I'm an
old and tired man, Marco Beag, and in a week or a moon at most I'm
due to die, so the Sanang tells me. Don't be sorry, son. Be glad
for me. Life has been a wee bit too long.
"And now, son dear, I want to tell you. You've been closer to me
than my own sons, and you've been the dear lad. And there's not
one man in all China can say you did a harsh or an unjust thing;
but, my dear son, 'tis just the way of people; there's a power of
hard feeling against you in this land, you being a stranger and
having stood so high.
"So when I'm dead, dear son, there's many would do you an injury,
and treat you badly; aye, in our family itself, though they smile
on you now. Let you be going now, Marco. I'll miss you to close
my eyes for me, but my heart will be lighter. It will so. I couldn't
sleep easy, and you ill treated in this land of mine. You ask him,
too, Li Po."
"Ah, sir," Marco laughed, -- "and, Li Po, what is ill treatment to me?
Sorrow's my blood brother. What I've suffered! Do you think I could
suffer more?"
"I know, Marco, I know."
"Don't you think I suffer now, sir? Fourteen years she's dead now,
the wee one who lay by my side in sleep.
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