280 TROPIC DAYS 



in. Once a Chinaman had left the district uncere- 

 moniously, more especially at the forcible persuasion 

 of flesh-hungry blacks, his dues lapsed by unanimous 

 consent. He became merely a fragrant remembrance. 

 It is so still, and the virtue is as virile as the odour of 

 musk. 



To himself Hu Dra was always so. Be his official 

 and authoritative title for the time being what it might, 

 he was determined not to sacrifice his identity. 



The gaoler found him a docile and obedient creature 

 with an abiding affection for plants, which sprang up 

 under his hands like magic. Within two months 

 corners of the desert yard began to blossom, to bear 

 cucumbers and radishes, and to be fragrant with 

 shallots. 



The pride of the gentle gardener lay in a few plants 

 of zinnias close to a dripping tap. In bright red, gold, 

 and white, he accepted them as substitutes for the sacred 

 lotus, and prison flowers never flaunted more freely. 

 As innocent as they, he deftly, tirelessly trained each 

 plant, caressed each opening bud, cherished it as if it 

 were a jewel, and found surcease of the pangs of exile, 

 easement for the restraints upon liberty, and blissful 

 consolation. Tendance upon the garden under the 

 strait shadow of wall was to him, not a duty, not a pas- 

 time, but a ritual. The captive was happy, for here 

 was the end of his pilgrimage. 



Exemplary conduct, combined with the art with 

 which he forced salads from the boorish soils, found him 

 favour and earned privileges and concessions. 



Hu Dra kept no count of the passing months. What 

 was time to a contemplative Buddhist whose being was 

 permeated with the hope of release from delusions and 

 sorrow and of attaining final sanctification ? 



One morning he was summarily marched into the 



