couraged by Devreuse's energy, the presence of Sabine, of European companions, and the perils we encountered had been more or less foreseen and provided against. Now, alone, I was facing the awful solitude and darkness of the interminable forest, beset by the fear of falling into an ambush laid by men of limitless power and totally different from us, in momentary anticipation of encountering some adventure, more weird, more marvelous than those I had already gone through, and which I felt my reason would not be able to withstand.

A great lassitude and dizziness came over me. I ceased to work the scull except spasmodically, almost unconsciously. Sometimes I did not know

whether I was paddling or not, could not tell whether the raft was moving or stationary. I fancied that I was walking through a country lane, then that I was seated high up in a lighthouse. I began to babble incoherently, and it was only by an immense exercise of will power that I was able to bring my thoughts back to the river, the darkness and the raft. I felt, however, that I could not long stave off the inevitable, that I was slowly but surely lapsing into unconsciousness, and I remember that my last effort before I succumbed was to keep the raft headed toward a glimmer of daylight that appeared in the distance like a white speck on the channel.

[TO BE CONCLUDED.]

B

EHIND us lay the City of Springs, before us the Temple of Ten Thousand Gods. We had swung through the city in our palanquins and now had reached the plain. In the distance the Yellow River wound sullenly across the level, bearing its burden from far Thibet to the Yellow Sea. The city of Chinanfu stretched brown, grey and hazy in the heat, as it had lain and drowsed for who shall say how many years, even before Confucius, centuries ago, had journeyed through it to his palace. Here at least nothing has changed. The river, sullen in its ordinary moods, breaks out in angry defiance ever and again, land is swirled away, blue-clad bodies, pitiful remnants of houses, black pigs or a cow floating strangely silent and stiff, are borne out to sea; but Time, the great healer, salves these wounds, and all is as before.

The beautiful Pearl Spring in its smooth stone basin has not changed. The exquisite bubbles of air rise through the pellucid water, like jewels tossed from some fairy palace beneath, rise slowly, holding the gaze enthralled, then, glimmering near the surface for one all too brief moment, are gone, and the enchanted beholder thinks himself bewitched. Deep blue carp swim slowly in great curves round the rising pearls, and the water is of crystal clearness. Glancing upward the eye rests with delight on the curved roofs of the

palace of just the same deep blue grey as the fish, and the insistent plash of an unseen fountain falls soothingly on the ear.

The air of the plain moves tremulously in the heat, and the palanquins swing slowly on. On either side are graves, grey stone graves of some forgotten race, and the mounds that mark the last resting place of the Chinese dead. The wandering thoughts are held, and one looks curiously at this end, so far as mortal toil can go, of our existence, of this dream which is our life. Grassy mounds and low pine-clad hills guard the dead intrusted to them by the loved ones, and guard them well. The trees grow, and the grasses, uncut from year to year, flourish rankly beneath their branches. Yellow lilies and pale iris peer out from the brakes, and in the autumn, Nature's garnishing for the cold grey months to follow, a purple immortelle expands its blossoms and decks the slopes with its starry heads.

But the humbler dead cannot hope for this peacefulness. A corner of the field is taken and for many years is tended. Here, on the Day of the Dead, offerings are brought and the survivors honor the departed, but every spring the cultivation creeps a little nearer; decade by decade it encroaches, and one morning, perhaps after heavy rain, the even furrows pass over all the field and the grave is not. The road sinks between two mounds winding down to

cross a stream. A hole in the bank is partly screened by some bamboo grass, and out of it comes a shape in dingy grey garments. With a long monotonous cry it flings itself into the dustLoya, loya, loya-a-a-and I stop my palanquin-bearers. The figure lifts itself and I see a woman, incredibly old, bent and witch-like; wisps of white hair fall over the lined face, the eyes have a despairing look. Behind her is her lair, and the thought of that hot hell in summer, of the freezing night to be passed alone there in winter, amid the desolation of that wind-swept place of the dead, makes me turn to my tingchai and give the poor thing an almsto me a sum paltry enough, but to her, in this land of infinitesimal coinage, a fortune; and we pursue our way to the dirge of loya, loya, loya, as the withered fingers fumble among the strings of copper coins.

