crippled fighting-man, of whose maiming and deadly
courage that stanza tells. And the battle was long and fierce, as from
out a background of steeple-shaped, honey-combed rocks and sparse trees
with large golden leaves--like those on the panels of the great,
lacquered cabinets in the Long Gallery--innumerable hordes of fanatic
Chinamen poured down on him, a hideous bedizenment of vermilion
war-devils painted on their blue tunics and banners and shields. And
he, Richard,--or was it he, Witherington?--alone facing them all,--they
countless in number, always changing yet always the same. From under
their hard, upturned hats, a peacock feather erect in each, the cruel,
oblique-eyed, impassive faces stared at him. They pressed him back and
back against the base of a seven-storied pagoda, the wind bells of
which jangled far above him from the angles of its tiers of fluted
roofs. And the sky was black and polished. Yet it was broad, glaring
daylight, every object fearfully distinct. And he was fixed there,
unable to get away because--yes, of course, he was Witherington, so
there was no need of further explanation of that inability of escape.

And still, at the same time, he could see Chifney on the handsome gray
cob, trotting soberly along the green ride, beside the long string of
race-horses coming home from exercise. The young leaves were fragile
and green now, not sparse and metallic, and the April rain splashed in
his face. He tried to call out to Tom Chifney, but the words died in
his throat. If they would only put him on one of those horses! He knew
he could ride, and so be safe and free. He called again. That time his
voice came. They must hear. Were they not his own servants, after all,
and his own horses--or would be soon, when he was grown up? But neither
the trainer, nor the boys so much as turned their heads; and the living
ribbon of brown and chestnut swept on and away out of sight. No one
would heed him, no one would hearken to his cry.

Once his mother and some man, whom he knew yet did not know, passed by
him hand in hand. She wore a white dress, and smiled with a look of
ineffable content. Her companion was tall, gracious in bearing and
movement, but unsubstantial, a luminous shadow merely. Richard could
not see his face. Yet he knew the man was of near kin to him. And to
them he tried to speak. But it was useless. For now he was not Richard
any more. He was not even Witherington, the crippled fighting-man of