"Whereupon the weeds bow their heads, whispering among themselves,
'The voice of the Tall One we hear, but not that of Buddha.
Indeed, it is doubtless as he says.'
"In his musk-scented Heaven Buddha laughs, and not deigning to
raise his head from the lap of the Phoenix Goddess, he thrusts
forth a stone which lies by his foot.
"Saying, 'A god's present for a god. Take it carefully, O
presumptuous Little One, for it is hot to the touch.'
"The thunderbolt falls and the mighty tree is rent in twain. 'They
asked for my messenger,' said the Pure One, turning again to
repose.
"Lo, /he comes/!"

With the last spoken word there came into the sight of those who were
collected together a person of stern yet engaging appearance. His
hands and face were the colour of mulberry stain by long exposure to
the sun, while his eyes looked forth like two watch-fires outside a
wolf-haunted camp. His long pigtail was tangled with the binding
tendrils of the forest, and damp with the dew of an open couch. His
apparel was in no way striking or brilliant, yet he strode with the
dignity and air of a high official, pushing before him a covered box
upon wheels.

"It is Tung Fel!" cried many who stood there watching his approach, in
tones which showed those who spoke to be inspired by a variety of
impressive emotions. "Undoubtedly this is the seventh day of the month
of Winged Dragons, and, as he specifically stated would be the case,
lo! he has come."

Few were the words of greeting which Tung Fel accorded even to the