duties were grouped around the Tai-chi. On the right shoulder was the imperial dragon enveloping the sacred disc; the moon, symbolizing the Yin. On the left shoulder was the Imperial dragon enveloping the sacred disc; the sun, symbolizing the Yang, the five lotus-purity; the eight phoenixes, the six shou characters—denoting long life. Wearing such a robe Tang Ling was indeed Emperor of Porcelain, the Son of Heaven. In such raiment would he paint his own portrait on the vase.
And so he set to work. If he could achieve his desire, the slender graceful girl would be his. That the object he had set for himself could only be accomplished' by alchemy and a large measure of magic was of little purport. Had not the great Wu Tao-tzu in the golden age of Tang painted with such skill that scores of legends have grown up about him. His dragons were enveloped in mist. It has been written that he painted horses with such realism that they ran away and were never seen again. His flowers were so lifelike their essence sweetened the room in which the pictures of them were hung. He painted on silk, on bamboo slips and on the walls of the Imperial Palace of the Emperor Ming Huang. The paintings of Wu Tao-tzu were three dimensional.
Tang Ling, on porcelain, had solved this three dimensional quality of Wu. His figures lived and breathed and appeared about to speak. No doubt had he that the slim, flowerlike girl he had painted with his own magic brush was a living pulsating being. Her exquisite tender smile was for him only. Her eyes followed him about the room.
He could hardly wait for that glorious moment when he could join her on the vase. As he painted himsef into the vase fingers fairly flew with inspiration. Glad was he that he had a strong wrist. Not for a moment did he pause to rest, nor did he partake of food or drink. He finished his own portrait by moonlight. Then he carried the precious vase down to the baking ovens at the foot of the garden. Gently he consigned the beloved vase to a second firing so that his figure might bse imprisoned there forever.
That night was the strangest of his amazing career. Never had he endured such intense suffering and terror. His room was like a bake-oven, his bed the grate of a furnace. Perspiration fell from his body in scalding beads. Was it only his imagination or did it rise above him like live steam? While still alive he was being cremated. No Parsee placed on a burial tower while still living and being slowly devoured by ravenous vultures was subjected to more pain. He clutched at the silk coverlets of the kong and bit his teeth until the blood flowed. He endeavored with all his will power not to cry out but occasionally an anguished sob escaped him. Perhaps she was enduring torment equal to his! The thought stabbed him with such acute pain it even eclipsed, if that were possible, the fury of the intense oven-heat, for oven-heat it was. His bed had become as hot as the ovens at the foot of the garden. But all this intense suffering had to be. And somehow he survived it even as his countrymen for ages have endured every disaster—flood, starvation, pestilence and invasion, and through it all remained courteous, philosophic, serene as though they knew that inevitably all would be well once more.
As the first gaunt fingers of dawn reached through the open window of his sleeping room, Tang Ling rose wearily to his feet. Within a few hours he had become a dried up old man. He felt as if his flesh had been burned away and only bleached bones remained. Moaning slightly, he crept through the garden. He longed to hurry so that he might be free of this dreadful ordeal but speed was impossible. Though he fell twice, somehow he reached the baking-oven. With great effort he drew the beloved vase from it and placed it gently on the ground. Then he collapsed on the green earth and lay scarcely conscious while his body gradually cooled and some measure of relief came to him. How cool the dew felt on his fiery flesh.
Gradually the intense heat of his body lessened, and at last he slept Every fibre
