uire
merit. If you let them all plunder you like this, we'll never get to the
top."

Flight after flight, the two men climbed slowly, and Coryndon stood at
intervals to watch the crowd that came up and down. The steps were so
steep that the arch above them only disclosed descending feet, but
Coryndon watched the feet appear first and then the rest of the hurrying
or loitering men and women, and he sat on a seat beside a little
gathering of yellow-robed _Hypongyis_ until Fitzgibbon lost all
patience.

"There is a whole town of piety to see up at the top. Come on, man; we
have hours of it yet to get through. Don't waste time over those stalls.
Every picture of the Buddha story was made in Birmingham."

Progressing a little faster, Fitzgibbon piloted Coryndon past a stall
where yellow candles and bundles of joss-sticks in red paper cases were
sold at a varying price.

"I must get some of these," objected Coryndon, who added a rupee's worth
of incense and a white cheroot to his collection.

When they passed through the last archway and gained the plateau, he
looked round with eyes that spoke his keen interest. Even though he had
been there many times before, Coryndon looked at the sight with eyes
that grew shadowed by the dreaming soul that lived within him.

Twilight was gathering behind the trees; only the gold-laced spires of a
thousand minarets caught the last light of the sun. On the plateau below
the great pillar, that glimmered like a golden sword from base to
bell-hung _Htee_, lay what Fitzgibbon had described as "a little town of
piety." A village of shrines and Pagodas, each built with seven roofs,
open-fronted to disclose the holy place within; some large as a small
chapel; some small, giving room only for the figure of the _Gaudama_.
Here and there, the votive offerings had fallen into decay, and the
gold-leaf covering the Buddha was black and dilapidated by the passing
of years, for there is no merit to be acquired in rebuilding or
renovating a sacred place. From innumerable shrines, uncounted Buddhas
looked out with the same long, contemplative eyes; in bronze, in jade,
in white and black marble, in grey stone and gilded ebony, the
passionless face of the great Peace looked out upon his children.

Near to where Coryndon and the Barrister stood together, in the
peach-coloured evening light, a large shrine with a fretted roof was
thronged with worshippers, and Coryndon stood on the steps and looked
in.