Rousing himself as if from a trance of ecstasy, the Emperor spake:
“Who builded this, Wu Taotsz?”
“Imagination,” was the answer.
“Bid, then, Imagination to make the winds blow, the river sing, the birds warble.”
“They are vocal to my ears, Shun-yuen, and beautiful are the forms within the house.”
At that moment a droning fly settled with a flop upon the golden gate. The emperor started violently, and cried out, “A fly, and so far yet so plain!”
He hurried forward, peered closely, put out his hand and turned, with a scream of fury.
“Wretch! This is no more than a painted picture.”
“To Imagination it is real,” said Wu Taotsz.
The Emperor, his face orange with rage, leapt and drew his sword.