"If they were n't real and live and warm, what would a story be, Brian Oge, but a jumble of dead words? A house with nobody in it, the poorest thing in the world."

"But Marco Polo came back to Venice, Malachi, and fought in the sea-wars."

"There 's more to tell, Brian Oge. But sometimes I wonder should n't the best part of the story be kept to yourself. The people are n't as wise as they used to be, brown lad. The end of a story now is a bit of kissing and courting and the kettle boiling to be making tea.

"But the older ones were wiser, Brian Donn. They knew that the rhythm of life is long and swinging, and that time does n't stop short as a clock. Sure, what is a kiss from the finest of women but a pleasant thing, like a long putt sunk, or the first salmon of the year caught like a trout, or the ball through the goal before the whistle blows? And there 's many a wellfilled belly over a hungry soul.

does n't like to have her mind disturbed, and she warming her breadth at the fire. The Widow Robinson may have a white coin to buy a book with, and think you 're the grand author entirely and you pleasing her. But the Lord God, who gave you the stories, will know you for a louse.

"I call to your mind the stories of the great English writer-the plays of the Prince of Denmark, and the poor blind king on the cliff, and the Scottish chieftain and his terrible wife. The Widow Robinson will not like those stories, and she will be keeping her white coin. But those stories will endure forever.

..

..

"I will now tell you of Marco Polo, and him leaving China..."

XXII

woven, the fine and gallant and the tragic points of life. And you must n't look at

them with the eyes of the body, but you must feel with the antennæ of your being. Now, if you were to look at the Lord Jesus with physical eyes, what would it be but a kindly, crazy man and He coming to a hard and bitter end? Look at it simply, and what was the story of Troy but a dirty row over a woman? "But often times the stories with the endings that grocer's daughters do not be liking are the stories that are worth while. And the worth-while stories do be lasting. Never clip a story halfways because the Widow Robinson

..

steel and whalebone from riding on the great khan's business, and riding fast and furious, so that he might sleep and forget; but forgetting never came to him. You might think he was a harsh man from his face and eyes, but he was the straight man in administering justice, and he had the soft heart for the poor-the heart of Golden Bells. He was easily moved to anger, but the fine Chinese people never minded. him, knowing he was a suffering man. Though never a word of Golden Bells came from his mouth, barring maybe that line of Dante's, the saddest line in the world, and that he used to repeat to himself and no one there:

you? In all my embassies have I been weak to the strong or bullying toward the weak? Does an oppressed man complain of injustice, does a merchant complain of being cheated, or a woman say she was wronged?"

"Now, Marco of my heart, did n't I say not to be taking it amiss? Is there any one closer to me nor you, or is it likely I 'd be listening to stories brought against you? It 's just this. I'm an old and tired man, Marco Beag, and in a week or a moon at most I'm due to die, so the Sanang tells me. Don't be sorry, son. Be glad for me. Life has been a wee bit too long.

"And now, son dear, I want to tell you. You've been closer to me than my own sons, and you 've been the dear lad. And there's not one man in all China can say you did a harsh or an unjust thing; but, my dear son, 't is just the way of people; there 's a power of hard feeling against you in this land, you being a stranger and having stood so high.

Fourteen years she 's dead now, the wee one who lay by my side in sleep. And never a word and never a sign. In the house where we were married I can see the pool and the willows and the hibiscus, but there is never a token of her," he broke out. "The leaves of trees cover the pavilion, the hair of the musicians is silver, and dust is on the blue-and-white tiles. And she never comes to comfort me. I can't sleep with waiting. The stars never seem to wane, and the hoar-frost comes on the grass, and I 'm always waiting. Christ! why should I go back? I've forgotten Venice. I've even forgotten my God for her!"

"Sanang," says Kublai Khan to the magician, "could n't you do something for this poor lad?"

she were to have come to you in the dark of the moon-time, in the strange mystic hours when you can hear eternity tick like a clock, your eyes would have been not on this world, but the next. Your look would have been vacant that 's now keen to discover injustice. Your body would have been flabby that's now whalebone and steel. And there would have been no memory of you in China, that 's now like sweet honey in the mouth.

"Would a wee dead spirit be proud of a man, Marco, and he just crying, crying, crying, and letting the days go by while even the brown bee works, and even the grass grows that cattle may fatten and men eat? She might be sorry, but would there be pride on her? Even a dead woman wants a

..

"Now, Marco, dear lad, don't be flying off again, but remember that there is science needed to all things. And think, too, that maybe she was not permitted. The older we get, the more we understand the destiny that rules all things, with now a nudge, with now a leading finger, with now a terrible blow over the heart, and what we think at twenty-five was a trifling accident, at seventy-five we know to have been the enormous gesture of God. We are not asked when we like to be born, Marco, nor is it up to us when to die.

"Now, I 'm not saying that the silent dead should not have voice in our affairs when we need them. But they have wisdom, else what is the use of having died? And if the Sanang can bring her, she 'll come now and join with us in asking you, now being the time she's needed.

"Child, be guided by us three ancient men. I have lived long and have knowledge of the world. Li Po has lived long and has knowledge of the heart. The Sanang has lived long, and knows the secrets of the dead. If to our three voices, who love you, there is added a sign from Golden Bells, will you leave China?"

"If there is a sign from her, I 'll leave China," said Marco Polo.

And it was dusk in the garden by the Lake of Cranes.

XXIII

The Sanang came over to Marco "Give me the black tress that 's over your heart."

And Marco Polo undid his coat and his undercoat and his fine sack and took out the perfumed hair, and gave it to the Sanang.

"Let you sing a little song, Li Po," the magician said, "the way she 'll be hearing and come. I have part of her here, and let you put in the garden the atmosphere she loved." And Li Po took his lute and plucked very gently at the strings.

And it was dusk in the garden, and the voice of Li Po broke, and his lute stilled, and the old emperor breathed his aged gentle breathing, and the Sanang said his secret terrible formulæ, and Marco Polo was tense as a hunting dog.

And suddenly at the end of the garden, in the perfumed Asian dusk, there was a beam like moonlight, and into the soft ray of it trod little Golden Bells, with her wee warm face, and her wee warm hands, and her hair that was dark as a cloud, and her eyes that were pleading, pleading.

..

"Go now, Marco Polo, please go!" Her lips made the words, but no sound came to him.

"Oh, Golden Bells, Golden Bells!" He rushed forward, but the moonlight

"Yes, son, I 'll tell her."

Then he patted the Sanang on the shoulder, and "Thanks!" said he, simply, and he took Li Po's hand in both his, and they looked at each other for a moment, and no words came to either.

"Well," he says at length, "I 'll be hitting the road, then. I 'll not say good-by to any of you. I'll be seeing you all pretty soon again. There's a war on between Venice and the Genoese, and where that 's hottest you 'll find me, and the quicker my end, the better I 'll be pleased. But it would be like my luck," he said bitterly, "not to be killed, but to be taken prisoner and to end my life in some lousy jail. Oh, well, we 'll hope for the best." He laughed. “So

so long!"

And the four of them looked at one another, trying to smile, and great grief on them.

"China will miss you, my son," said old Kublai.

"It 's nothing to how I 'll be missing China," said Marco Polo. "Venice! It 's only a sound to me. I 'll be an