Chapter XXXI…

Chapter XXXI

TSʻAO TSʻAO OVERCOMES YÜAN SHAO: LIU PEI SEEKS SHELTER WITH LIU PIAO.

Tsʻao lost no time in taking advantage of Yüan Shao’s flight, but smote hard at the retreating men. Yüan Shao without helmet or proper dress, and with few followers, crossed hastily to the north bank at Liyang. He was met by his General, Chiang I-chu, who took him in and comforted him and listened to the tale of misfortunes. Next Chiang called in the scattered remnants of the army, and when the soldiers heard that their old lord was alive they swarmed to him like ants so that he quickly became strong enough to attempt the march to Chʻichou. Soon the army set out and at night halted at Huang Hills.

That evening, sitting in his tent, Shao seemed to hear a far off sound of lamentation. He crept out quietly to listen and found it was his own soldiers telling each other tales of woe. This one lamented an elder brother lost, that one grieved for his younger brother abandoned; a third mourned a companion missing, a fourth, a relative cut off. And each beat his breast and wept. And all said, “Had he but listened to Tʻien Fêng we had not met this disaster.”

And Yüan Shao, very remorseful, said, “I did not hearken unto Tʻien Fêng and now my men have been beaten and I was nearly lost. How can I return and look him in the face?”

Next day the march was resumed and he met Fêng Chi with reinforcements, to whom he said, “I disregarded Tʻien Fêng’s advice and have brought myself to defeat. Now shall I be greatly ashamed to look him in the face.”

This tribute to Tʻien Fêng’s prescience roused the jealousy of Fêng Chi, who replied, “Yes; when he heard the news of your defeat, though he was a prisoner, he clapped his hands for joy and said, ‘Indeed, just as I foretold!’”

“How dare he laugh at me, the blockhead? Assuredly he shall die,” said Yüan.

Whereupon he wrote a letter and sent therewith a sword to slay the prisoner.

Meanwhile Tʻien’s gaoler came to him one day saying, “Above all men I felicitate you.”

“What is the joyful occasion and why felicitate?” said Tʻien Fêng.

The gaoler replied, “General Yüan has been defeated and is on his way back; he will treat you with redoubled respect.”

“Now am I a dead man,” said Tien.

“Why say you that, Sir, when all men give you joy?”

“The General appears liberal but he is jealous and forgetful of honest advice. Had he been victorious he might have pardoned me; now that he has been defeated and put to shame I may not hope to live.”

But the gaoler did not believe him. Before long came the letter and the sword with the fatal order. The gaoler was dismayed, but the victim said, “I knew all too well that I should have to die.”

The gaoler wept. Tʻien Fêng said, “An able man born into this world who does not recognise and serve his true lord is ignorant. To-day I die, but I am not deserving of pity.”

Whereupon he committed suicide in the prison.

Chü Shou but yesterday was killed, Tʻien ends his life his fate fulfilled; Hopei’s main beams break one by one, Mourn ye that House! its day is done.

Thus died Tʻien Fêng, pitied of all who heard of his fate. When Yüan Shao came home it was with troubled mind and distorted thoughts. He could not attend to the business of government and became so ill that his wife, who came of the Liu family, besought him to make his last dispositions.

Now three sons had been born to him, Tʻan the eldest, who was commander at Chʻingchou; Hsi, who ruled over Yuchou; and Shang, borne to him by his second wife, who still lived. This youngest son was very handsome and noble looking, and his father’s favourite. So he was kept at home. After the defeat at Kuantu the lad’s mother was constantly urging that her son should be named as successor and Shao called together four of his counsellors to consider this matter. These four happened to be divided in their sympathies, Shên Pʻei and Fêng Chi being in favour of the youngest son, and Hsin Pʻing and Kuo Tʻu supporters of the eldest.

When they met to consult, Yüan Shao said, “As there is nought but war and trouble outside our borders it is necessary that tranquillity within be early provided for and I wish to appoint my successor. My eldest son is hard and cruel, my second is mild and unfit. The third has the outward form of a hero, appreciates the wise and is courteous to his subordinates. I wish him to succeed, but I would that you tell me your opinions.”

Kuo Tʻu said, “Tʻan is your first born and he is in a position of authority beyond your control. If you pass over the eldest in favour of the youngest you sow the seeds of turbulence. The prestige of the army has been somewhat lowered and enemies are on our border. Should you add to our weakness by making strife between father and son, elder and younger brothers? Rather consider how the enemy may be repulsed and turn to the question of the heirship later.”

Then the natural hesitation of Yüan Shao asserted itself and he could not make up his mind. Soon came news that his sons, Tʻan and Hsi, and his nephew, Kao Kan, were coming with large armies to help him and he turned his attention to preparations for fighting Tsʻao Tsʻao.

When Tsʻao Tsʻao drew up his victorious army on the banks of the Yellow River a certain aged native brought an offering of food and sauce to bid him welcome. His venerable and hoary appearance led Tsʻao to treat him with the highest respect and he invited him to be seated and said to him, “Venerable Sir, what may be your age?”

“I am nearly a hundred,” replied the ancient.

“I should be very sorry if my men had disturbed your village,” said Tsʻao.

“In the days of the Emperor Huan a yellow star was seen over by way of Chʻu and Sung in the southwest. A certain man of Liaotung, Yin Kʻuei, who was learned in astrology, happened to be passing the night here and he told us that the star foretold the arrival in these parts, fifty years hence, of a true and honest man from Lian and Pʻei. Lo! that is exactly fifty years ago. Now Yüan Pên-chʻu is very hard on the people and they hate him. You, Sir, having raised this army in the cause of humanity and righteousness, out of pity for the people and to punish crimes, and having destroyed the hordes of Yüan Shao at Kuantu, just fulfil the prophecy of Yin Kʻuei and the millions of the land may look now for tranquillity.”

“How dare I presume that I am he?” said Tsʻao with a smile.

Wine was served and refreshments brought in and the old gentleman was sent away with presents of silk stuffs. And an order was issued to the army that if any one killed so much as a fowl or a dog belonging to the villagers he should be punished as for murder. And the soldiers obeyed with fear and trembling while Tsʻao rejoiced in his heart.

It was told Tsʻao that the total army from the four prefectures under the Yüan family amounted to twenty-three legions and they were camped at Tsʻang-tʻing. Tsʻao then advanced nearer them and made a strong camp.

Soon after the two armies were arrayed over against each other. On one side Tsʻao rode to the front surrounded by his captains, and on the other appeared Yüan Shao supported by his three sons, his nephew and his officers.

