fallen upon the city. The stillness was broken only by the noise of
escaping steam from the boat and the regular patter of the barefooted
chair carriers. When the chair had disappeared up the narrow, winding
street, a Portuguese wrapped in a black cloak came from behind a wall,
then by another way walked rapidly over the hill and down the other
side to the Praya, arriving in front of one of the largest houses on
that most beautiful promenade just as the coolies put down their burden.

The oil lamps along the Praya had been lighted, stretching out to the
Estrada Sam Francisco, where the bright windows in the hospital of Sam
Januarius seemed to be the lake of lights into which this long stream
flowed. No one was abroad, no steps sounded along the pavement except
those of the sentry as he walked, and _smoked_, before the neighbouring
residence of the Governor. Death at night and sleep in the day time are
the characteristics of Macao. No one seems to work, play, sing, dance or
even read unless the latter indeed may be done in what Alphonse Daudet
calls _la Bibliotheque des cigales_.

As Robert Adams stepped from the chair, the Portuguese came forward with
outstretched hand saying: "What is the news Dom Robert in Hong Kong?"
"Oh, Dom Pedro, you came out so suddenly I thought I was attacked. No
news, unless it is that the rector of St. John's is to join me to the
loveliest girl in Macao or the world, in just three weeks." "I hope you
won't disappoint him Dom Robert, you came very near doing so to-night,"
said Pedro de Amaral with a laugh. "How, pray?" asked Adams as they
entered the now unbarred gate. "You were within three feet of the water,
if you had fallen in, that would have disappointed him. Not? Three feet
is near. Not?" "Yes, and the boiler might have burst," replied Adams
laughing. "Or more improbable yet the Portuguese government might have
revived Macao, which would kill me with astonishment my dear Amaral."