grim janitor gave no sign. On the earthen
floor lay a small circle of white lime. Heywood placed his right foot
inside it.

"We are all in-the-circle men."

"Pass," said the guard.

Out from shadow glided a tall native with a halberd, who opened a door
in the far corner.

In the second room, dim as the first, burned the same smoky orange light
on the same table. But here a twisted cripple, his nose long and
pendulous with elephantiasis, presided over three cups of tea set in a
row. Heywood lifted the central cup, and drank.

"Will you bite the clouds?" asked the second guard, in a soft and husky
bass. As he spoke, the great nose trembled slightly.

"No, I will bite ginger," replied the white man.

"Why is your face so green?"

"It is a melon-face--a green face with a red heart."

"Pass," said the cripple, gently. He pulled a cord--the nose quaking
with this exertion--and opened the third door.

Again the chamber was dim. A venerable man in gleaming silks--a
grandfather, by his drooping rat-tail moustaches--sat fanning himself.
In the breath of his black fan, the lamplight tossed queer shadows
leaping, and danced on the table of polished camagon. Except for this
unrest, the aged face might have been carved from yellow soapstone. But
his slant eyes were the sharpest yet.

"You have come far," he said, with sinister and warning courtesy.

Too far, thought Heywood, in a sinking heart; but answered:--

"From the East, where the Fusang cocks spit orient pearls."

"And where did you study?" The black fan stopped fluttering.

"In the Red Flower Pavilion."

"What book did you read?"

"The book," said Heywood, holding his wits by his will, "the book was
Ten Thousand Thousand Pages."

"And the theme?"

"The waters of the deluge crosswise flow." "And what"--the aged voice
rose briskly--"what saw you on the waters?"

"The Eight Abbots, floating," answered Heywood, negligently.--"But," ran
his thought, "he'll pump me dry."

"Why," continued the examiner, "do you look so happy?"

"Because Heaven has sent the Unicorn."

The black fan began fluttering once more. It seemed a hopeful sign; but
the keen old eyes were far from satisfied.

"Why have you such a sensual face?"

"I was born under a peach tree."

"Pass," said the old man, regretfully. And Heywood, glancing back from
the mouth of a dark corridor, saw him, beside the table of camagon,
wagging his head like a judge doubtful of his judgment.

The