His long pigtail was tangled with the binding tendrils of the forest, and damp with the dew of an open couch.

His apparel was in no way striking or brilliant, yet he strode with the dignity and air of a high official, pushing before him a covered box upon wheels.
"It is Tung Fel!" cried many who stood there watching his approach, in tones which showed those who spoke to be inspired by a variety of impressive emotions.

"Undoubtedly this is the seventh day of the month of Winged Dragons, and, as he specifically stated would be the case, lo! he has come." Few were the words of greeting which Tung Fel accorded even to the most venerable of those who awaited him.
"This person has slept, partaken of fruit and herbs, and devoted an allotted time to inward contemplation," he said briefly.

"Other and more weighty matters than the exchange of dignified compliments and the admiration of each other's profiles remain to be accomplished.

What, for example, is the significance of the written parchment which is displayed in so obtrusive a manner before our eyes?
Bring it to this person without delay." At these words all those present followed Tung Fel's gaze with astonishment, for conspicuously displayed upon the wall of the Temple was a written notice which all joined in asserting had not been there the moment before, though no man had approached the spot.