As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder. Twenty-one, twenty-two. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. "Where did you learn the song I heard just now?" he demanded, in an authoritative tone. Hollo rumbled in his throat.
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