written: _Po-nien-jou-chi, i-tien-jou-ki,_--'After centuries I remain
firm as stone, and the letters that I make like lacquer'? And how divine
the charm of this composition!--the song of Kao-pien, prince of poets,
and Governor of Sze-tchouen five hundred years ago!"

"Kao-pien! darling Kao-pien!" murmured Sië, with a singular light in her
eyes. "Kao-pien is also my favorite. Dear Ming-Y, let us chant his
verses together, to the melody of old,--the music of those grand years
when men were nobler and wiser than to-day."

And their voices rose through the perfumed night like the voices of the
wonder-birds,--of the Fung-hoang,--blending together in liquid
sweetness. Yet a moment, and Ming-Y, overcome by the witchery of his
companion's voice, could only listen in speechless ecstasy, while the
lights of the chamber swam dim before his sight, and tears of pleasure
trickled down his cheeks.

So the ninth hour passed; and they continued to converse, and to drink
the cool purple wine, and to sing the songs of the years of Thang, until
far into the night. More than once Ming-Y thought of departing; but each
time Sië would begin, in that silver-sweet voice of hers, so wondrous a
story of the great poets of the past, and of the women whom they loved,
that he became as one entranced; or she would sing for him a song so
strange that all his senses seemed to die except that of hearing. And at
last, as she paused to pledge him in a cup of wine, Ming-Y could not
restrain himself from putting his arm about her round neck and drawing
her dainty head closer to him, and kissing the lips that were so much
ruddier and sweeter than the wine. Then their lips separated no
more;--the night grew old, and they knew it not.