With a bang, a wooden shutter slid open.
Heywood lay back swiftly, just as a long, fat bamboo pipe, two sleeves,
and the head of a man in a red silk cap were thrust out into the
night air.
"_Ai-yah!"_ sighed the man, and puffed at his bamboo. "It is hot."
Heywood tried to blot himself against the wall. The lounger, propped on
elbows, finished his smoke, spat upon the tiles, and remained, a pensive
silhouette.
"_Ai-yah!"_ he sighed again; then knocking out the bamboo, drew in his
head. Not until the shutter slammed, did Heywood shake the burning
sparks from his wrist.
In the same movement, however, he raised head and shoulders to spy
through the chink. This time the bright-hosed legs were gone. He saw
clear down a brilliant lane of robes and banners, multicolored, and
shining with embroidery and tinsel,--a lane between two ranks of crowded
men, who, splendid with green and blue and yellow robes of ceremony,
faced each other in a strong lamplight, that glistened on their oily
cheeks. The chatter had ceased. Under the crowded rows of shaven
foreheads, their eyes blinked, deep-set and expectant.
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