At the word “disease,” Liu looked dubious and, stroking his Dutch wife of bamboo, said,
“Disease, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“No, not since my infancy—,” Liu began, when the bonze interrupted him.
“You never get drunk when you drink, do you?”
Staring at the priest’s face, Liu closed his mouth. In truth, however much he drank, this man had never been drunk.
“That proves it’s a disease,” said the mountain priest, and then, smiling a little, he added, “There’s a wine worm in your belly. Unless you get rid of it, you’ll never get well. I’ve come to cure you.”
“Can you?” asked Liu involuntarily in an uncertain voice. Then he was ashamed of it himself.
“That’s just why I’ve come.”
Then Sun, who up till now had sat silently listening to the dialogue, put in a word.
“Will you use some sort of medicine?”
“No, there’s no need to use medicine,” answered the mountain priest curtly.
Master Sun had always despised both Buddhism and Taoism almost beyond reason. So when he was with Taoist or Buddhist priests he seldom talked. The reason he now suddenly spoke was that his interest was aroused by the name, “wine worm,” for when he heard it, being fond