His long pigtail was tangled with the binding
tendrils of the forest, and damp with the dew of an open couch. His
apparel was in no way striking or brilliant, yet he strode with the
dignity and air of a high official, pushing before him a covered box
upon wheels.
"It is Tung Fel!" cried many who stood there watching his approach, in
tones which showed those who spoke to be inspired by a variety of
impressive emotions. "Undoubtedly this is the seventh day of the month
of Winged Dragons, and, as he specifically stated would be the case,
lo! he has come."
Few were the words of greeting which Tung Fel accorded even to the
most venerable of those who awaited him.
"This person has slept, partaken of fruit and herbs, and devoted an
allotted time to inward contemplation," he said briefly. "Other and
more weighty matters than the exchange of dignified compliments and
the admiration of each other's profiles remain to be accomplished.
What, for example, is the significance of the written parchment which
is displayed in so obtrusive a manner before our eyes? Bring it to
this person without delay."
At these words all those present followed Tung Fel's gaze with
astonishment, for conspicuously displayed upon the wall of the Temple
was a written notice which all joined in asserting had not been there
the moment before, though no man had approached the spot.
Pages:
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279