But Ming Huang was not sleeping. He was so overcome by the knowledge that Yang Kuei-fei still lived, and had sent him a gift of one of her own golden hairpins, he was unable to speak. All he desired was to be alone with his thoughts and his dreams, dreams of his dear one who was very close to him that night.
Then suddenly his breath caught in his throat, he stirred, opened his eyes, every muscle tense, every nerve alert. Hark! Was that her laughter rippling in the distance?
He rose to his feet.
"Yang Kuei-fei," he whispered, awed at her gracious presence. Somehow he knew that she was there. There was joy in the fragrance of the flowers. There was adoration in the voices of the trees.
"Yang Kuei-fei," he whispered.
The bluish mist intensified, driving the shadows before it.
"Yang Kuei-fei," he whispered.
And then she came to him, with green herbs from the mountain soil. She was all warmth and tenderness. His arms encircled her hungrily. Her gentle breasts were pressed against his heart, the vivid fragrant wonder of her lips was on his cheek.
"Oh, my beloved," he whispered. "My beloved." And in his words echoed all the endless heartache he had endured since that night of everlasting wrong at Ma-Wei.
"Let me go with you to the Isles of the Blest," he implored, "I am so weary, so lonely."
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