Tsʻao spoke first, “Pên-chʻu, your schemes are poor, your strength is exhausted, why still refuse to think of surrender? Are you waiting till the sword shall be upon your neck? Then it will be too late.”

Yüan Shao turned to those about him saying, “Who dares go out?”

His son Shang was anxious to exhibit his prowess in the presence of his father so he flourished his pair of swords and rode forth. Tsʻao pointed him out to his officers and asked if any one knew him and they replied that he was the youngest son. Before they had finished speaking from their own side rode out one Shih Huan, armed with a spear. The two champions fought a little while and suddenly Shang whipped up his horse, made a feint and fled. His opponent followed. Yüan Shang took his bow, fitted an arrow, turned in his saddle and shot at Shih Huan, wounding him in the left eye. He fell from the saddle and died on the spot.

Yüan Shao seeing his son thus get the better of his opponent, gave the signal for attack and the whole army thundered forward. The onslaught was heavy, but presently the gongs on both sides sounded the retire and the battle ceased.

When he had returned to camp Tsʻao took counsel to find a plan to overcome Yüan Shao. Then Chʻêng Yü proposed the plan of the Ten Ambushes and persuaded Tsʻao to retire upon the river, placing men in ambush as he went. Thus would Shao be inveigled into pursuit as far as the river, when Tsʻao’s men would be forced to make a desperate stand or be driven into the water.

Tsʻao accepted this suggestion and told off five companies to lie in ambush on one side of the road of retreat and five on the other, while Hsü Chu commanded the advanced front.

Next day the ten companies started first and placed themselves right and left as ordered. In the night Tsʻao ordered the advanced front to feign an attack on the camp, which roused all the enemy in all their camps. This done Hsü Chu retreated and the Shao army came in pursuit. The roar of battle went on without cessation and at dawn Tsʻao’s army rested on the river and could retreat no farther. Then Tsʻao shouted, “There is no road in front, so all must fight to the death.”

The retreating army turned about and advanced vigorously. Hsü Chu simply flew to the front, smote and killed a half score captains and threw Yüan Shao’s army into confusion. They tried to turn and march back, but Tsʻao Tsʻao was close behind. Then the drums of the enemy were heard and right and left there appeared a company, one pair of the ambushed parties. Yüan Shao collected about him his three sons and his nephew and they were enabled to cut their way out and flee. Ten li further on they fell into another ambush and here many men were lost so that their corpses lay over the country-side and the blood filled the water courses. Another ten li and they met the third pair of companies barring their road.

Here they lost heart and bolted for an old camp of their own that was near, and bade their men prepare a meal. But just as the food was ready to eat down came Chang Liao and Chang Ho and burst into the camp.

Yüan Shao mounted and fled as far as Tsʻang-tʻing, when he was tired and his steed spent. But there was no rest, for Tsʻao came in close pursuit. It seemed now a race for life. But presently Shao found his onward course again blocked and he groaned aloud.

“If we do not make most desperate efforts we are all captives,” said he, and they plunged forward. His second son and his nephew were wounded by arrows and most of his men were dead or had disappeared. He gathered his sons into his arms and wept bitterly. Then he fell into a swoon. He was picked up, but his mouth was full of blood which ran forth in a bright scarlet stream. He sighed saying, “Many battles have I fought and little did I think to be driven to this. Heaven is afflicting me. You had better return each to his own and swear to fight this Tsʻao to the end.”

Then he bade Hsin Pʻing and Kuo Tʻu as quickly as possible follow Yüan Tʻan to his district and prepare to give battle to the enemy lest he should invade. Yüan Hsi was told to go to Yuchou and Kao Kan to Pingchou.

So each started to prepare men and horses for repulsing Tsʻao Tsʻao. Yüan Shao with his youngest son and the remnant of his officers went away to Chʻichou and military operations were suspended for a time.

Meanwhile Tsʻao Tsʻao was distributing rewards to his army for the late victory and his men were scouting all about Chʻichou. He soon learned that Yüan Shao was ill and that his youngest son and Shên Pʻei were in command of the city, while his brothers and cousin had returned each to his own. Tsʻao’s advisers were in favour of a speedy attack. But he objected, saying “Chʻichou is large and well supplied; Shên Pʻei is an able strategist and it behoves me to be careful. I would rather wait till the autumn when the crops have been gathered in so that the people will not suffer.”

While the attack was being talked over there came letters from Hsün Yu saying that Liu Pei was strengthening himself at Junan and, when he had heard that Tsʻao was going to attack Chʻichou, he had said he would take the opportunity to march on the capital. Wherefore the Minister would do well to hasten homeward to defend it. This news disconcerted Tsʻao Tsʻao. He left Tsʻao Hung in command on the river bank, with orders to maintain the appearance of strength there, while he led the main part of his army to meet the threatened attack from Junan.

It has to be said now that Liu Pei, his brothers and supporters, having gone forth with the intention of attacking the capital, had reached a point near Jang Hills when Tsʻao came upon them. So Liu Pei camped by the hills and divided his army into three, sending his brothers with one division each to entrench themselves south-east and south-west respectively of the main body which he and Chao Yün commanded.

When Tsʻao came near, Yüan-tê beat his drums and went out to where Tsʻao had already arrayed his men. Tsʻao called Liu Pei to a parley, and when the latter appeared under his great standard, Tsʻao pointed his whip at him and railed saying, “I treated you as a guest of the highest consideration; why then do you turn your back on righteousness and forget kindness?”

Yüan-tê replied, “Under the name of Minister you are really a rebel. I am a direct descendant of the family and I have a secret decree from the throne to take such offenders as you.”

As he said these words he produced and recited the decree which is known as the “Girdle Mandate.”

Tsʻao grew very angry and ordered Hsü Chʻu to go out to battle, and, as Liu Pei’s champion, out rode Chao Yün with spear ready to thrust. The two warriors exchanged thirty bouts without advantage to either. Then there arose an earth-rending shout and up came the two brothers, Yün-chʻang from the south-east and Fei from the south-west. The three armies then began a great attack, which proved too much for Tsʻao’s men, fatigued by a long march, and they were worsted and fled. Yüan-tê having scored this victory returned to camp.

Next day he sent out Chao Yün again to challenge the enemy, but it was not accepted and Tsʻao’s army remained ten days without movement. Then Chang Fei offered a challenge which also was not accepted. And Yüan-tê began to feel anxious.

Then unexpectedly came news that the enemy had stopped a train of supplies and at once Chang Fei went to the rescue. Worse still was the news that followed, that an army had got in behind to attack Junan.

Quite dismayed, Yüan-tê said, “If this be true I have enemies in front and rear and have no place to go.”

