soul. At these times he would quit the talkers and go
forth alone into unfrequented places. Nowhere else, he thought, could a
land be found more inviting than this to those moods of inward silence
and content, whence the soul may pass, at a single step, into the
ineffable beatitude of the Great Peace. Full, now, of the sense of
harmony between himself and his visible environment, he would penetrate
as far as he could into the forests and the hills. He would take his
seat beside the brook; he would say to himself in his own tongue, "This
water has been flowing all night long," and at the thought his mind
would sink deep into itself; and presently the trees, the rocks, the
fields, the skies, nay, his own body, would seem to melt into the
movement of the flowing stream, and the Self of Chandrapal, freed from
all entanglements and poised at the centre of Being, would gaze on the
River of Eternal Flux.

One day, while thus engaged, standing on a bridge which carried a
by-road over the stream, a shock passed through him: the stillness was
broken as by thunder, the vision fled, and the entanglements fell over
him like a gladiator's net. A motor, coming round a dangerous bend, had
just missed him; and he stood covered with dust. Chandrapal saw and
understood, and then, closing his eyes and making a mighty effort, shook
the entanglements from his soul, and sank back swiftly upon the Centre
of Poise.

The car stopped, and a white-haired woman alighted. A moment later there
was a touch on the arm, and a human voice was calling to him from the
world of shadows. "I beg a thousand pardons," said Mrs. Abel; "the
driver was careless. Thank Heaven, you are unhurt; but the thing is an
injury, and you are a stranger. My house is here; come with me, and you
shall have water."

What more was said I do not know. But when some hours later Chandrapal
returned on foot to the Hall he walked lightly, for the load of pity had
been lifted from his heart. To one who was with him he said: "The Wisdom
of the Nazarene still lives in this land, but it is hidden and obscure,
and those who would find it must search far and long, as I have
searched. Why are the Enlightened so few; for the Truth is simple and
near at hand? The light is here, 'but the darkness comprehendeth it
not.' Is not that so? The men in yonder house, who will soon be talking,
are the slaves of their own tongues; but this woman with the voice of
music is the mistress of her speech.