haps ten minutes he remained thus. Then he rose to his feet. Without a word he walked across the room and threw open a great, heavily-draped window; then he opened a similar window on the other side of the room.
Instantly pandemonium broke loose. It was as if all the winds of earth had congregated outside that window and now came crashing through. They shrieked and laughed in a thousand fantastic tongues. The discord was frightful because it was so intense, so unrestrained. Once Steppling detected a low moan in the wind, almost a sob, but at once it was drowned by the awful laughter.
The wind crashed madly through, as if it would wreck the very building. It caught up the fragrant perfume from the musk-scented air and bore it off into measureless distances. The yellow moon-lantern swayed back and forth as ceaselessly as a pendulum. Only the jade vase remained stationary. The entire building shuddered, but still the vase did not move.
Steppling gripped Hi Ling's arm.
"What does it mean?" he cried.
He pitched his voice to the highest key possible, and even then it seemed as weak as a whisper.
"Is it a tornado, a cyclone?"
Hi Ling shook his head. His ghastly brown face looked more like that of a mummy than ever.
"It is only the wind," he said. "Listen intently. Can you not hear voices calling?"
How long the havoc continued Steppling did not know. Time had lost its importance. Something supernatural seemed to have clutched them up in its grip. He felt numb and weak, almost without the power to move.
At last Hi Ling walked across the room and closed the windows. He had to fight until he was practically exhausted to get the mad wind out again. But at last the windows were tightly barred, and peace seemed to touch the room like a caress. The yellow lantern ceased its swaying. The pungent perfume bloomed forth again.
That night John Steppling sat
down to the simplest meal he had
ever partaken of in his life. It was
composed of rice cakes and tea. The
rice cakes were as crisp as mountain
air, and the tea was as pungent as it
was delicious. They supped in a room
lit only by a single lamp, which spluttered
feebly as if protesting against
the darkness that enveloped the house
like a shroud.
After the meal was finished, the old man produced several pipes. They were very black and ominously small. Into the bowl of each he rolled a black, gummy pellet which he had shaped in the palms of his hand.
He held out one to John Steppling.
"Smoke?" he asked, curtly.
But Steppling refused the proffered pipe.
"I would prefer to hear you talk," he said.
"Why do you not listen to the myriads of voices in the wind?" asked Hi Ling drowzily.
"Because my ear is not attuned to catch the sound."
"You do not try. If you really listened, you could hear."
"I would rather hear your voice."
"That is foolish," declared Hi Ling. "No human voice is as softly alluring as the voices one sometimes discovers in the wind."
"Nevertheless," repeated Steppling stubbornly, "I would rather hear you talk."
Hi Ling shrugged his shoulders. He could not understand how anyone should prefer the natural voice to magic.
"What do you wish me to say?" he asked finally.
"Tell me the story of your life," replied John Steppling bluntly, "the story of the jade vase, and of the moon lantern."
