The Wind That Tramps the World
"Listen intently," he said, "can you not hear voices in the wind?"
How long the havoc continued Steppling did not know. At that moment time had lost its importance. Something supernatural seemed to have clutched them up in its grip. Steppling felt numb, powerless, almost without the power to move. At last Hi Ling walked across the room and closed the windows. He had to fight until he was practically exhausted to get the mad wind out again. But at last the windows were tightly barred. And peace seemed to sweep down over the room like a caress. The yellow lantern ceased its swaying. The pungent perfume bloomed forth again.
That night John Steppling sat down to the simplest meal he had ever partaken of in his life. It was simply rice cakes and tea. The rice cakes were as crisp as mountain air and the tea was pungent as it was delicious. They ate in a room lit only by a single lamp which spluttered feebly as though protesting against the limitless darkness which enveloped the house like a shroud.
After the meal was finished, the old man produced several pipes. They were very black and ominously small. Into the bowl of each, Hi Ling rolled a black gummy pellet which he had shaped in the palms of his hand.
He held out one to John Steppling. "Smoke?" he said curtly.
But Steppling refused the proffered pipe.
"I would prefer to hear you talk?" he said.
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