And from a squat
den--where on a translucent placard in the dull window flickered the
words "Foreign Earth," and the guttering door-lantern hinted "As You
Like It"--there came a sweet, insidious, potent smell that seemed more
poisonous than mere opium.
"Let's go faster," said the girl. "Somehow, the dark makes me uneasy
to-night."
Skirting the town, they struck at last the open road beyond, and saw
against a fading sky the low black bulk of the nunnery, pierced with
orange squares. Past its landward wall, lanterns moved slowly, clustered
here and there by twos and threes, and dispersed. Cackling argument came
from the ditch, wherever the lantern-bearers halted; and on the face of
the wall, among elbowing shadows, shone dim strips of scarlet. Both
pillars of the gate were plastered with them.
"Placards," said Heywood. "Things are ripening fast." Lighting match
from match, he studied the long red scrolls, crowded with neat rows of
symbols. He read them off slowly.
'The Garden of the Three Exquisites.'--Pshaw! that's a theatre notice:
enterprising manager.--Ah, more like it. Long preamble, regular
trimetrical platitudes--here we are:--
"'These Red-Bristled Ghosts teach their dupes to break the ancestral
tablets, and to worship the picture of a naked infant, which points one
finger toward heaven, another toward earth.
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