“Oh, yes, foreign one. Only the birds are happier.”
“Then we won’t slice Mai Lo,” I announced, airily.
I picked up the book that lay open upon the table and found it an English translation of Plutarch.
“Do you like this?” I asked.
“Oh, yes!” they cried. And Ko-Tua added: “We are entertain much by its stories.”
It seemed pretty heavy reading for young girls.
“We have the Shakespeare and we have the verse songs of Blylon,” announced Nor Ghai, gleefully. “My brother, Lun Pu, gave them to my father’s wife who came from Hong Kong. But now you may tell us, foreign ones, since you are with us so unlawfully, about my brother’s accident.”
So we began the story, trying between us to tell it in such a way as to remove all horror from the tragic incidents. But it seemed they loved to dwell mostly upon those very details, having the same love for slaughter and bloodshed that I have observed in the natures of some of our own children. Even Nor Ghai had known the Prince so slightly that he was a mere personage to her, and his untimely end was to these fair and innocent girls but a romance that was delightful to listen to.
With the telling of the story and answering the numerous questions showered upon us, the hours passed rapidly, until finally Ko-Tua sprang up and declared it was time for them to go, or Mai Lo’s eunuchs would be looking for her.
“Will you come here again tomorrow?” I asked Nor Ghai, taking her little hand in mine—a liberty she did not resent.