sides.  In reality the only sound that now disturbed the night was the echo of his own and Bertram’s footsteps, the latter hurried and irregular for the ground was uneven.

A few moments passed and the steps ceased, and Atma standing still heard a smothered exclamation.  Another voice spoke from a distance angrily, and, fearing for his friend, he now hastened forward rapidly, though still cautiously.  When he reached the spot, he found Bertram kneeling beside a prostrate female form, a small and childlike figure.  The veil, torn aside, was stained with blood, and Atma’s heart stood still, for the unconscious form was that of Moti’s little maid.  He failed to see Bertram’s imperative gesture, motioning him back, and Bertram then spoke in rapid though subdued accents.

“Go back, I entreat you; no one will harm me, but your life is marked—­”

He had better not have spoken.  There was a cry of fiendish glee and then the report of a gun, and Bertram fell back with a groan.  A shriek of triumph rose at a distance.  “The traitor Atma is dead!” A noise of the flying feet of Lal’s minions and then silence.  Atma stood alone.  With anguished heart he raised the unconscious head which his own love had lured to destruction.  To his unspeakable joy the eyes opened, and the loved voice faintly strove to bid him fly.  The effort made him swoon again, and when he next revived it was to ask for water.  Atma ran to a rill which he had noted before, and speedily returned with a draught.  After drinking, Bertram raised himself slightly, and directing his friend’s attention to the body of the servant-maid he whispered: