his bed and his goods in his chosen place, and it seemed as if we had
merely begun once more to settle down for a further period of siesta in
the long picnic which had been going on for the last two months. Nobody
was convinced in spite of the authentic news which we had received, that
the Japanese would attack the next day.

The sunset faded into a twilight of delicious summer calm.

From the hills in the east came the noise of a few shots fired by
the batteries there, and a captive balloon soared slowly, like a
soap-bubble, into the eastern sky. I walked into the village; here
and there fires were burning, and I was attracted by the sight of the
deserted temple in which the wooden painted gods were grinning, bereft
of their priest and of their accustomed dues. I sat down on the mossy
steps of the little wooden temple, and somewhere, either from one of the
knolls hard by or from one of the houses, came the sound of a flute, or
rather of some primitive wooden pipe, which repeated over and over again
a monotonous and piercingly sad little tune. I wondered whether it was
one of the soldiers playing, but I decided this could not be the case,
as the tune was more eastern than any Russian tune. On the other hand,
it seemed strange that any Chinaman should be about. The tune continued
to break the perfect stillness with its iterated sadness, and a vague
recollection came into my mind of a Chinese legend or poem I had read
long ago in London, about a flute-player called Chang Liang. But I could
not bring my memory to work; its tired wheels all seemed to be buzzing
feebly in different directions, and my thoughts came like thistledown
and seemed to elude all efforts of concentration. And so I capitulated
utterly to my drowsiness, and fell asleep as I sat on the steps of the
temple.