“A foreign devil. Have you seen his eyes? They are blue!”
“Blue? master, blue?”
“If he should look into your boiling oil, it would go up in flame; if he should look into your flour, it would frisk with weevils; if he should look into your meat, lo! there would be nothing but maggots, and if he should peer into your heart—I tremble.”
The cook crouched closer to him.
“Cook, how is the Idol of Yang Ssü made?”
“By three swings of the axe, master.”
“How is the Idol of Yen Wang made?”
“I know not, I know not.”
“It is carved by tears, cook, as rocks are cut by mountain’s rain. Its visage is of the terriblest sorrow; the height of heaven, the depth of the sea cannot encompass it.”
The fortune-teller leaned closer to the cook and whispered hoarsely in his ear: “He has the face of Yen Wang.”