He then sent Yün-chʻang to try to recover the city and thus both his brothers were absent from his side. One day later a horseman rode up to say Junan had fallen, its defender Liu Pʻi was a fugitive and Yün-chʻang surrounded. To make matters worse the news came that Chang Fei, who had gone to rescue Kung Tu, was in like case.

Yüan-tê tried to withdraw his men, fearing all the time an attack from Tsʻao Tsʻao. Suddenly the sentinels came in saying Hsü Chʻu was at the camp gate offering a challenge, but no one dared accept it or go out. They waited till dawn, and then Yüan-tê bade the soldiers get a good meal and be ready to start. When ready the foot went out first, the horsemen next, leaving a few men in the camp to beat the watches and maintain an appearance of occupation.

After travelling a short distance they passed some mounds. Suddenly torches blazed out and on the summit stood one who shouted, “Do not let Liu Pei run away; I, the Minister, am here awaiting him.”

Liu Pei dashed along the first clear road he saw.

Chao Yün said, “Fear not, my lord, only follow me,” and setting his spear he galloped in front opening a lane as he went. Yüan-tê gripped his double sword and followed close. As they were winning through, Hsü Chʻu came in pursuit and engaged Chao Yün, and two other companies bore down as well. Seeing the situation so desperate Yüan-tê plunged into the wilds and fled. Gradually the sounds of battle became fainter and died away while he went deeper and deeper into the hills, a single horseman fleeing for his life. He kept on his way till daybreak, when a company suddenly appeared beside the road. Yüan-tê saw these men with terror at first, but was presently relieved to find they were led by the friendly Liu Pʻi. They were a company of his defeated men escorting the family of their chief. With them also were Sun Chʻien, Chien Yung and Mi Fang.

They told him that the attack on their city had been too strong to be resisted and so they had been compelled to abandon the defence, that the enemy had followed them and only Kuan’s timely arrival had saved them.

“I do not know where my brother is,” said Liu Pei.

“All will come right if you will push on,” said Liu Pʻi.

They pushed on. Before they had gone far the beating of drums was heard and suddenly appeared Chang Ho with a company of soldiers. He cried, “Liu Pei, quickly dismount and surrender.”

Yüan-tê was about to retire when he saw a red flag waving from a rampart on the hills and down came rushing another body of men under Kao Lan. Thus checked in front and his retreat cut off, Yüan-tê looked up to Heaven and cried, “O Heaven, why am I brought to this state of misery? Nothing is left me now but death.” And he drew his sword to slay himself.

But Liu Pʻi stayed his hand saying, “Let me try to fight a way out and save you.”

As he spoke Kao Lan’s force was on the point of engaging his. The two leaders met and in the third bout Liu Pʻi was cut down. Liu Pei at once rushed up to fight, but just then there was sudden confusion in the rear ranks of the opponents and a warrior dashed up and thrust at Kao Lan with his spear. Kao Lan fell from his steed. The newcomer was Chao Yün.

His arrival was most opportune. He urged forward his steed thrusting right and left, and the enemy’s ranks broke and scattered. Then the first force under Chang Ho came into the fight and the leader and Chao Yün fought thirty or more bouts. However, this proved enough, for Ho turned his horse away recognising that he was worsted. Yün vigorously attacked, but was forced into a narrow space in the hills where he was hemmed in. While seeking for some outlet they saw Yün-chʻang, Kuan Pʻing and Chou Tsʻang, with three hundred men, coming along. Soon Chang Ho was driven off and then they came out of the narrow defile and occupied a strong position among the hills where they made a camp.

Yüan-tê sent Yün-chʻang for news of the missing brother, Chang Fei. He had been attacked by Hsiahou Yüan, but had vigorously resisted, beaten him off and followed him up. Then Yo Chin had come along and surrounded Chang Fei. In this pass he was found by Yün-chʻang, who had heard of his plight from some of his scattered men met on the way. Now they drove off the enemy. The two brothers returned. Soon they heard of the approach of a large body of Tsʻao Tsʻao’s army. Yüan-tê then bade Sun Chʻien guard his family and sent him on ahead, while he and the others kept off the enemy, sometimes giving battle and anon marching. Seeing that Yüan-tê was retiring, Tsʻao Tsʻao let him go and left the pursuit.

When Yüan-tê collected his men he found they numbered only a thousand, and this halting and broken force marched as fast as possible to the west. Coming to a river they asked the natives its name and were told it was the Han, and near it Yüan-tê made a temporary camp. When the local people found out who was in the camp they presented flesh and wine.

A feast was given upon a sandy bank of the Han. After they had drunk awhile, Yüan-tê addressed his faithful followers, saying, “All you, fair Sirs, have talents fitting you to be advisers to a monarch, but your destiny has led you to follow poor me. My fate is distressful and full of misery. To-day I have not a spot to call my own and I am indeed leading you astray. Therefore I say you should abandon me and go to some illustrious lord where you may be able to become famous.”

At these words they all covered their faces and wept. Yün-chʻang said, “Brother, you are wrong to speak thus. When the great Founder of Han contended with Hsiang Yü he was defeated many times, but he won at Chiuli Hill and that achievement was the foundation of a Dynasty that endured for four centuries. Victory and defeat are but ordinary events in a soldier’s career and why should you give up?”

“Success and failure both have their seasons,” said Sun Chʻien, “and we are not to grieve. Chingchou, which your illustrious relative, Liu Piao, commands, is a rich and prosperous country. Liu Piao is of your house, why not go to him?”

“Only that I fear he may not receive me,” said Liu Pei.

“Then let me go and prepare the way. I will make Liu Ching-hsing come out to his borders to welcome you.”

So with his lord’s approval Sun Chʻien set off immediately and hastened to Chingchou. When the genuflexions and ceremonies of greeting were over Liu Piao asked the reason of the visit.

Said Sun, “The Princely Liu is one of the heroes of the day although just at the moment he may lack soldiers and leaders. His mind is set upon restoring the Dynasty to its pristine glory, and at Junan the two commanders, Liu and Kung, though bound to him by no ties, were content to die for the sake of his ideals. You, illustrious Sir, like Liu Pei, are a scion of the Imperial stock. Now the Princely One has recently suffered defeat and thinks of seeking a home in the east with Sun Chung-mou (Sun Chʻüan). I have ventured to dissuade him, saying that he should not turn from a relative and go to a mere acquaintance; telling him that you, Sir, are well known as courteous to the wise and condescending to scholars, so that they flock to you as the waters flow to the east, and that certainly you would show kindness to one of the same ancestry. Wherefore he has sent me to explain matters and request your commands.”

