at the end the lamps of love are lit and the Unstruck music is
sounded. He lies at the feet of Mercy and there awaits his hour.'
And if it be not possible to write these words, write nothing, 0
Honoured, for though it be in the hells my soul shall find my
King, and again I shall serve him as once I served."

I understood, and wrote those words as he had written them.
Strange mystery of life - that I who had not known should see,
and that this man whose fidelity had not deserted his broken King
in his utter downfall should have sought with passion for one
sight of the beloved face across the waters of death and sought
in vain. I thought of those Buddhist words of Seneca - "The soul
may be and is in the mass of men drugged and silenced by the
seductions of sense and the deceptions of the world. But if, in
some moment of detachment and elation, when its captors and
jailors relax their guard, it can escape their clutches, it will
seek at once the region of its birth and its true home."

Well - the shell must break before the bird can fly, and the time
drew near for the faithful servant to seek his lord. My message
reached him in time and gladdened him.

I turned then to Clifden's letter.

"Dear Olesen, you will have forgotten me, and feeling sure of
this I should scarcely have intruded a letter into your busy life
were it not that I remember your good-nature as a thing
unforgettable though so many years have gone by. I hear of you
sometimes when Sleigh comes up the Sind valley, for I often camp
at Sonamarg and above the Zoji La and farther. I want you to give