Sometimes there were loopholes in the prison of tumultuous noise and shadow. Sometimes the cliffs were cloven and a tranquil and compressed perspective of sun on apparently heathery moorland and serene red-flowering cotton trees, peered down the cleft. Sometimes the mountains fell back as though exhausted by their fighting and between broad open shores the river ran more patiently. Then there were towns and temples on the slopes. Shih-Pao-Chai, a square tower of rock, challenged the ship at a wide bend in the river. Like the shadow of the rock, like its soul or its guardian angel, a tall pagoda was built against it, with nine roofs one above the other. The nine gracious roofs were like nine branches springing from the living rock. Once there was a town in a gorge built on two shelves of a sheer ochre cliff; ladders led from one shelf to the other. Sometimes there were greater towns, their lower streets standing precariously on stilts in the river. Sometimes there were temples with curled green or yellow roofs and painted walls, looking down worn steps at the river. Once the ship tied up at sunset opposite the single line of a black slope against a fading green sky. The line blossomed into the outlines of temple roofs, bending, bristling roofs under great tiers of trees and the silhouette of a defiant griffin with plumed wings and tail. One day the spell was broken. There were grey soldiers on the bank. There were junks full of soldiers moored to the bank. Three soldiers stood on the lowest step of a temple with their rifles aimed at Edward’s eye—as it seemed. The moment seemed to call for an act of heroism. “Our hero’s first thought was for the women and children,” thought Edward, calling Stone huskily as he ran behind a door. “Crack—crack ... crack.” One report was long after the others. “A Chinese Edward R. Williams,” thought Edward. When he came out of cover the brigands had not moved from their stone step. Their rifles still looked into Edward’s eye across fifty yards of shimmering air. Something ought to be done about it. “Crack—crack ... crack.” It was like a word in a nonsense language, a made-up word that did not convey any meaning. A secret and negligible sound. “Crack—crack....” The Chinese Edward Williams failed altogether this time. Probably he had forgotten to load the thing. It would be just like him. The whine of a bullet was heard so quickly that nothing was realised except an after-taste of sound. A fountain leaped in the water. “Now watch,” said one of the ship’s officers. The ship’s syren cut off the end of his utterance. The syren’s sound was like a warlock springing up with both bony hands straight over her head. Springing and sinking ... springing and sinking ... to frighten children.