CHAPTER XL
A Guest on High
And in the K'o-tang—the smaller audience hall—where
he had died, Wu Li Chang lay as he had
fallen. For none had dared to disturb him for a long
time, unless he summoned them. And now, discovered
by an early sweeper whose duty it was to open the casements
to the summer dawn, he still lay undisturbed, and
would lay so until the soothsayer had determined to
where the body should be lifted and just how.
He lay upon his back, his face lifted to the paneled and painted ceiling.
Almost as Florence Gregory's footsteps died from his house, a great change swept his face. The contortions of poisoned death had left it set and agonized. That passed away. He was smiling when they found him, as even Nang Ping had never seen him smile. Only one had ever seen that look upon his face. And she had only seen it once—in quite the fullness of its beauty, the majesty of its declaration, all its exquisite tenderness. A living man smiles so but once. Some men never smile so—they have frittered its possibility away—some of them, and some are small men, and it is not for them. It is a hall-mark.
It is a hall-mark, and now and again death stamps it caressingly and regally upon some dead man's face; and always he is a man who has put up a fine good fight, and always it tells that there is marriage in Heaven.
