being, and the most sacred. So, because he took what should have been most sacred in the eyes of an English gentleman—and he a guest, both in my daughter's country and in her home—I take what is, in my eyes, a higher, purer thing—and I your host. And, too"—his voice hissed and quivered with hate—"the degradation of his sister would not have afflicted him enough—he does not love his sister with any great love. His love of you, his mother, is the one quality of manhood in his abominable being. He would have suffered at her shame and outlived the pain; yours he will remember while he lives—and writhe. It will spoil his life, make every hour of his life more bitter than any death, every inch of earth a burning hell." He paused and waited, and then—he slid behind the table, put his arms about the palsied woman, and whispered, pointing to the other room, his face brushing hers, "And now, dear lady, will you not come to me?"
For an instant they two stood so—she paralyzed, unable to move.
Music high and sublimely sweet pierced through the shuttered window: a nightingale was singing in Nang Ping's garden, near the pagoda by the lotus lake. Wu Li Chang had heard many nightingales, and from his babyhood. Florence Gregory had heard but one before—once, long ago, in England.
She wrenched away from Wu with a cry—of despair; and he let her go.
She sank on to her stool and took up her cup—she tried to do it meaninglessly—and slowly raised it to her lips.
"Oh!" Wu told her tenderly, "my lips also are dry and parched with the heat of my desire"
But he had no desire of her. And even in her torment
