Atmâ had slept, he told them, had been aroused by their approach, had
hardly realized the cause of his awakening. "The swan is difficult to
rear," he said, "if indeed such effort be not fruitless."

"It is fruitless," they assented, "but we need not search hereabout if
you have not seen it. You must have heard the flap of his wing had it
alighted near you," and they turned their steps in a contrary direction.
Atmâ watched their vain search until on the opposite side of the pool
they disappeared into the wood.

He stole a glance into the hiding place of the swan. The soft plumage
had not the dazzling purity which he had known, and the beautiful neck
that should be proudly curved, drooped.

"Poor imprisoned creature," he thought, "grown in bondage, alien to its
own nature of strength and beauty."

He watched it unperceived, timidly washing its plumage in the still
deep water. Soon it floated further from the bank. Now and then it
waited and listened. The story of its captivity was told again in its
stealthy, trembling happiness.

But high overhead, between it and a disc of blue sky, intervened a
stream of lordly birds flying south. From their ranks wafted a cry, and
as it fell there rose a wild echo, an unfamiliar note from the captive
swan.[1] It rose skyward, wearied wing and broken spirit forgotten. It
might be danger, but it was Home, and like a disembodied spirit it
ascended to a life that, altogether new, was to be for the first time
altogether familiar.