Behind him walked his little slave, Clear-Lute, who carried
over his shoulder a mantle in case the weather should freshen, and a
long guitar with which to accompany the singing girls.
As they were approaching the gate of Ch'ien-t'ang, Chang looked up,
for no particular reason. On the first story of a house a maiden
held back her window curtain and looked at him. From her whole person
emanated so troubling a charm that he stopped in his walk, and felt
a tremor in his body. For a long time they remained gazing at each
other, until she slowly broke into a smile, and he felt his soul fly
from him.
At this moment the door of the house opened below, and a man came
forth; so Chang hastened to resume his walk, and returned in a few
moments. The curtain was drawn back over the window. He waited, but
there was no sign. At length he drew away, turning his head, and
walking as slowly as if he had already gone a hundred leagues on the
mountains.
Yet eventually he passed the town gate and rejoined his friends on the
boat, which was at once steered to the middle of the lake. The banks
were smiling with peach blossom: the willow leaves were a mist of gold
and green. Little boats, with brightly-dressed passengers, crossed and
re-crossed like ants. In very truth:
Hills are heaped upon hills
And the pavilions on the pavilions.
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