One day about a month after the night-feast of the Gods and toward the third hour after sunrise, the sentries on the east barricade noticed a movement among the Chinese patrols stationed farther down Old River Street.
Presently a single sedan with four bearers and one attendant came swiftly toward the barricade. Near the redoubt the sedan stopped and the attendant cautiously advanced toward a sentry, holding before him an open card. The marine reached down his gun and the attendant stuck the card on the bayonet.
After some delay a squad of marines marched out of the north gate to the east barricade and, with these sailors acting as an escort, the sedan entered the redoubt and disappeared within the walls of the Mission. At the entrance it passed through double ranks of marines standing at present arms and was carried into the building to the rear of the sombre Visigothic chapel. When it was set down in the bishop’s own study, an old man, trembling, withered, tottered out of it.
The bishop came up to him and bowed.
“Your Excellency does me great honour. How will I ever be able to repay such kindness?”
Tai Lin made no reply. Aged and shrunk, without the strength of self-support, he sank into a chair beside a table and, leaning forward, buried his head in his arms.
The bishop sat down on the other side of the table and, lolling back in his chair, caressed his pallid hands, now and then cracking his knuckles.
Sometimes a tremor passed through the body of Tai Lin.
Sometimes the bishop bit his lips.
Tai Lin raised his head and looked piteously at him.