they did not care for words and the only expression which framed itself
audibly was that oft repeated _jubilate_ of health and youth, "How
beautiful it is to live!"

Dim in the distance, of almost the same shade as the sky, rose the
White Cloud Hills; lesser hills more distinct in waving outline lay
before them; then rocky promontories and islands with grotesque forms
like the twisted dragons of Chinese embroideries, and the low stretch
which marked the position of the wonderful city of Canton. On the yellow
water here and there were junks with tanned sails and gay banners;
islands with graceful pagodas were seen, and the huge white cathedral of
the near dependency of Taipa. Then in the foreground at their very feet
was Macao, a feast of colour, red roofs, many-hued walls, green trees
and brilliant gardens, beautiful as the jewel-set sheath of a Venetian
dagger, with its poison and death-dealing wickedness hidden.

Dom Amaral with his wife had gone to the new cathedral to services;
their well appointed chairs had scarcely left the court and the gates
been bolted behind them when Dom Pedro came from his room. His face had
changed greatly since the day before; the loss of sleep and the
bitterness of his heart had made him look pale and thin. For the first
time in his life he had spoken harshly to his valet, and that meek
Celestial wore an expression of grief and surprise, for Pedro Amaral,
whatever his faults, did not have the vulgar one of venting his spleen
upon his inferiors, so that his lifelong servant was at a loss to
account for the sudden change.

Dom Pedro walked to the library and drawing the curtains behind him sat
down before the cases filled with brilliant steel. Suddenly he looked
away and picked up a book from the table, opening it at random but