At the far end was a raised dais,
and before this, illumined in candleglow, was a kneeling figure. He
noticed then that there were many candles burning, that the room was
lighted by candles, and that in their illumination the figure did not
move. He caught the glint of armors standing up, warrior like, against
the tapestries, and he wondered for a moment if the kneeling figure was
a heathen god made of wood. It was then that he smelled the odor of
frankincense; it crept subtly into his nostrils and his mouth,
sweetened his breath, and made him cough.
At the far end, before the dais, the kneeling figure began to move. Its
arms extended slowly, they swept backward, then out again, and three
times the figure bowed itself and straightened, and with the movement
came a low, human monotone. It was over quickly. Probably two full
minutes had not passed since Keith had entered when the kneeling figure
sprang to its feet with the quickness of a cat, faced about, and stood
there, smiling and bowing and extending its hand.
"Good evening, John Keith!" It was Shan Tung. An oriental gown fell
about him, draping him like a woman. It was a crimson gown, grotesquely
ornamented with embroidered peacocks, and it flowed and swept about him
in graceful undulations as he advanced, his footfalls making not the
sound of a mouse on the velvet floors.
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