tered not at all to her. And while the other maidens wept for her fate, she smiled and brushed the string of her lute, humming, "Butterfly that pleasured yesteryear."
A few hours more and Radiant Blossom was seated in a gilt and lacquered sedan chair, borne by poles on the shoulders of royal slaves traveling in haste toward the setting sun. Poor Radiant Blossom, hastening into exile, pressing toward her doom, to become the bride of a vandal. Not dew, but tears from the darkness descended. The nightingale's song was a sobbing of pity. The very trees that lined the road soughed deep despair. To the river. To the river, where on the farther shore waited Wolf Heart, the slaves hurried through the night.
His Majesty, Wong Sing, dressed him in rough clothing, and by another highway made even greater speed to the river. He wished to be near when the Barbarian greeted his bride. He wished to gloat over Wolf Heart's surprise and furious resentment. Expecting a youthful and lotus-like maiden, how the Barbarian would rave to behold a withered
