of the scarlet bed with hand-painted panels. It was an enormous bed, not designed alone for sleeping but for pleasurable reclining, besides things only to be whispered behind the concealment of fans.
Lady T'ai Chên graciously took the rice paper and ink which he procured from a wall cabinet. Then completely oblivious to the impatience of the Emperor, she spread the paper on the floor before her. She hummed softly as she set down verses with graceful brush strokes. He marveled at her ability, not suspecting that most of the song had been composed when she was a nun in the mountain retreat. Over and over she had quietly rehearsed the song, to the woodland and the mountains. Nobody knew nor for that matter cared about the manner in which her penitent hours were spent. And so she wrought her song of a fusion of poetry, ink, music and the hunger of the Emperor.
At last the song was finished. She took her lute and started to dance, a dance that was sheer enticement, and as she danced she sang "The Rainbow Skirt and Feather Jacket." Slowly she undid the coils of her hair and let it fall in blue-black splendor about her shoulders. As she danced close to the Emperor, the breeze caught her hair and it brushed his cheek.
"Enough of this!" he cried at last. "It is like inhaling the fragrance of a feast without eating!"
She made no resistance as he took the lute. Her eyes were stars. Her lips seemed to be bleeding.
"Let us sleep in the garden," she suggested impul-
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