The Emperor turned. "That wretchedly thin man couldn't possibly be Tu Fu. Why he looks sick."
"Perhaps he is suffering from poetry again."
In spite of himself the Emperor smiled. Perhaps after all it was as well that he had left Yang Kuei-fei at the Palace. She needed to be put in her place. He fought desperately to push from him the thought that her place was beside him—always.
In desperation, he questioned Li Po about his youth.
"It was passed in wandering and idleness. Mountains have been my pillows. The stars my inspiration. The moon my companion. Once a little group of hard drinkers formed a club called the 'Six Idlers of the Bamboo Brook.' We sipped wine, dreamed of fantastic incidents, and occasionally ground out good poetry. How many years ago that seems, in the graying distance. What happened to my companions? Are they famous now, I wonder? Perhaps one or two are Buddhist priests."
That evening they camped by the roadside. They ate a meal as sumptuous as though they were at the Palace. Not a detail of perfect service had been neglected. Eight low tables had been placed together for the convenience of the Emperor. Only Wang Wei and Li Po sat with him. Kao Li-shih lolled a short distance away, in readiness to execute the monarch's slightest wish.
They sat on silk cushions in the manner customary in China before chairs were introduced by the Turks.
Wang Wei ate little. His appetite was gone, so worried
