For, over the St. John’s misty surface, there was the span of a bridge—a strange, marble bridge humped up high in the centre.
And over it were passing thousands of people—he could make them out vaguely—see them passing in two never-ending streams—tinted shapes on the marble bridge.
And now, on the farther shore of the river, he was aware of a city—a vast one, with spectral pagoda shapes against the sky——
Her arm tightened around his neck.
He saw boats on the river—like the grotesque shapes that decorate ancient lacquer.
She rested her face lightly against his cheek.
In his ears was a far confusion of voices—the stir and movement of multitudes—noises on ships, boatmen’s cries, the creak of oars.
Then, far and sonorous, quavering across the water from the city, the din of a temple gong.
There were bells, too—very sweet and silvery—camel bells, bells from the Buddhist temples.
He strained his eyes, and thought, amid the pagodas, that there were minarets, also.