However, he was dripping wet and even his enemies could not be blamed for that. Perhaps he had fallen into the river. He could not remember crawling to safety. He must have been in a half-stupor before he passed out. That would account for the missing parachute. It had merely drifted down river.
So the dream ended.
He rose to his feet. An old man driving an ox-cart was approaching along the river road.
Trent called to him. The old man seemed pleased to stop and talk as is the custom of people who dwell in lonely places.
"I am a Flying Tiger," explained Trent in Chinese.
"May heaven protect you, Noble Tiger," said the old man.
"Came down by parachute. Haven't the slightest idea where I am," Trent explained.
"We are not far from a town, seven li. Yonder is the Black Dragon River. It rises in the Daourian Mountains and has a course of two thousand miles to the sea. Come, get into my humble cart and save your felt soles from wear."
"The Black Dragon River!" Trent repeated in an awed tone.
"Yes, is there ought that is strange about that?"
But Trent did not hear the question. He had stooped reverently and picked up a glistening object from the sand. It was a golden hairpin delicately inlaid with kingfisher feathers.
A Spirit and a Vision are not, as the modern philosophy supposes, a cloudy vapour, or a nothing: they are organized and minutely articulated beyond all that the mortal and perishing nature can produce, He who does not imagine in stronger and better lineaments, and in stronger and better light than his perishing and mortal eye can see, does not imagine at all. The painter of this work asserts that all his imaginations appear to him infinitely more perfect and more minutely organized than any thing seen by his mortal eye.
