Through his barred window, the old priest looked out at them with unseeing eyes.

There was an interval and he stood beside them, looking down at their dusty clothes and travel-stained faces with quiet, understanding gaze.

Even before the interpreter came, with his high, sing-song words that translated their wishes, even before Richard More took from his pocket the yellow map and laid it in the old priest’s hand, they knew that they were come to the end of their search.

The priest listened with bowed head. Once or twice he nodded assent, and when the interpreter finished, he looked at Eleanor More with slow, kind eyes.

He folded the map and handed it back and pointed to a little house among the trees. Then he spoke to the interpreter in a low tone and motioned to the figure of the god cut in the rock above, and entered the temple.

An old man, half-asleep before his door, roused himself. He listened to the interpreter and shook his head. His face was as motionless as the plank it leaned against.

The interpreter spoke again, sharply, and the old eyes turned to him with slow, incurious look.

The interpreter flung one hand upward, toward the seated Buddha towering above; and the old gaze followed it unsteadily—up—up to the great gilded face.

For a long minute he gazed at the god in the face of the mountain. Then he rose slowly and entered the darkened house.

They heard a sound of scraping within and a creaking, as if a door opened, then silence.... The city was very quiet about them—a gentle intoning from the temple and a rustling of leaves on the mountainside.

For a long time they waited in the silence before the half-swung door. The old man appeared and beckoned to them and they passed into the cool quiet.

They traversed a passage and crossed a court and entered a low room.

The room was empty except for two objects on the right as they entered—a shrine to Buddha revealed through the half-open doors the god within; and across the room on a raised platform facing the shrine stood a red-and-black lacquered coffin.

At the sight of the coffin Eleanor More’s face changed subtly. She turned to the interpreter.

“Why have you brought us to a house of mourning?” Her hand moved toward the raised platform.

The old man at the interpreter’s side spoke a few words.... And the interpreter translated in his sing-song voice.

“It is his son—who is dead. He has no other to do him honor,” he chanted slowly, as if the words were full of presage.

And Eleanor More’s eyes turned to the old man with a quiet look. But the stolid face gave no response.

With a courteous gesture and a low word to the interpreter, the old man moved toward the shrine across the room and, squatting before it, opened a drawer beneath the half-open doors and drew out an oblong box.

The three people standing by the red-and-black coffin waited quietly as he lifted it and turned to them.

“What is it?” asked Richard More.

He had a curious thrill—as if at the end of a long quest he put out his hand in the dark and touched a human hand like his own.

The old man crossed to them in silence, and laying the box on the platform by the coffin lifted the lid.... A faint scent of spices drifted out; it floated about them and enveloped them as he took out, one by one, the soft thin papers that filled the box, and revealed lying at the bottom something that glowed and shimmered a little.

Eleanor More leaned forward breathless. Her hands half-reached to the shimmer of blue and gold as the old man lifted it from the box and opened it with slow, reverent fingers.... The dragon’s played across the surface, and on the breast as he held it up were four cabalistic marks—the signs in the transparent map that guided them on their journey.

They stood a moment in silence. All the color of the coat seemed to gather to a soft intensity, and glow.

Eleanor More caught her breath with a little sound. “I had forgotten!” she said. “I had forgotten....!” Her face was filled with light—a look of happiness pervaded it.

Richard More glanced at her. “Ask him how much it is,” he said in a low voice to the interpreter.

The interpreter spoke the words and listened a moment and translated the answer swiftly: “Money will not buy the coat—not all the gold in all the world,” he chanted back.

Again and again Richard More made his demand.... And again he offered larger sums. But the old face opposite remained untouched.

“Money cannot buy it,” replied the interpreter.

It was like a refrain that came and went between the two men, as they faced each other—Richard More urgent, imperious, and strong; the old Chinaman impassive and quiet. His face had not changed from its look of calm endurance.

“He will not sell it,” repeated the interpreter. “He only shows it to you at the priest’s command. It is a legacy—from mother to son.”

“His son is dead,” said Richard almost harshly. His hand moved to the coffin with an abrupt gesture.... “His son is dead——-”

The words held themselves on his lips.

He was facing a small door across the room. His hand fell to his side in a gesture of silence.

The woman in the doorway stood looking at them with deep, intent gaze. Then she moved toward them—as one who comes in her own right.