“He is my brother,” said Piao, “and I have long desired to see him, but no opportunity has occurred. I should be very happy if he would come.”

Tsʻai Mao, who was sitting by, here broke in with “No, no! Liu Pei first followed Lü Pu, then he served Tsʻao Tsʻao, and next he joined himself to Yüan Shao. And he stayed with none of these, so that you can see what manner of man he is. If he come here Tsʻao Tsʻao will assuredly come against us and fight. Better cut off this messenger’s head and send it as an offering to Tsʻao Tsʻao, who would reward you well for the service.”

Sun Chʻien sat unmoved while this harangue was pronounced, saying at the end, “I am not afraid of death. Liu, the Princely One, is true and loyal to the State and so out of sympathy with Lü Pu, or Tsʻao Tsʻao, or Yüan Shao. It is true he followed these three, but there was no help for it. Now he knows your chief is a member of the family, so that both are of the same ancestry, and that is why he has come far to join him. How can you slander a good man like that?”

Liu Piao bade Tsʻao Mao be silent and said, “I have decided and you need say no more.”

Whereat Tsʻai Mao sulkily left the audience chamber.

Then Sun Chʻien was told to return with the news that Yüan-tê would be welcome and Prefect Liu Piao went thirty li beyond his boundaries to meet his guest. When Yüan-tê arrived he behaved to his host with the utmost politeness and was warmly welcomed in return. Then Liu Pei introduced his two sworn-brothers and friends and they entered Chingchou, where Liu Pei finally was lodged in the Prefect’s own residence.

As soon as Tsʻao Tsʻao knew whither his enemy had gone he wished to attack Liu Piao, but Chʻêng Yü advised against any attempt so long as Yüan Shao, the dangerous enemy, was left with power to inflict damage. He advised return to the capital to refresh the men so that they might be ready for a campaign in the mild spring weather.

Tsʻao accepted his advice and set out for the capital. In the first month of the eighth year of the period “Established Tranquillity,” Tsʻao Tsʻao once again began to think of war, and sent to garrison Junan as a precaution against Liu Piao. Then, after arranging for the safety of the capital, he marched a large army to Kuantu, the camp of the year before.

As to Yüan Shao, who had been suffering from blood-spitting but was now in better health, he began to think of measures against Hsütu, but Shên Pʻei dissuaded him saying, “You are not yet recovered from the fatigues of last year. It would be better to make your position impregnable and set to improving the army.”

When the news of Tsʻao’s approach arrived, Yüan said, “If we allow the foe to get close to the city before we march to the river we shall have missed our opportunity. I must go out to repel this army.”

Here his son interposed, “Father, you are not sufficiently recovered for a campaign and should not go so far. Let me lead the army against this enemy.”

Yüan consented, and he sent to Chʻingchou and Yuchou and Pingchou to call upon his other two sons and his nephew to attack Tsʻao Tsʻao at the same time as his own army.

Against Junan they beat the drum, And from Chʻichou the armies come.

To whom the victory will be seen in the next chapter.

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Chapter XXXII

CHʻICHOU TAKEN: YÜAN SHANG STRIVES: THE CHANG RIVER CUT: HSÜ YU’S SCHEME.

Yüan Shang was puffed up with pride after his victory over Shih Huan and, without deigning to wait the arrival of his brothers, he marched out to Liyang to meet the army of Tsʻao Tsʻao. Chang Liao came out to challenge him, and Yüan Shang, accepting the challenge rode out with spear set. But he only lasted to the third bout when he had to give way. Chang Liao smote with full force and Shang, quite broken, fled pell mell to Chʻichou. His defeat was a heavy shock to his father, who had a severe fit of hemorrhage at the news and swooned.

The Lady Liu, his wife, got him to bed as quickly as possible, but he did not rally and she soon saw it was necessary to prepare for the end. So she sent for Shên Pʻei and Fêng Chi that the succession might be settled. They came and stood by the sick man’s bed, but by this time he could no longer speak; he only made motions with his hands. When his wife put the formal question, whether Shang was to succeed, he nodded his head. Shên Pʻei at the bedside wrote out the dying man’s testament. Presently he uttered a loud moan, a fresh fit of bleeding followed and he passed away.

Born of a line of nobles famous for generations, He himself in his youth was wayward always and headstrong, Vainly he called to his side captains skilled and courageous, Gathered beneath his banner countless legions of soldiers, For he was timid at heart, a lambkin dressed as a tiger, Merely a cowardly chicken, phoenix-feathered but spurless. Pitiful was the fate of his house; for when he departed Brother with brother strove and quarrels arose in the household.

Shên Pʻei and some others set about the mourning ceremonies for the dead man. His wife, the Lady Liu, put to death five of his favourite concubines, and such was the bitterness of her jealousy that, not content with this, she shaved off the hair and slashed the faces of their poor corpses lest their spirits should meet and rejoin her late husband in the land of shades beneath the Nine Springs. Her son followed up this piece of cruelty by slaying all the relatives of the unhappy concubines lest they should avenge their death.

Shên Pʻei and Fêng Chi declared Yüan Shang successor with the titles of Minister of War and General Governor of the four prefectures of Chʻi, Chʻing, Yu and Ping and sent in a report of the death of the late governor.

At this time Yüan Tʻan, the eldest son, had already marched out his army to oppose Tsʻao Tsʻao, but hearing of his father’s death he called in Kuo Tʻu and Hsin Pʻing to consult as to his course of action.

“In your absence, my lord,” said Kuo Tʻu, “the two advisers of your younger brother will certainly set him up as lord, wherefore you must act quickly.”

“Those two, Shên and Fêng, have already laid their plans,” said Hsin Pʻing. “If you go you will meet with some misfortune.”

“Then what should I do?” asked Tʻan.

Kuo Tʻu replied, “Go and camp near the city and watch what is taking place while I enter and enquire.”

Accordingly Kuo Tʻu entered the city and sought an interview with the young governor.

“Why did not my brother come?” asked Shang after the usual salutes.

Kuo Tʻu said, “He cannot come as he is in the camp unwell.”

“By the command of my late father I take the lordship. Now I confer upon my brother the rank of General of Cavalry and I wish him to go at once to attack Tsʻao Tsʻao, who is pressing on the borders. I will follow as soon as my army is in order.”

“There is no one in our camp to give advice,” said Kuo Tʻu. “I wish to have the services of Shên Pʻei and Fêng Chi.”

“I also need the help of these two,” said Shang, “And as I am always working at schemes I do not see how I can do without them.”

“Then let one of these two go,” replied Tʻu.

