At last the family sat apart and talked in low tones.  Zura moved closer to me and, though white-lipped and restless after the many encounters with her grandfather, her spirit was undaunted.

XI

A BROKEN SHRINE

The feast over, we moved on.  The servants were left to pack up, and instructed to join the family at a certain shrine some distance away; devotions at that place would end the festival.

The closing down of night was like the working of some magic.  From every point of temple, shrine, and tree sprang a light.  Fireworks shaped like huge peonies, lilies, and lesser flowers spluttered in the air.  Myriad lights turned the garden into a place of enchantment.  In the hand of every feaster swung a paper lantern, gay in color, daring in design, its soft glow reflected on the happy face above.  The whole enclosure seemed to be a bit of fairy land, where workaday people were transformed into beings made only for the pleasures of life.

I kept close to Zura regardless of where she led, for all she saw seemed not only to increase her interest, but to intensify her reckless mood.  On our way we paused at a Pagoda.  A group of priests were marching around it chanting some ritual.  They were very solemn and their voices most weird.

“What are they doing with their throats, Miss Jenkins?” asked Zura.

“Singing.”

“Singing!  Well, they know as much about singing as tit-willows do about grand opera.  But the colors of those gorgeous robes are fascinating.  Aren’t the curves of that roof lovely?  See how the corners turn up.  Exactly like the mustache of the little band master at home.  Oh, look at those darling kiddies!” she suddenly exclaimed, going swiftly to the nearby stand of a cake man.

A dozen children or so, wistful-eyed and a bit sad, stood around.  These were the city rats and street waifs, who only came from their holes after dark.  Too poor to buy, they could only gaze and wish.  The old man, for the sake of the hungry birdlings at home, could give no further of his store.

Zura stopped before the little heaps of sweet dough.  The children closed about her.  None were afraid, and all instinctively felt her friendship.  Her bargain was quickly made.  Soon each child had a large share not only of cake, but also of tiny flags and paper cherry blossoms which had adorned the owner’s booth.  Zura emptied a small knitted purse of “rins” and “sens.”  She had told me earlier that she had sold a picture to a postcard man.  The cake dealer got it all.

We left the children open-mouthed, gazing at the “Ojosan” (honorable elder sister) who had proved nothing less than a goddess; but the girl heeded neither their looks nor their thanks, for we had come upon the ancient rite of firewalking, once a holy ceremony for the driving out of demons, now used for the purpose of proving the protection of the gods for the devout.