“I know this dream came late in the night, because it was for hours and hours that I could not sleep. Fear’s tugging finger many times caused me to rise and peer into the shadow where you and Tsang were sleeping. It must have been after the third watch, when he builded the fire, that I dreamed. I know you will think this a very foolish dream.”
For a long time he looked into her upturned eyes; then putting her hand against his cheek, she turned his face away.
For some moments there was an hushed, uncertain silence, then suddenly she burst into tears, and throwing her arms about the neck of the Breton she clung passionately to him.
“Do not let dreams disturb Your Excellency,” commented Tsang. “What are they? Reflections in the Great River whereon we float. Now how can reflections stem the river or check the course of our craft?”
“Tsang!”
“Tsang!” said his wife, leading him aside, “do you know that was a very bad dream?”
“Boil your rice, Tsi, boil your rice! How can dreams affect the stringed puppets of Fate, squawking and crowing, thising and thating, squeaking out our long or short verse until Fate gets weary and snaps the string. Bah! What have we to do with this inane performance? Go pluck your fowl.”
“I know, Tsang, but I tell you that was a bad dream, a very bad dream, and nothing good will come of it.”
“You are always dreaming.”
“Yes, and——”