clouds that so frequently settle on my shoulders." Then he lowered his voice, so that no one but Chih-chang might hear. "Is it true that the other day you snored at the foot of a dry well?"
"I was alone, your Majesty, so there is no proof that I snored."
Ming Huang looked at him, quizzically, "I was right when I bestowed upon you the title of Ho, the Devil."
"But only when I am drunk. Today, alas, I am sober."
"You can remedy that when the Court is over."
Meanwhile the courtiers, the envoys, the scarlet-sashed ministers, the red-tasseled generals, the eunuchs and the parasites that always infest an Imperial Court waited patiently. Though they could not hear the conversation they were thankful for the prolonged opportunity to display their fine silk and satin costumes.
"Though you are indisputably right when you call me Ho, the Devil, this morning I have redeemed myself for I have brought you a poet who writes like a banished angel."
As he spoke, he thrust a sheaf of poems into the Emperor's hand.
Ming Huang took the bits of paper reverently. Even an Emperor must bow to such delicate brush strokes. As he read them slowly, it was like listening to the hushed voices of mountain peaks and winding rivers, the breathless sunset sky, the wind sweeping the forest like a broom. In the vibrant words were pictures of
such splendor the Courtiers about him were blanched
