display. Mee Lay is
a good, religious woman; when you come to think of it, the East is far
more devout than the West. She insists that our faith is a mere feeble
copy of Buddhism, which had six hundreds years the start of
Christianity. There is no doubt that the Buddhists preach most of the
moral truths that are to be found in the Gospels, and Buddha was a
Deliverer, who taught the necessity of a pure life, of self-denial and
unworldliness. He exhorted his disciples to practise every virtue.
But here is the difference between Buddhism and Christianity: Buddha
brings a man by a thorny path to the brink of a huge, black chasm, and
drops him into annihilation."

"It seems unsatisfying," said Shafto. "Yet, by all accounts, Buddhism
is a wonderful religion. I heard a fellow on board ship discussing its
code and the extraordinary way in which it has fastened on mankind, and
spread. He declared that every fourth human being who came into the
world was a Buddhist!"

"So they say," replied Salter with a careless shrug. "I doubt if the
assertion would hold water. At the same time Buddha has an enormous
number of followers in China, Tibet, India, and Ceylon; they, too, have
traditions of a Holy Mother and Child, of a fast in the wilderness, and
here, even now, crucifixion is the form of capital punishment."

"And what do you think about Buddhism in Burma?" inquired Shafto.

"Buddhism will hold its ground, in spite of many converts among the
Karens. The Burmans are a sunny, happy people, as you see, who hope
for a good time here, and a good time in the worlds to come. They held
the same expectations and creed, and wore the same clothes, two
thousand years ago; time does not appear to touch them; they are as gay
and irresponsible as so many butterflies. You know Kipling's lines to
Rangoon?"

Before Shafto could reply, Salter quoted in a sonorous monotone:

'Hail, Mother! Do they call me rich in trade?
Little care I, but hear the shorn priest drone,
And watch my silk-clad lovers, man by maid,
Laugh 'neath my Shwe Dagon.'

"From the 'Song of the Cities.' Rather appropriate to the occasion,
eh?"

"Yes, fits it to a T," assented Shafto, as his eye wandered over the
vast assemblage on the plateau, talking, joking, laughing, smoking,
absolutely content with the day, without a thought for the morrow.

The atmosphere felt heavy with the scent of incense, flowers, and
cheroots; little bells still tinkle