The floor of black, polished marble dimly reflected the immense gold
pillars that supported a lofty ceiling, lost entirely in the gloom, and
before a blaze of candles and a floating veil of scented grey smoke a
priest bowed himself, and prayed in a low, chanting voice. The face of
the Lord Buddha behind the rails was lighted by the wind-blown flame of
many tapers, so that it almost looked as though he smiled out of his
far-away Nirvana upon his kneeling worshippers, who could ask nothing of
him, not even mercy, since the salvation of a man is in his own hands.

Before the rails, a settle with low gilt legs was covered with offerings
of flowers, that added their scent to the heavy air, and on a small
table a feast of cakes and sweets was placed, to be distributed later on
among the poor. Coryndon disposed of his burden of pink and white roses
and little magenta prayer-flags, and lighted a bundle of joss-sticks,
before they came out again and wandered on.

As the daylight faded the lights from the shrines and the small booths
grew stronger, and the rising night wind, coming in from the river, rang
the silver bells around the spires, filling the whole air with tinkling
sound, and the slow-moving crowd around them laughed and joked, like
people at a fair. His eyes still full of dreams, Coryndon followed with
them, keeping one small packet of amber candles to light in honour of
some other Buddha in another shrine.

"Funny devils, these Burmese," remarked the Barrister. "They never clean
up anything. Look at the years of tallow collected under that spiked
gate that is falling off its hinges. That black little Buddha inside
must once have been a popular favourite, but no one gives him anything
now."

They turned a corner past a booth where bottles full of pink and yellow
fluid, and green leaves, wrapped around betel-nut, appeared to be the
chief stock-in-trade, and a noise of hammering struck on their ears.
Here a new shrine was being erected and was all but completed. A few
Chinamen, who had been working at it, were putting their tools into
canvas bags, preparatory to withdrawing like the remaining daylight.

"This is Mhtoon Pah's edifice," said Fitzgibbon, coming to a standstill.
"He doesn't seem to have spared expense, either. Shall we go in?"

The shrine was not a very large one, and the entrance was like the
entrance to a grotto at an Exhibition. Tiny facets of glass were crusted
into grass-green cement, shining like