Shang could do no other than accede to this request so he bade the two men cast lots who should go. Fêng Chi drew the lot and was appointed, receiving a seal of office. Then he accompanied Kuo Tʻu to the camp. But when he arrived and found Tʻan in perfect health he grew suspicious and resigned. Tʻan angrily refused to accept his resignation and was disposed to put him to death, but Kuo Tʻu privately dissuaded him saying, “Tsʻao Tsʻao is on the borders and he must be kept here to allay your brother’s suspicions. After we have beaten Tsʻao we can at once make an attempt on Chʻichou.”

Yüan Tʻan agreed and forthwith broke up his camp to march against the enemy. He reached Liyang and lost no time in offering battle. He chose for his champion Wang Chao and, when he rode out, Tsʻao Tsʻao sent Hsü Huang to meet him. These two had fought but a few bouts when Wang Chao was slain. At once Tsʻao’s army pressed forward and Tʻan suffered a severe defeat. He drew off his army and retired into Liyang, whence he sent to his brother for reinforcements.

Shang and his adviser Shên Pʻei discussed the matter and half a legion only was sent. Tsʻao hearing of the despatch of this meagre force sent two generals to waylay them and the half legion was destroyed. When Tan heard of the inadequate force sent and their destruction he was very wrath and roundly abused Fêng Chi. Fêng replied, “Let me write to my lord and pray him to come himself.”

So Fêng Chi wrote and the letter was sent. When it arrived Shang again consulted Shên Pʻei who said, “Kuo Tʻu, your elder brother’s adviser, is very guileful. Formerly he left without discussion because Tsʻao was on the border. If Tsʻao be defeated there will certainly be an attempt on you. The better plan is to withhold assistance and use Tsʻao’s hand to destroy your rival.”

Shang took his advice and no help was sent. When the messenger returned without success Tʻan was very angry and showed it by putting Fêng Chi to death. He also began to talk of surrendering to Tsʻao. Soon spies brought news of this to Shang and again Shên Pʻei was called in. Said he, “If he goes over to Tsʻao they will both attack Chʻichou and we shall be in great danger.” Finally Shên Pʻei and Su Yu were left to take care of the defence of the city and Yüan Shang marched his army to the rescue of his brother.

“Who dares lead the van?” said Yüan Shang.

Two brothers named Lü volunteered and three legions were given them. They were the first to reach Liyang.

Tʻan was pleased that his brother had made up his mind to play a brotherly part and come to his aid, so he at once abandoned all thought of going over to the enemy. He being in the city, Yüan Shang camped outside, making that an angle of their strategic position. Before long Yüan Hsi, the second brother, and their cousin, Kao Kan, arrived with their legions and also camped outside the city.

Engagements took place daily and Shang suffered many defeats. On the other hand Tsʻao was victorious and elated. In the second month of the eighth year, Tsʻao made separate attacks on all four armies and won the day against each. Then they abandoned Liyang and Tsʻao pursued them to Chʻichou, where Tʻan and Shang went into the city to defend it, while their brother and cousin camped about thirty li away making a show of great force. When Tsʻao had made many attacks without success Kuo Chia proffered the following plan.

He said, “There is dissension among the Yüans because the elder has been superseded in the succession. The brothers are about equally strong and each has his party. If we oppose them they unite to assist each other, but if we have patience they will be weakened by family strife. Wherefore send first a force to reduce Liu Piao in Chingchou and let the fraternal quarrels develop. When they have fully developed we can smite them and settle the matter.”

Tsʻao approved of the plan. So leaving Chia Hsü as Prefect of Liyang and Tsʻao Hung as guard at Kuantu the army went away toward Chingchou.

The two brothers Tʻan and Shang congratulated each other on the withdrawal of their enemy, and their brother Hsi and cousin marched their armies back to their own districts.

Then the quarrels began. Tʻan said to his confidants, “I, the eldest, have been prevented from succeeding my father, while the youngest son, born of a second wife, received the main heritage. My heart is bitter.”

Said Kuo Tʻu, “Camp your men outside, invite your brother and Shên Pʻei to a banquet and assassinate them. The whole matter is easily settled.”

And Tʻan agreed. It happened that a certain Wang Hsiu came just then from Chʻingchou whom Tʻan took into his confidence. Wang opposed the murder plan saying, “Brothers are as one’s limbs. How can you possibly succeed if at a moment of conflict with an enemy you cut off one of your hands? If you abandon your brother and sever relationship, whom will you take in all the world as a relation? That fellow Kuo is a dangerous mischief-maker, who would sow dissension between brothers for a momentary advantage, and I beg you to shut your ears and not listen to his persuasions.”

This was displeasing to Tʻan and he angrily dismissed Wang, while he sent the treacherous invitation to his brother.

His brother and Shên Pʻei talked over the matter. Shên Pʻei said, “I recognise one of Kuo Tʻu’s stratagems and if you go, my lord, you will be the victim of their plot. Rather strike at them at once.”

Whereupon Shang rode out to battle. His brother Tʻan, seeing him come with five legions, knew that his treachery had been discovered, so he also took the field, and when the forces were near enough Tʻan opened on Shang with a volley of abuse.

“You poisoned my father and usurped the succession; now you come out to slay your elder brother?”

The battle went against Tʻan. Shang himself took part in the fight, risking the arrows and the stones. He urged on his men and drove his brother off the field. He took refuge in Pʻingyüan. Yüan Shang drew off his men to his own city.

Yüan Tʻan and Kuo Tʻu decided upon a new attack and this time they chose Tsʻên Pi as leader. Yüan Shang went to meet him. When both sides had been arrayed and the banners were flying and the drums beating, Tsʻên Pi rode out to challenge and railed at his opponent. At first Shang was going to answer the challenge himself but Lü Kʻuang actually went out. Lü and Tsʻên met but had fought only a few bouts when the latter fell. Tʻan’s men were once more defeated and ran away to Pʻingyüan. Shên Pʻei urged his master to press home the advantage and Tʻan was driven into the city, where he fortified himself and would not go out. So the city was besieged on three sides.

Tʻan asked his strategist what should be done next and he said, “The city is short of food, the enemy is flushed with victory and we cannot stand against them. My idea is to send some one to offer surrender to Tsʻao Tsʻao and thus get him to attack Chʻichou. Your brother will be forced to return thither, which will leave you free to join in the attack. We may capture Shang. Should Tsʻao begin to get the better of your brother’s army we will lend our force to help him against Tsʻao Tsʻao, and as Tsʻao’s base of supply is distant we shall drive him off. And we can seize on Chʻichou and begin our real career.”

“Supposing this scheme be attempted, who is the man for a messenger?”

