ants of the desolate city? Nothing he had beheld since crossing the mountain barriers had so completely captivated his interest. Perhaps, he thought, this man understands English. Despite the Chinaman's extreme age there was an undeniable air of culture about him.
"I wonder," said Steppling, "why they call this town the City of the Big Winds."
The old man did not stir. He seemed carved of stone.
Steppling repeated the sentence. No response. Then he repeated it again in a louder voice.
Finally the old man turned. He shook his shoulders in a peculiar manner, as if trying to escape from his reveries, from the visions which his imagination had conjured up for him.
"What do you wish?" he asked at last, in quaintly accented English.
Steppling did not know what to answer. He was surprized that the old Chinaman understood English. So long had it been since he had conversed with anyone, the question was rather a shock to him.
"If I am not presuming," he said, "I should like to know what you are gazing at so intently."
The old man's eyes were like slits. They gleamed in his rough brown face as if they were lighted lamps.
"Looking?" he repeated slowly. "Looking? I was not looking. I was listening to the ceaseless voices of the wind. Most men of earth who believe their sense of hearing is very acute are in reality stone-deaf. To listen truly is a fine art. Anyone can hear a mountain fall, but only a genius can hear the music of a flower unfolding in the sun."
He paused, and gazed off toward the jagged, knife-edged cliffs. Presently he spoke again.
"I am Hi Ling," he said. "To my house you are welcome. No human soul dwells with me. And yet there are other voices besides my own, constantly echoing through my house, for every night I open my windows so that all the great winds can blow through. They are whispering, forever they are whispering. Can you not stay with me a while?"
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," replied Steppling quickly, and he felt as if he could howl with glee. But he was careful to hide the intensity of his jubilant spirits.
With keen elation he followed the
old Chinaman, who now arose
and entered the house, if house it
could be called, for it was a huge,
ambling affair of mystery and shadows.
Together they groped their way
through multitudinous rooms, silent,
weird, vast, through which scarcely
even the faintest suggestion of daylight
penetrated.
"I keep my house forever dark and shadowy," explained Hi Ling, "so that it may always be in harmony with life."
"You think, then," said Steppling, "that life is clothed in shadows?"
"I do indeed," was the quick response. "The shadows of earth quite outweigh the pleasures. Over almost everyone there is a shadow constantly hanging."
As he spoke they emerged into a great room. The air was fragrant with the pungent perfumes of the East, the incense of aloeswood and musk. In the center of a black platform stood a jade-green vase. In the vase was a single branch, withered and old, a branch whose shriveled appearance suggested the gaunt face of Hi Ling. The flower, if flower there had been, had long ago fallen from it. Above the vase hung a soft-toned yellow lantern, as round and coolly brilliant as an autumn moon rising above a range of mist-crested hills.
Hi Ling prostrated himself. Lying flat on his face before the altar, he chanted in a sad monotone. For per-
