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When the chair of Ping Siang could no longer be observed in the distance, and the sound of his many gongs had died away, all the persons who had knelt at his approach rose to their feet, meeting each other’s eyes with glances of assured and profound significance. At length there stepped forth an exceedingly aged man, who was generally believed to have the power of reading omens and forecasting futures, so that at his upraised hand all persons became silent.

“Behold!” he exclaimed, “none can turn aside in doubt from the deliberately pointed finger of Buddha. Henceforth, in spite of the well-intentioned suggestions of those who would shield him under the plea of exacting orders from high ones at Peking or extortions practised by slaves under him of which he is ignorant, there can no longer be any two voices concerning the guilty one. Yet what does the knowledge of the cormorant’s cry avail the golden carp in the shallow waters of the Yuen-Kiang? A prickly mormosa is an adequate protection against a naked man armed only with a just cause, and a company of bowmen has been known to quench an entire city’s Heaven-felt desire for retribution. This person, and doubtless others also, would have experienced a more heartfelt enthusiasm in the matter if the sublime and omnipotent Buddha had gone a step further, and pointed out not only the one to be punished, but also the instrument by which the destiny could be prudently and effectively accomplished.”

From the mountain path which led to Yang Hu’s cave came a voice, like an expressly devised reply to this speech. It was that of some person uttering the “Chant of Rewards and Penalties”:

“How strong is the mountain sycamore!

“Its branches reach the Middle Air, and the eye of none can pierce its foliage;

“It draws power and nourishment from all around, so that weeds alone may flourish under its shadow.

“Robbers find safety within the hollow of its trunk; its branches hide vampires and all manner of evil things which prey upon the innocent;

“The wild boar of the forest sharpen their tusks against the bark, for it is harder than flint, and the axe of the woodsman turns back upon the striker.

“Then cries the sycamore, ‘Hail and rain have no power against me, nor can the fiercest sun penetrate beyond my outside fringe;

“‘The man who impiously raises his hand against me falls by his own stroke and weapon.

“‘Can there be a greater or a more powerful than this one? Assuredly, I am Buddha; let all things obey me.’

“Whereupon the weeds bow their heads, whispering among themselves, ‘The voice of the Tall One we hear, but not that of Buddha. Indeed, it is doubtless as he says.’

“In his musk-scented Heaven Buddha laughs, and not deigning to raise his head from the lap of the Phoenix Goddess, he thrusts forth a stone which lies by his foot.

“Saying, ‘A god’s present for a god. Take it carefully, O presumptuous Little One, for it is hot to the touch.’

“The thunderbolt falls and the mighty tree is rent in twain. ‘They asked for my messenger,’ said the Pure One, turning again to repose.

“Lo, he comes !”

With the last spoken word there came into the sight of those who were collected together a person of stern yet engaging appearance. His hands and face were the colour of mulberry stain by long exposure to the sun, while his eyes looked forth like two watch-fires outside a wolf-haunted camp. 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.”