She spoke a word to the interpreter. He gave quiet assent and waited while she spoke.

“She says the coat is of royal lineage,” he translated slowly—“a heritage in her family—since Time.... She is of a dynasty long since deposed. Only the coat remains. No one remembers whence it came—no one reads the dragon marks....” He translated the words as they came from her lips in quaint exact phrasing. “But there is a tradition—” his voice went on——-

He listened again—a half-curious flutter of his lids rested on Eleanor More’s face.

She had withdrawn to one side and stood looking down at the red-and-black lacquered surface of the coffin.... Her hands were folded quietly. Something within her seemed to hold itself remote.

His gaze ran from her to the woman who stood speaking the words that he translated, half under his breath———

“There is a tradition—” he repeated softly, “that the coat is immortal—”

They turned to it where it lay beside the coffin. It seemed to shimmer and gather light.

“—a tradition that the coat is immortal,” went on the singing voice of the interpreter.... “And one day there shall come from the East—a woman—a woman out of the East.... And her sons shall cherish the coat!”

Eleanor More stirred a little.

The voice of the interpreter took on a high sing-song note, alternating with the low, gentle phrasing of the Chinese woman’s words.... “Her sons and her sons’ sons—forever.”

The voice ceased and the room was very still. From somewhere in the house came a rustling sound that rose and died away.

Eleanor More raised her eyes and looked steadfastly at the other woman. She moved a step—and half held out her hands. But the other did not stir and she crossed the space between them.... They were of equal height. As Richard More turned a startled glance, he was aware of something curiously alike in the two figures—a lift of the head, an air of quiet endurance—but more than all, a kind of dignity—something regal—that stirred vague memories.... When had he stood before and seen two women thus?... Surely in some other life—in some other age and time, he had looked on at a supreme moment of joy and abnegation.

For a long moment, the two women confronted each other, gazing deep into the other’s eyes. Then with a little gesture, the Oriental, in her softly rustling garments, moved to the platform and lifted the Chinese coat in her hands and placed it in Eleanor More’s.

Were there tears in the eyes that gazed... or only a deep, still joy?

Before Richard More could question—the look was gone. The Oriental woman was moving from them and the door closed softly behind her.

He watched it swing together, with a sense that something irretrievable had passed—a mystery and wonder—out of life.... Then he turned and saw his wife’s face.

She was gazing down at the coat with a look almost of fear. “Her sons and her sons’ sons—forever,” flashed through his mind.... She lifted her eyes and smiled at him, holding out the coat.

“Carry it for me, Dick!”

He moved quickly toward her. “You are tired?” he said tenderly.

“No—I am not tired!” She looked about her. “I am only glad.... It was a long journey, wasn’t it?” She spoke with quiet conviction. “But now it seems short—and easy to find....”

She looked about her again. Her eyes rested wonderingly on the shrine of the Buddha and on the shallow platform with its coffin and the three men standing by it....

“I have been here before, I think—and yet...” She passed her hand across her eyes. “I cannot——”

“Never mind!” He had taken the coat from her and handed it to the interpreter, who was folding it in slow, skilful hands.

The old Chinaman had not stirred from his place, a little to one side. He looked on with impassive gaze.

Richard More glanced at him and a sense of something wonted came to him... a sudden vision of the oak-tree with its great roots protruding from the ground, and the low-swung branches. He moved quickly to the platform. From about his neck he removed the long strings of cash and placed them beside the coffin and from his pocket he took handfuls of the Chinese silver “shoes” that had served them on their journey.... They would not need them now.... He piled them about the coffin.

The old eyes of the Chinaman gazed straight before him. His lips parted in half-spoken words that the interpreter took up, translating softly.

“He will go to the grave of his ancestors.... He is old and his sons are dead.... He will bury this son, the last of his race—” His hand touched the lacquered surface gently. “He will offer worship at the sacred mountain and pay vows before the tomb of his ancestors. The money you have given shall make glad the hearts of his ancestors.”

He ceased. The old man approached the coffin. For a long moment he stood with hands resting on it—as if he would gather from it something of the strength of the race that was passing. Then with grave face he lifted the strings of cash and placed them about his neck and gathered up the silver shoes from beside the coffin and took from a little shelf by the platform a red umbrella and a pair of half-worn sandals. With courteous gesture he passed from the room.