are hard to understand. They were one evening in a shady retreat at the
foot of the Rajah's terraced gardens.

"I confess," said Atmâ, "that the fixedness of fate engages my thought
frequently, though hitherto unprofitably. No doubt the teachers of your
land have spoken and written much on a subject so perplexing."

"They have," replied Bertram; "it has ever been a favourite whetstone
for the human reason. It has been frequently solved to the satisfaction
of the performer, but no solution has yet won the universal acceptance
that is the badge of truth."

"It may be," said Atmâ, "that the answer lies not anywhere beneath our
sky."

A rustle in the foliage behind them drew the attention of both. A gleam
of vivid colour was visible when they quickly turned, and Atmâ was in
the act of parting the myrtle boughs, when, anticipating him, Lal Singh
stepped forth from retreat. Silken attire and splendour of jewelled
turban were insufficient to dignify his crestfallen demeanour, which,
however, changed rapidly when he darted a glance of rage and hate at
Bertram, who had greeted his sudden appearance with a scornful laugh.

"No doubt," he said, "the English Sahib and Atmâ Singh have grave
secrets whose discussion calls for deep retirement."

"No doubt of it," laughed Bertram, "but, Rajah Lal, the yellow vestments
of a noble Sikh," for the Rajah wore his state dress, "are so ill
fitted for ambuscade that I promptly refuse to admit you to our
councils."