Atma:

“Let be, my friend; so it be morn to thee
I make no moan, though thy day’s dawn shall be
Night of desertion and lament to me.”

CHAPTER XX.

Death, whether it be day or night, overtook Bertram in the mountain fastness, and Atma knew once more that the human soul is lonely, which he had been fain to doubt or deny in the pleasant delusion of friendship.  He lived alone, and, after a while, with returning mental health, he sometimes gave way to bitter reflection on these, his wasted days, though knowing himself unable still to take up the broken thread of active existence.  But, growing stronger, he was at last able to perceive that this apparently barren season was the best harvest time of his life, for, adrift from human ties and from religions, he was at last alone with God.  His battles were sore to fight, the solid earth seemed gone from beneath his feet, and the heavens were become an illusion.  There was a time when he cried out that “all men are liars,” as we have all cried, but the instinct of the soul happily arrested him then.  Happily, for it is strangely true that he who loses faith in man will soon lose faith in God.  It is as if the great heart of the Race, recoiling from suicidal impulse, warned the individual from treason against his kind—­a suggestion of the unity underlying all created things.  This the best religions have known, and have founded on it a law that he who loves God must love his brother also.  Apprehending this, Atma grew again in heart to forgive his fellowmen who had so sorely sinned against him, and, musing on their ways he pitied them, and knew that the true attitude towards humanity is one of pity.  He pitied men in their crimes, in their unbeliefs, and in their faiths, and presently he saw in these faiths which he had decried a spiritual beauty.  His own creed, grown hateful to him as the vainest of delusions, reasserted its claims to reverence, and the voice that had cried to his childhood out of the desert of silence and mystery that surrounds every human soul spoke to him again as a voice of inspiration.  Every man’s faith is the faith of his fathers, the faith learned on his mother’s knee.  He, who, increasing knowledge, discerns the different degrees of darkness that characterize our religious theories, and chooses for himself one from among them, increases his soul’s sorrow, for our light is darkness, and God is not to be found for searching.  “It is not by our feet or change of place that men leave Thee nor return unto Thee.”  The quietness of habit is more conducive to spirituality than the progress whose gain is so infinitesimal, and whose heavy price is the destruction of the habit of faith.  It is better to believe a falsehood than to doubt a truth.  The habitual attitude of the soul, its upward gaze is more important than the quality of the veil through which it discerns the Eternal.  During the days