en I have been twenty-four hours dead.

(_He steps uncertainly out to the little porch. They gaze at the
floor, respecting his grief_. WONG FE _makes a motion to follow
him._ CHING _stops her with a gesture, and she shrinks back._ YU
TAI SHUN _re-enters._)

_Shun_

Your mercy, friends. (_Crosses left, to exit._)

_Ching_

You will go with us now?

_Shun_ (_turns and hurls the word_)

No!

(_An instant of silence follows his exit, then_ WONG FE _comes
forward._)

_Wong Fe_

Peace to your hearts, honorable friends of Yu Tai Shun! He will depart
with you.

_Ching_

Not yet. We must wait. Invisible chains cannot be broken. But they will
disunite of themselves. Then he will come.

_Wong Fe_

I will send him with you to-night.

_Ching_

_You_ send him?

_Wong Fe_

Do you think I will divide his life so that the two halves can bear no
fruit? That I will wait until he hates me for that ruin?

_Ching_ (_with laughter_)

Hates you, oh princess!

_Wong Fe_

Wait till I must glean in his heart behind a spent passion?--like a poor
widow in the track of a grain-cart?

_Ching_

The coral of your lips will defeat their command, Wong Fe. Near you he
is a dry fagot seized by a flame.

_Wong Fe_

I tell you he will go! Wait in the orchard until you hear the first
whistle of the boat. Then come for him. He will be ready. Go, honorable
friends! He is returning.

_Ching_

It is useless. Your words may bite like winter, but his eyes will see
only the Spring morning.

_Wong Fe_

Go, I beg you, go!

(_They pass out down the steps of porch._ WONG FE _hurries to a small
table, opens a lacquered box and takes from it a stiletto, which she
hides in the folds of her sleeve. She is dancing as_ YU TAI SHUN
_enters, and sings as she dances._)

The thousand odors of Spring
Are the thousand arms of love.
They find thee in the valleys,
On the crest of the hills they reach thee;
Till Spring bear no fragrance
Thou canst not escape them,
The thousand arms of love!

The orchard pool is a pillow,
A pillow for the twin lotus,
And the wings of the flying geese
Are warm in the air of heaven;
They drop to the shadowy lake-sedge,
For sweet looks the earth from the roads of the sky,
And in heaven are no cool grasses.

Ever listening
Are the leaves of the slim dryanda,
Whose heart is the harp of the Spring-wind.
A dryanda-tree is my