The onyx-box was all that rewarded the scrutiny of the Rajah’s servants.  “Open it!” he commanded, and forthwith the fatal casket was unclosed.  Golab Singh, bending over it, inhaled the strong and subtle odour that had nearly overcome Atma the morning he received the box from the hands of Nama at the sacred shrine.  The Maharajah turned pale, and with difficulty recovered his breath.  “Miscreant!” cried the courtiers.

Now a paper was unfolded bearing the seal and superscription of the Maharanee Junda Kowr, the dangerous foe of the British to whom Golab Singh owed his throne.

“An emissary of the Ranee,” cried some.

“A spy,” shouted others, while Golab Singh had thoughts which it would not have been prudent to utter aloud in that mixed assemblage.

“A despatch from the Ranee withheld by this traitor for who knows what villainous purpose!”

“He shall pay the penalty,” he thundered, “before the sun rise to-morrow.  Carry him bound to a dungeon!”

Now an Englishman who stood beside him touched the prisoner on the shoulder.  His face had grown stern, and he narrowly searched Atma’s countenance as he spoke gravely but gently enough.  “Have you no word to say, Atma Singh, when you are accused of playing so base a conspirator’s part against the life of your host and of your friends?”

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.