Ah, thorny Roses, prate ye still of ruth And would me my brief hour of bliss deny? And yet all happy things to love are sooth, But I, ah me, this destiny so high Weighs on my spirit like a drowsy spell, I cannot joy like those, nor stay, I fail Before the greatness of my high behest, Ah, high is holiness, but love is rest, Yes, love is rest, is rest; then blow, sweet gale Of soft forgetfulness about me still, And O, ye Roses, balmy breath exhale And all my consciousness with slumber fill. And, O sweet Love, I pray you yield me now One little pearl from the fair coronal That crowns the loveliness of that calm brow, And I, where'er I be, will own its thrall, And gaze on it and dream until I see A phantom love, before whom I shall fall And pray, adoring white-robed purity." CHAPTER V. "Your lofty faith and devotion, my son, move me deeply. The heroic spirit of my brother Raee seems once more to incite me to deeds of daring which in these degenerate days would alas be vain." So spoke Lehna Singh in the midst of luxury and splendour that had been amassed in no hazardous career of adventure or enterprise, but by methods of coldest calculation and avarice. His listeners were his nephew, whom he addressed, and the Rajah Lal Singh, chief favourite of the notorious Ranee, a man of cringing and servile demeanour, notwithstanding his rank, whose crafty smile followed the speaker's words as he scrutinized the countenance of Atma, as if to learn their effect. The apartment in which they sat was an inner chamber, small, secluded, and silent, for the fame of Lal, lately Wuzeer to the little Maharajah, but for grave offences disgraced and removed from Lahore, was such as to demand caution on the part of those who would consort with him.