tidings of his present safety. As Nama spoke, Atmâ fancied once that the
little maid standing by sought to engage his attention by a mute sign,
but, ere he could be sure, she desisted and became engrossed in the
adjustment of the crown of scarlet flowers with which she had bedecked
her head. A dim suspicion of treachery rose in his breast, a vague
misgiving. He rapidly recalled to mind the affectionate language of his
kinsman, the promises of the Ranee, and perhaps stronger than all rose
the dear vanity of royal youth, which cannot believe itself scorned.
Were not all the high hopes of his life at stake? It is not possible
that when youth hazards all, the venture should fail. But the foreboding
remained. It was akin to the shudder which tells us that some one steps
on the sod beneath which we are to lie. The analysis of these subtle
melancholies is hard to read. A breath may summon them and they linger
unbidden, and whether they point only to the dim shadows they invoke
from the past, or whether their warning be of the future, we cannot say.
Even as I write a sadness oppresses me, born of I know not what.

If any asked me whence it came,
This languor of my soul to-day,
And why I muse in piteous frame
While all the glowing world is gay,
I could not tell, I only mourn,
And wonder how to life it stirred,
The memory of that distant morn,
As then I wondered had I heard
That grief could ever sink to sleep
Nor aye that stony vigil keep.

Enter ye dreams of vanished woe,
The spectral griefs of long ago;