He asked it as he bent over her. But she did not answer. The question went out into the heavy stillness, hanging there to be echoed deafeningly by a thousand silent tongues.
Something in the sudden quiet of the way she lay filled him with a tranquil joy. He knelt beside her, He reached his hand over her heart.
He got up slowly, deliberately.
He moved silently away, going with that padded, sinuous motion, so distinctly Chinese.
With cunning stealth he went back the way he had come, treading lightly; cautiously seeking the darkest shadows.
He had gone some little distance when he heard the regular beat of hurrying footsteps following him.
He stood stolidly, still, awaiting whatever might happen.
Overhead he saw a cluster of heavy, black clouds sweeping across the sky, like eager, reaching hands against a somber background.
It had begun to rain again. He could feel the raindrops trickling gently down his upturned face.
He wondered, as the footsteps halted beside him, if he should have run. His mind, working rapidly, decided that any other man would have gotten away; any other man but not a Chinaman.