To make beautiful the eyes of death.
The woman’s voice again sings, unheeded, from behind the veil of smoke:
Wherefore plead with death?
Who shall soften the terrible heart of death?
All, in urgent but slow unison:
Kwan-yin.
Kwan-yin.
Kwan-yin.
Kwan-yin.
The golden face of Kwan-yin above the altar changes suddenly and terribly and becomes like a mass of fear. The lanterns flare spasmodically. The voice can now be identified as Kwan-yin’s, but still the priests stand unhearing with their heads bowed and still the passionless bell rings.