“I cannot tell you more. My words would not have meaning—for you———”
But Eleanor More leaned forward a little, with parted lips.
“Tell us,” she said swiftly.
And Kou Ying looked at her a moment in grave silence. The paper in his hand seemed to radiate a kind of light and remove him mistily.
“You will know,” he said, “—all that the paper can tell. You will know—soon.... But I cannot tell you.”
He motioned to the bearers and they took up the chairs and moved forward.
And wherever the chairs halted and the paper was presented, there was swift hurrying and obedient response to Kou Ying’s questions and demands. The little procession became a kind of royal convoy. Each village that was entered received it with honor and hastened to serve it and to speed it on its way—almost as if eager to be rid of so fateful a mission.
There was no dallying in progress now, and no detours leading to fruitless results. Each halt found the route ahead prepared and directions ready for Kou Ying’s hand.... But the end that they sought was always a little farther on—a day’s journey on.
They left the travelled region and ascended into a hilly country where the road wound constantly up and the bearers were obliged to force their way through paths that were no longer wide enough for two abreast. At last only the empty chairs could be carried and they ascended by slow stages, halting often to rest.
“We are near the end now!” Kou Ying looked gravely at Eleanor More.