“It is not a matter for words but for a stroke of the Vermilion Pencil,” replied the other in a tone of inspired authority.  “Across the faint and puny effusions of the past this person sees written in very large and obliterating strokes the words ‘Concerning Spring.’  Where else can be found so novel a conception combined with so unique a way of carrying it out?  What other poem contains so many thoughts that one instinctively remembers as having heard before, so many involved allusions that baffle the imagination of the keenest, and so much sound in so many words?  With the possible exception of Meng-hu’s masterpiece, ‘The Empty Coffin,’ what other work so skilfully conveys the impression of being taken down farther than one can ever again come up and then suddenly upraised beyond the possible descent?  Where else can be found so complete a defiance of all that has hitherto been deemed essential, and, to insert a final wedge, what other poem is half so long?”

“Your criticism is severe but just,” replied the Sovereign, “except that part having reference to Meng-hu.  Nevertheless, the atmosphere of the proposal, though reasonable, looms a degree stormily into a troubled future.  Can it be permissible even for—­”

“Omnipotence!” exclaimed the seer.

“The title is well recalled,” confessed the Emperor.  “Yet although unquestionably omnipotent there must surely be some limits to our powers in dealing with so old established a system as that of the examinations.”

“Who can doubt a universal admission that the composer of ’Concerning Spring’ is capable of doing anything?” was the profound reply.  “Let the mandate be sent out—­but, to an obvious end, let it be withheld until the eve of the competitions.”

“The moment of hesitancy has faded; go forth in the certainty, esteemed,” said the Emperor reassuringly.  “You have carried your message with a discreet hand.  Yet before you go, if there is any particular mark of Imperial favour that we can show—­something of a special but necessarily honorary nature—­do not set an iron screen between your ambition and the light of our favourable countenance.”

“There is indeed such a signal reward,” assented the aged person, with an air of prepossessing diffidence.  “A priceless copy of the immortal work—­”

“By all means,” exclaimed the liberal-minded Sovereign, with an expression of great relief.  “Take three or four in case any of your fascinating relations have large literary appetites.  Or, still more conveniently arranged, here is an unopened package from the stall of those who send forth the printed leaves—­’thirteen in the semblance of twelve,’ as the quaint and harmonious phrase of their craft has it.  Walk slowly, revered, and a thousand rainbows guide your retiring footsteps.”