Sometimes the wife lifted her head slightly, only to nestle more tightly upon his shoulder, more closely against his neck. Had someone said, “Where are you?” the Breton could not have answered. And had Tsang not returned they would have remained under the doorway until awakened by the elbowing mobs of day.
“The Gate is closed. Such is Fate,” said a voice coming unconcernedly out of the darkness. “They are all closed,” the voice continues serenely. “Thus Fate lights. Who can escape? Who can escape? In a little while it will all be over. Hiyah!” and Tsang sat down on the threshold.
The smile did not go away from the Breton’s lips: the wife did not cease to nestle contentedly upon his shoulder.
Suddenly Tsang sprang to his feet, gave a few dramatic cavorts, and then shaking the Breton vigorously by the arm, cries:
“They will never think of the Water-gate. Such is Fate—come!”
Unhesitatingly the Breton followed, carrying his precious burden. Again their flight skirted a maze of lanterns still glowing in the principal streets, then stumbled along through bewildering labyrinths of blackness; beholding for an instant a starry thread of sky, then plunging underground.
They emerged upon a canal, which at their feet looked like an abyss, while in other parts it reflected charmingly the gay lanterns swaying from slipper boats; swinging, dangling rhythmically to the sinuous movements of the gondoliers.
“Sampan!” called Tsang in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Hi! Hi!” shouted several simultaneously.
“Three people to the Gardens.”