The Wind That Tramps the World
above the howling of 'The Wind that Tramps the World.' Involuntarily John Steppling stepped back into the shadows of the farthest corner of the room. He shivered. He was gripped by a crushing, an unexplainable fear, which he could not shake from him. He knew that events of great portent in the life of Hi Ling were about to happen. For thirty years or was it longer, Hi Ling had waited for this moment.
Fascinated Steppling watched the actions of the old Chinaman. At times he gyrated about like a whirling dervish of India. Sometimes he sprang into the air as though clutching for the moon-lantern. And all the time he drooled at the mouth. Froth foamed horribly in the corners of his lips.
As the actions of Hi Ling grew more fanatical, the intensity of the wind increased. It struck against the ears like something solid so great was the shock. And all the time Steppling listened, listened more intensely than he had ever listened before. And eventually he thought he heard the sound of singing, in a voice sweet-low and sadder than the autumn breeze through the tree-tops. He strained every effort. His heart even slowed down to catch the melody so superb was its beauty. At first he imagined that his ears were at fault, that the beautiful notes existed only in his subconscious mind, but even as the thought occurred to him, he banished it. A sound so beautiful could not be buried in his subconsciousness, for never in his life had he heard music of such haunting beauty. The sub-
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