t lay very still. Nothing
followed; no one had heard.

He tried again, crawled forward his own length, and brought up snug and
safe in the angle where roof met wall. The voices and shuffling feet
were dangerously close. He sat up, caught a shaft of light full in his
face, and peered in through the ragged chink. Two legs in bright,
wrinkled hose, and a pair of black shoes with thick white soles, blocked
the view. For a long time they shifted, uneasy and tantalizing. He could
hear only a hubbub of talk,--random phrases without meaning. The legs
moved away, and left a clear space.

But at the same instant, a grating noise startled him, directly
overhead, out of doors. The thin right angle of light spread instantly
into a brilliant square. With a bang, a wooden shutter slid open.
Heywood lay back swiftly, just as a long, fat bamboo pipe, two sleeves,
and the head of a man in a red silk cap were thrust out into the
night air.

"_Ai-yah!"_ sighed the man, and puffed at his bamboo. "It is hot."

Heywood tried to blot himself against the wall. The lounger, propped on
elbows, finished his smoke, spat upon the tiles, and remained, a pensive
silhouette.

"_Ai-yah!"_ he sighed again; then knocking out the bamboo, drew in his
head. Not until the shutter slammed, did Heywood shake the burning
sparks from his wrist.

In the same movement, however, he raised head and shoulders to spy
through the chink. This time the bright-hosed legs were gone. He saw
clear down a brilliant lane of robes and banners, multicolored, and
shining with embroidery and tinsel,--a lane between two ranks of crowded
men, who, splendid with green and blue and yellow robes of ceremony,
faced each other in a strong lamplight, that glistened on their oily
cheeks. The chatter had ceased. Under the crowded rows of shaven
foreheads, their eyes blinked, deep-set and expectant. At the far end of
the loft, through two circular arches or giant hoops of rattan, Heywood
at last descried a third arch, of swords; beyond this, a tall incense
jar smouldering gray wisps of smoke, beside a transverse table twinkling
with candles like an altar; and over these, a black image with a pale,
carved face, seated bolt upright before a lofty, intricate, gilded
shrine of the Patriot War-God.

A tall man in dove-gray silk with a high scarlet turban moved athwart
the altar, chanting as he solemnly lifted one by one a row of symbols: a
round wooden measure, heaped with something white