“I have one, Hsin Pʻi, Hsin Pʻing’s younger brother; he is magistrate here in this very place. He is a fluent speaker and good scholar and suited to your purpose.”

So Hsin Pʻi was summoned and came readily enough. Letters were given him and an escort of three companies took him beyond the border. He travelled as quickly as possible.

At that time Tsʻao’s camp was at Hsipʻing and he was attacking Liu Piao, who had sent Yüan-tê out to offer the first resistance. No battle had yet taken place.

Soon after his arrival Hsin Pʻi was admitted to the Minister’s presence, and after the ceremonies of greeting Tsʻao asked the object of the visit. Hsin Pʻi explained that Yüan Tʻan wanted assistance and presented his despatches. Tsʻao read them and told the messenger to wait in his camp while he called his officers to a council.

The council met. Chʻêng Yu said, “Yüan Tʻan has been forced into making this offer because of the pressure of his brother’s attack. Put no trust in him.”

Lü Chʻien and Man Chʻung said, “You have led your armies here for a special purpose; how can you abandon that and go to assist Yüan Tʻan?”

“Gentlemen, not one of you is giving good advice,” interposed Hsün Yu. “This is how I regard it. Since there is universal trouble, in the midst of which Liu Piao remains quietly content with his position between Chiang and Han, it is evident that he has no ambition to enlarge his borders. The Yüans hold four Chou and have many legions of soldiers. Harmony between the two brothers means success for the family and none can foresee what will happen in the Empire. Now take advantage of this fraternal conflict and let them fight till they are weakened and have to yield to our Minister. Then Yüan Shang can be removed, and when the times are suitable, Yüan Tʻan can be destroyed in his turn. Thus peace will ensue. This present combination of circumstances is to be taken advantage of to full measure.”

Tsʻao realised the truth of this and treated the messenger well. At a banquet he said, “But is this surrender of Yüan Tʻan real or false? Do you really think that Shang’s army is sure to overcome him?”

Hsin Pʻi replied, “Illustrious one, do not enquire into the degree of sincerity; rather regard the situation. The Yüans have been suffering military losses for years and are powerless without, while their strategists are put to death within. The brothers seize every chance to speak evil of each other and their country is divided. Add to this famine, supplemented by calamities and general exhaustion, and everybody, wise as well as simple, can see that the catastrophe is near, the time ordained of Heaven for the destruction of the Yüans is at hand. Now you have a force attacking Yeh, and if Yüan Shang will not return to give aid the place of refuge is lost. If he help, then Tʻan will follow up and smite him, making use of your power to destroy the remnant of his brother’s army, just as the autumn gale sweeps away the fallen leaves. If he do not, then he will attack Chingchou. Now Chingchou is rich, the government peaceful, the people submissive and it cannot be shaken. Moreover, there is no greater threat to it than Hopei. If that be reduced then the task is complete. I pray you, Sir, think of it.”

“I am sorry that I did not meet you earlier,” said Tsʻao, much gratified with this speech.

Forthwith orders were given to return and attack Chʻichou. Yüan-tê, fearing this retirement was only a ruse, allowed it to proceed without interference and himself returned to Chingchou.

When Yüan Shang heard that Tsʻao had crossed the river he hastily led his army back to Yeh, ordering the two Lüs to guard the rear. His brother Tʻan started from Pʻingyüan with a force in pursuit. He had not proceeded far when he heard a bomb and two bodies of men came out in front of him and checked his progress. Their leaders were Lü Kʻuang and Lü Hsiang. Tʻan reined in and addressed them, saying, “While my father lived I never treated you badly; why do you support my brother and try to injure me?”

The two men had no reply to make, but they dismounted and bowed before him yielding submission.

Tʻan said, “Do not surrender to me but to the Minister,” and he led them back to camp, where he waited the arrival of Tsʻao and then presented the pair. Tsʻao received them well. He promised his daughter to Tʻan to wife and he appointed the two brothers as advisers.

When Tʻan asked Tsʻao to attack Chʻichou the reply was “Supplies are short and difficult to transport. I must turn the waters of the Chishui into the Paiho from Chiho whereby to convey my grain and afterwards I can advance.”

Ordering Tʻan to remain in Pʻingyüan, Tsʻao retired into camp at Liyang. The two brothers Lü, who were renegades from Yüan Shang, were now raised to noble rank and followed the army as supernumeraries.

Kuo Tʻu noted this advancement and said to Tʻan, “He has promised you a daughter to wife. I fear that bodes no good. Now he has given titles of nobility to the two Lüs and taken them with him. This is a trap for the northern people but he intends evil toward us. You, my lord, should have two generals’ seals engraved and send them secretly to the brothers so that you may have friends at court ready for the day when Tsʻao shall have broken your brother’s power and we can begin to work against him.”

The seals were engraved and sent. As soon as the brothers received them they informed Tsʻao Tsʻao, who smiled saying, “He wants your support so he sends you seals as officers. I will consider it as soon as Yüan Shang has been dealt with. In the meantime you may accept the seals till I shall decide what to do.”

Thenceforward Tʻan was doomed. Shên Pʻei and his master also discussed the situation.

“Tsʻao is getting grain into Paikou, which means an attack on Chʻichou; what is to be done?” asked Shang.

Shên Pʻei replied, “Send letters to Yin Kai, Chief of Wuan, bidding him camp at Maochʻêng to secure the road to Shangtang and direct Chu Ku to maintain Hantan as a distant auxiliary. Then you may advance on Pʻingyüan and attack Tsʻao Tsʻao.”

The plan seemed good. Yüan Shang left Shên Pʻei and Chʻên Lin in charge of Chʻichou, appointed two captains Ma Yen and Chang Kʻai as van leaders, and set out hastily for Pʻingyüan.

When Tʻan heard of the approach of his brother’s army he sent urgent messages to Tsʻao, who said to himself, “I am going to get Chʻichou this time.”

Just at this time it happened that Hsü Yu came down from the capital. When he heard that Yüan Shang was attacking his brother Tʻan he sought Tsʻao and said, “You, Sir Minister, sit here on guard; are you waiting till Heaven’s thunder shall strike the two Yüans?”

“I have thought it all out,” said Tsʻao.

Then he ordered Tsʻao Hung to go and fight against Yeh, while he led another army against Yin Kai. Kai could make no adequate defence and was killed by Hsü Chʻu. His men ran away and presently joined Tsʻao’s army. Next he led the army to Hantan and Chu Ku came out to fight him. Chang Liao advanced to fight with Chu and after the third encounter the latter was defeated and fled. Liao went after him and when their two horses were not far apart, Liao took his bow and shot. The fleeing soldier fell as the bowstring twanged. Tsʻao sent Ma Yen to complete the rout and Chu Ku’s force was broken up.

