9.
Restlessly, Ming Huang waited in the quietude of his own private garden. Here and there in the trees a lantern burned, though not too many to banish the velvet blackness of the night. The fronds of the trees stood out in sharp silhouette against the deep blue rapture of the sky.
And then she came to him. Kao had left her at the garden entrance. He did not wish to incur the wrath of His Majesty. But Ming Huang was in no mood to notice the lute, so fascinating was she. Penitently she came toward him. Though he had known thousands of women, he was confused.
He held out his arms and she came to him.
"Why does the bird sing?" he whispered, somewhat huskily. "Why does the poet make songs? Why does the sun give warmth? Why is there warmth in the breast of my beloved?"
She permitted him to hold her for a moment only, then she slipped gently away.
"Tonight should be commemorated," she said. "Where is there brush and ink? I shall write a song for my Emperor."
"On such a night?"
"Yes, else it may be forgotten."
"There is an ink-slab in our sleeping room," he told her.
The magnificence of the room matched the glory
