ened to their whispering. The ear of Ming Ti had restored symmetry to the mandarin's face, but it had taken away serenity of mind.
As the weeks rolled on and drearily grew into months, the agents of the mandarin scoured the empire for any trace of Jasmine or the bandit, but without success. Apparently they had vanished like spirits into the very air. It was a profound mystery, an event without reason. And yet, though none of the searchers suspected it, the explanation was so simple that it needed little explanation. Ming Ti and Jasmine had merely stepped over the threshold of China and it was as though a door had closed upon them. To the heart of Indo-China they went, where they could find heart's ease and serenity.
Now during his life Wang Mok had owned and possessed many women. Some were like fine bits of fragile porcelains, some like flowers, a few as smooth as jade. He had enjoyed a feast of love, a feast of many courses; nor did he care particularly when one was taken from him. And now that Jasmine was gone, he might have forgotten her if he had not been forced to listen to the music of her voice as she sang exquisite love-songs to Ming Ti. And the ear of Ming Ti on the face of the mandarin strained so hard to catch every note, it was almost like an attack of acute neuralgia. The pain kept Jasmine ever in his thoughts, which naturally kept her ever in his heart. Night after night his sleep was disturbed. He became irritable and fretful. He tried the salve of the velvet bodies of other women. But still his ear, the ear of Ming Ti, listened for the magic tones of Jasmine's rippling voice.
And then one night, surprizingly, Wang Mok slept through till dawn. No dreams, no pain. The soft golden body beside him gave him warmth. The gentle breasts of the newest of his slaves were silken cushions against which he lay sleeping. When he awakened he gazed about him, unable to comprehend this new freedom that had been thrust upon him. He put his hand to his face. His ear was as cold as ice. It was without feeling. With it he could hear nothing. And once more Wang Mok sent for Doctor Wen Hsi and acquainted him with all that had occurred.
Wen Hsi examined the ear thoroughly.
"Strange are the ways of the gods," he mused.
"What do you mean?" asked the mandarin.
"This ear is dead. It must be cut from your body before it begins to rot. I strongly recommend that it be done within the hour."
"But how do you explain it?" the mandarin persisted.
"Somewhere, somehow," the doctor began, "Ming Ti has met death. He has gone to join the spirits of his ancestors and he has taken his ear with him. That ear still belongs to Ming Ti. It always heard the things that were happening to Ming Ti. We erred when we attempted to meddle with the affairs of the gods."
The mandarin smiled. After all, there were many nights to come, Chinese nights entertainments to rival any of those related of Bagdad in the book of a thousand and one stories.
Later that day, an operation was performed. For the second time Wang Mok lost an ear, but this time he did not mind, for he had grown to believe that by surrendering his ear, he had regained his "face," which was vastly more important. Better, he believed, to have one ear and enjoy the repose of yellow-velvet fragrant nights, than to have two ears and toss sleepless until dawn.