Now Tsʻao led his armies to an attack on Chʻichou. Tsʻao Hung went close to the city and a regular siege began. The army encompassed the city and began by throwing up great mounds. They also tunnelled subterranean ways.

Within the city Shên Pʻei turned his whole care to the defence and issued the severest commands. The captain of the east gate, one Fêng Li, got intoxicated and failed to keep his watch for which he was severely punished. He resented this, sneaked out of the city, went over to the besiegers and told them how the place could be attacked.

“The earth within the Tʻumên is solid enough to be tunnelled and entrance can be effected there,” said the traitor.

So Fêng Li was sent with three hundred men to carry out his plan under cover of darkness.

After Fêng Li had deserted to the enemy Shên Pʻei went every night to the wall to inspect the men on duty. The night of the sapping he went there as usual and saw that there were no lights outside the city and all was perfectly quiet. So he said to himself, “Fêng is certain to try to come into the city by an underground road.” Whereupon he ordered his men to bring up stones and pile them on the cover of the tunnel opening. The opening was stopped up and the attacking party perished in the tunnel they had excavated. Tsʻao having failed in this attempt abandoned the scheme of underground attack. He drew off the army to a place above the Hêngshui to await till Yüan Shang should return to relieve the city.

Yüan Shang heard of the defeat of Yin Kai and Chu Ku, and the siege of his own city, and bethought himself of relieving it. One of his captains, Ma Yen, said, “The high road will surely be ambushed; we must find some other way. We can take a bye-road from the Western Hills and get through at Fushuikʻou, whence we can fall upon Tsʻao’s camp.”

The plan was acceptable and Shang started off with the main body, Ma Yen and Chang Kʻai being rear guard.

Tsʻao’s spies soon found out this move and when they reported it he said, “If he comes by the high road I shall have to keep out of the way; if by the Western Hills bye-road I can settle him in one battle. And I think he will show a blaze as a signal to the besieged that they may make a sortie. I shall prepare to attack both.” So he made his preparations.

Now Yüan Shang went out by the Fushui Pass east toward Yangpʻing and near this he camped. Thence to his own city was seventeen li. The Fushui stream ran beside the camp. He ordered his men to collect firewood and grass ready for the blaze he intended to make at night as his signal. He also sent Li Fu, a civil officer, disguised as an officer of Tsʻao Tsʻao’s army, to inform Shên Pʻei of his intentions.

Fu reached the city wall safely and called out to the guards to open. Shên Pʻei recognised his voice and let him in. Thus Shên Pʻei knew of the arrangements for his relief and it was agreed that a blaze should be raised within the city so that the sortie could be simultaneous with Shang’s attack. Orders were given to collect inflammables.

Then said Fu, “As your food supply is short it would be well for the old men, the feeble soldiers and the women to surrender. This will come upon them as a surprise and we will send the soldiers out behind them.”

Shên Pʻei promised to do all this and next day they hoisted on the wall a white flag with the words “The populace of Chʻichou surrender” on it.

“Ho ho! This means no food,” said Tsʻao. “They are sending away the non-combatants to escape feeding them. And the soldiers will follow behind them.”

So on two sides he laid an ambush of three companies while he went near the wall in full state. Presently the gates were opened and out came the people supporting their aged folk and leading their little ones by the hand. Each carried a white flag. As soon as the people had passed the gate the soldiers followed with a rush.

Then Tsʻao Tsʻao showed a red flag and the ambushed soldiers fell upon the sortie. The men tried to return and Tsʻao’s men made a direct attack. The chase continued to the drawbridge, but there they met with a tremendous shower of arrows and crossbow bolts which checked the advance. Tsʻao’s helmet was struck and the crest carried away.

So the men retired. As soon as Tsʻao had changed his dress and mounted a fresh horse he set out at the head of the army to attack Yüan Shang’s camp.

Yüan Shang led the defence. The attack came simultaneously from many directions, the defenders were quite disorganised and presently defeated. Shang led his men back by the hills and made a camp under their shelter. Thence he sent messengers to urge Ma Yen and Chang Kʻai to bring up the supports. He did not know that Tsʻao had sent the two Lüs to persuade these two into surrender and that they had already passed under Tsʻao’s banner, and he had made them marquises.

Just before going to attack the Western Hills he sent the two Lüs with Ma Yen and Chang Kʻai to seize the source of Yüan Shang’s supplies. Shang had realised he could not hold the hills so he went by night to Ikʻou. Before he could get camped he saw flaring lights springing up all around him and soon an attack began. He was taken aback and had to oppose the enemy with his men half armed, his steeds unsaddled. His army suffered and he had to retreat another fifty li. By that time his force was too enfeebled to show any resistance and as no other course was possible he sent to ask that he might surrender. Tsʻao feigned to consent, but that night he sent a force to raid Shang’s camp. Then it became flight, abandoning everything, seals, emblems of office and even personal clothing. He made for the hills.

Then came an attack on Chʻichou and to help out this Hsü Yu suggested drowning the city by turning the course of the River Chang. Tsʻao adopted the suggestion and at once sent a small number of men to dig a channel to lead the water to the city. All told, it was forty li.

Shên Pʻei saw the diggers from the city wall and noticed that they made only a shallow channel. He chuckled, saying to himself, “What is the use of such a channel to drown out the city from a deep river?”

So he made no preparations to keep out the water.

But as soon as night came on Tsʻao increased his army of diggers tenfold and by daylight the channel was deepened to twenty feet and the water was flowing in a great stream into the city where it already stood some feet deep. So this misfortune was added to the lack of food.

Hsin Pʻi now displayed the captured seal and garments of Yüan Shang hung out on spears, to the great shame of their late owner, and called upon the people of the city to surrender. This angered Shên Pʻei, who avenged the insult by putting to death on the city wall the whole of the Hsin family who were within the city. There were nearly a hundred of them and their severed heads were cast down from the walls. Hsin Pʻi wept exceedingly.

Shên Pʻei’s nephew Shên Yung, one of the gate wardens, was a dear friend of Hsin Pʻi and the murder of Pʻi’s family greatly distressed him. He wrote a secret letter offering to betray the city and tied it to an arrow, which he shot out among the besiegers. The soldiers found it, gave it to Hsin Pʻi and he took it to his chief.

Tsʻao issued an order that the family of the Yüans should be spared when the city should be taken and that no one who surrendered should be put to death. The next day the soldiers entered by the west gate, opened for them by Shên’s nephew. Hsin Pʻi was the first to prance in on horseback and the men followed.

