For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. But I waited in vain. Sheppard's ward, Sir. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. And here's the proof. It is an Occidental point of view. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer.
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