Above us rise the Hills of the Gods, wooded and green, so very green, except where the crags of dark grey rock jut out, a harder, colder note in that poem of line and color. We have reached the little village where our palanquins must halt and we change into the light hill chairs to be borne up the winding steps. Each chair is a mere skeleton of hard polished wood strung together with ropes, and over each, supported by strips of shining wood, is a dark blue canopy. Sturdy mountaineers pick up each chair, and sideways we are carried swiftly up the steps. After a while we pause on a little piece of flat ground. The trees grow down to either side of the path, delicate grasses tremble at the edge over the sun-baked stones, and the sense of heat suddenly intensified becomes palpable, and rising in hot waves from the ground confuses the senses. In this heat two pale blue butterflies, large as little birds, circle and float, the embodiment of the tremulous warmth. Higher we are borne and higher, over terraces whose grey stones are falling apart from age, on

whose lichen-covered parapets jeweled lizards lie basking in the sun. The black sheets of rock, fringed with the pale green feathers of bamboo, grow more frequent, and at last the grey roof of a temple curves grandly between the trees.

We have reached the Temple of Ten Thousand Gods. Images of Buddha, carved from living rock, look benignly down; on the steps two blue-green pigeons lie sunning themselves. An old priest receives us, and we enter the courtyard. On two sides rise sheer smooth walls of black stone, and everywhere from the living rock Buddhas had been carved, some life-size, some small, most of them presentments of the Lord Buddha, calm and dignified, but some of them the frightful demons and gods of the under-world of the Chinese. In one corner a round boulder leaned against the cliff sides, and here a pool of deep clear icily cold water, fed by the slow drops of the black rocks above, stretched away into darkness beneath the cliff. Turning from the walls of black rock, a temple built on the edge of the hill overlooks the plain, and passing through a gateway facing us we reached its main buildings. Above us rose more roofs, and on either hand were stone steps winding across the mountains. We saw the Gods, the blue malignant Gods of War, the placid white-bearded God of Riches stroking his attendant stag, and many more. Outside one shrine stood two high green earthen jars in which lotus lilies were growing; the beautiful leaves yet held the dewdrops and the pale pink flowers glistened. "Om mani padmi om (oh jewel in the lotus flower)"-that mystic incantation murmured through the world from far Thibet to farthest Japan, and the river that wound below formed by the Thibetan snows-"Oh, jewel in the lotus flower."

We wandered on, a priest and two or three acolytes accompanying us, and in an arbor on the hanging terrace we sat

down to rest. A blue creeper flung its tendrils over the balustrade, the bloom of its dark blossoms rubbed here and there by overhanging leaves, across one of which a vermilion spider suddenly ran. My attendants came up carrying the baskets containing our meal; the priest sent an acolyte for dishes, and soon the table was decked. We had, of course, brought no flesh or animal food to this sacred spot. The vivid green of the peas, the peaches, apples, grapes and delicious Chinese cakes laid out for us in the old dishes of the temple, looked delightful. The tingchai had placed the bottles of white wine to cool in the dripping water; he brought them now and poured out the wine into delicate porcelain bowls. The old priest next me ate but little, but enjoyed the wine. The peaches did not last long after the curved red lips of the acolytes had touched their sun-kissed cheeks. Steaming bowls of rice were brought and quickly disappeared. Then my tingchai brought that which I had thought would please my hosts-a box of French bonbons, and another of gold-tipped cigarettes. I was right. I do not know whether the mauve fondants or the Turkish tobacco were most appreciated. The old priest's pale pale cheeks showed a brighter color, his eyes sparkled, and I thought to ques

tion him. Below us over the plain lay the city in a haze of heat and dust; beyond, the great river wound to the sea; a faint mist hung over everything.

"Tell me," I said, "when you look, from this cool retreat, down on to that city, are you not content with your lot? Have you not found that peace and satisfaction which we dwellers in cities so vainly strive after?"

"I know not," he answered. "At times I think so, but then again, during the long winter when I sit all day over the charcoal braziers and study the Books of the Law, I think not. Life down there in the city must be very pleasant, very gay, but there it must, indeed, be hard to acquire merit. I am old, however, now, more than four score years, and my life here cannot last so much longer."

"But these boys," I urged; "they are young-have they entered into the right life?"

"Look at them," the priest replied, "and you will know."

They had gone some little distance from us, and were sitting in their gauze robes on the steps, the sun shining on their shaven heads and bright young faces. Puffing the gold-tipped cigarettes, they laughed from the sheer joy of being alive. The old priest had answered me well, and as I rose to make my farewells our eyes met, and for a moment our souls were bare.