At the far end of
the loft, through two circular arches or giant hoops of rattan, Heywood
at last descried a third arch, of swords; beyond this, a tall incense
jar smouldering gray wisps of smoke, beside a transverse table twinkling
with candles like an altar; and over these, a black image with a pale,
carved face, seated bolt upright before a lofty, intricate, gilded
shrine of the Patriot War-God.
A tall man in dove-gray silk with a high scarlet turban moved athwart
the altar, chanting as he solemnly lifted one by one a row of symbols: a
round wooden measure, heaped with something white, like rice, in which
stuck a gay cluster of paper flags; a brown, polished abacus; a mace
carved with a dragon, another carved with a phoenix; a rainbow robe,
gleaming with the plumage of Siamese kingfishers. All these, and more,
he displayed aloft and replaced among the candles.
When his chant ended, a brisk little man in yellow stepped forward into
the lane.
"O Fragrant Ones," he shrilled, "I bring ten thousand recruits, to join
our army and swear brotherhood. Attend, O Master of Incense."
Behind him, a squad of some dozen barefoot wretches, in coolie clothes,
with queues un-plaited, crawled on all fours through the first arch.
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