“He will go to the grave of his ancestors.... He is old and his sons are dead.... He will bury this son, the last of his race—” His hand touched the lacquered surface gently. “He will offer worship at the sacred mountain and pay vows before the tomb of his ancestors. The money you have given shall make glad the hearts of his ancestors.” He ceased. The old man approached the coffin. For a long moment he stood with hands resting on it—as if he would gather from it something of the strength of the race that was passing. Then with grave face he lifted the strings of cash and placed them about his neck and gathered up the silver shoes from beside the coffin and took from a little shelf by the platform a red umbrella and a pair of half-worn sandals. With courteous gesture he passed from the room. XXIV |In the grove outside the city wall they paused to rest. The interpreter, who had come with them from the house and refused to leave them till the city gate was reached, had been paid and was returning to the temple. As they passed through the streets, they had been conscious of curious whispers, glances from behind opaque windows and rustling from concealed doorways and passages beyond—so a hive of bees despoiled of its comb stirs with low-murmured sound and the restless whir of wings.... But no one had approached them, no one barred passage to the light oblong box that Richard More carried so carefully in his hand. At the entrance to the grove he glanced at his wife. “We shall rest here,” he said with quiet decision. And she acquiesced—a little smile coming to her lips as they entered the grove. The green light filtered through the boughs. It touched the twisted trunks with a still look of mystery and strangeness. “How beautiful!” she said under her breath. He made a place for her to sit down, and as she leaned against the gnarled trunk, looking up to the boughs where the filtering light came through, he was struck again by the pallor of her face. “You are tired!” he exclaimed. “I shall signal Kou Ying to bring the chairs!” He moved to the entrance of the grove—but she stayed him. “No—wait! I like it—to be alone with you.... Don’t call Kou Ying—yet!” She looked about with dreamy eyes. “It is so beautiful here—and quiet—I shall rest,” she said slowly. Then her eyes fell on the box and she smiled. “Open it!” she commanded. And as his fingers undid the cord and lifted the thin rustling papers and drew the coat from its place, she laughed and chatted like a child. And her laughter, sounding through the grove, had something sweet and strange in it. He lifted the coat and laid it before her. She looked down at it. She put out her hand and stroked the dragons, the laughter still in her eyes. “For William Archer,” she said. “And his sons,” responded Richard. “And his sons’ sons forever,” she finished dreamily. Her hand still stroked the dragons. “I did not think you—would get it—for me!” she said.