Then Atma spoke and proudly, "No word, Sahib, which a Sikh may utter." Excitement prevailed and great consternation. Englishmen exchanged glances; plots, they believed, of an unguessed extent surrounded them. Musselmen and Sikhs looked at one another with fierce suspicion. "Where," their faces asked, "are his accomplices?" And no look of doubt fell on his denouncer. The Rajah's rage increased every moment, adding to the commotion which delayed the fulfilment of his commands. To enhance the confusion, the party of horsemen now returned. They pressed around, hearing and giving tidings. In the tumult Bertram reached Atma's side, but before he could speak, Atma whispered in his ear, "Meet me in the Moslem Burying ground to-morrow night." Then with a sudden and strong effort, swift as a bird, he freed himself from the excited uncertain grasp that held him, and springing upon a horse he was off on the wings of the wind. A score of men scrambled to their saddles, but they were in confusion, and their horses were tired, whilst Atma had mounted a fresh horse just brought forward for his own safe escort to prison. In the disorder, he gained a few priceless moments of time, and threading well his way between the groves that dotted the plain, he was soon lost to view. CHAPTER XVII. How fair is Night, how hushed the scene, Earth's teeming hosts are here no longer seen, Only a chosen few, A happy few, The blooming cereus and the blessed dew Ordained have been To weave beneath the solemn moon and still, Some holy rite, some mystic pledge fulfil. 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.