When Shên, who was on the southeast of the city, saw the enemy within the gates he placed himself at the head of some horsemen and dashed toward them. He was met and captured by Hsü Huang who bound him and led him outside the city. On the road they met Hsin Pʻi, who ground his teeth with rage at the murderer of his relatives and then struck the prisoner over the head with his whip and abused him as a murderer. Shên retorted by calling him traitor and saying how sorry he was not to have slain him before.

When the captive was taken into Tsʻao’s presence Tsʻao said, “Do you know who opened the gate to let me in?”

“No; I know not.”

“It was your nephew Shên Yung who gave up the gate,” said Tsʻao.

“He was always unprincipled; and it has come to this!” said Shên.

“The other day when I approached the city why did you shoot so hard at me?”

“I am sorry we shot too little.”

“As a faithful adherent of the Yüans you could do no otherwise. Now will you come over to me?”

“Never; I will never surrender.”

Hsin Pʻi threw himself on the ground with lamentations, saying, “Eighty of my people murdered by this ruffian; I pray you slay him, O Minister!”

“Alive, I have served the Yüans,” said Shên, “dead, I will be their ghost. I am no flattering time-server as you are. Kill me!”

Tsʻao gave the order; they led him away to put him to death. On the execution ground he said to the executioners, “My lord is in the north, I pray you not to make me face the south.” So he knelt facing the north and extended his neck for the fatal stroke.

Who of all th’ official throng In Hopei was true like Shên? Sad his fate! he served a fool, But faithful, as the ancient men. Straight and true was every word, Never from the road he swerved. Faithful unto death, he died Gazing toward the lord he’d served.

Thus died Shên Pʻei and from respect for his character Tsʻao ordered that he be buried honourably on the north of the city.

Tsʻao Tsʻao then entered the city. As he was starting he saw the executioners hurrying forward a prisoner who proved to be Chʻên Lin.

“You wrote that manifesto for Yüan Shao. If you had only directed your diatribe against me, it would not have mattered. But why did you shame my forefathers?” said Tsʻao.

“When the arrow is on the string, it must fly,” replied Lin.

Those about Tsʻao urged him to put Chʻên Lin to death, but he was spared on account of his genius and given a small civil post.

Now Tsʻao’s eldest son was named Pʻei, otherwise Tzŭ-hêng. At the taking of the city he was eighteen years of age. When he was born a dark purplish halo hung over the house for a whole day. One who understood the meaning of such manifestations had secretly told Tsʻao that the halo belonged to the Imperial class and portended honours which could not be put into words.

At eight the lad could compose very skilfully and he was well read in ancient history. Now he was an adept at all military arts and very fond of fencing. He had gone with his father on the expedition to Chʻichou. He led his escort in the direction of the Yüan family dwelling, and when he reached it he strode in sword in hand. When some one would have stayed him, saying that by order of the Minister no one was to enter the house, he bade them begone. The guards fell back and he made his way into the private rooms, where he saw two women weeping in each other’s arms. He went forward to slay them.

Four generations of honours, gone like a dream, Fate follows on ever surely, though slow she seem.

The fate of the two women will be told in the next chapter.

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Chapter XXXIII

TSʻAO PʻEI FINDS A WIFE: A PLAN FOR SETTLING LIAOTUNG.

As was said, Tsʻao Pʻei, having made his way into the Yüan Palace, saw two women there whom he was about to kill. Suddenly a red light shone in his eyes, and he paused. Lowering his sword he said, “Who are you?”

“Thy handmaid is the widow of the late Yüan Shao, née Liu,” said the elder of the two, “and this is the wife of Hsi, his second son. She was of the Chên family. When Hsi was sent to command in Yu her family objected to her going so far from home and she stayed behind.”

Tsʻao Pʻei drew her toward him and looked at her closely. Her hair hung disordered, her face was dusty and tear-stained, but when, with the sleeve of his inner garment, he had wiped away these disfigurements he saw a woman of exquisite loveliness, with a complexion clear as jade touched with the tender bloom of a flower petal, a woman indeed beautiful enough to ruin a kingdom.

“I am the son of the Minister Tsʻao,” said he turning to the elder woman. “I will guarantee your safety so you need fear nothing.”

He then put by his sword and sat down at the upper end of the room.

As the great Minister Tsʻao was entering the gate of the conquered city Hsü Yu rode up very quickly, passed him and pointed with his whip at the gate saying, “A-man, you would not have been here but for my plans.”

Tsʻao laughed, but his captains were very annoyed. When he reached the Yüan residence he stopped at the gate, and asked if any one had gone in. The guard at the gate said, “Your son is within.” Tsʻao called him out and chid him, but the wife of the late Prefect interposed, saying, “But for your son we had not been saved. I desire to present to you a lady, of the Chên family, as a handmaid to your son.”

Tsʻao bade them bring out the girl and she bowed before him. After looking at her intently he said, “Just the wife for him!” and he told Tsʻao Pʻei to take her to wife.

After the conquest of Chʻichou had been made quite sure, Tsʻao made a ceremonial visit to the Yüan family cemetery, where he sacrificed at the tomb of his late rival, bowed his head and lamented bitterly.

Turning to his captains he said, “Not long ago when Pên-chʻu and I worked together in military matters he asked me, saying, ‘If this disturbance continue what districts should be held?’ and I replied asking him what he thought. He said, ‘To the south I would hold the river, on the north, guard against Yen and Tai and the hordes from the Shamo. Thence southward I would try for the Empire and do you not think I might succeed?’ I replied saying, I depended upon the wisdom and force of the world directed by Tao; then every thing would be possible. These words seem as if spoken only yesterday, and now he is gone. Thinking over it I cannot refrain from tears.”

His officers were deeply affected. Tsʻao treated the widow generously, giving her gold and silks and food to her content.

He also issued a further order that the taxes in Hopei would be remitted in consideration of the sufferings of the people during the warlike operations. He sent up a memorial and formally became Governor of Chʻichou.

One day Hsü Chʻu, riding in at the east gate, met Hsü Yu, who called out to him, “Would you fellows be riding through here if it had not been for me?”

Hsü Chʻu replied, “We fellows, those who survive and those who perished, risked our lives in bloody battle to get this city, so do not brag of your deeds.”

“You are a lot of blockheads, not worth talking about,” said Yu.

Chʻu in his anger drew his sword and ran him through. Then he took his head and went to tell Tsʻao the reason.

Said Tsʻao, “He and I were old friends and we could joke together. Why did you kill him?”

He blamed Hsü Chʻu very severely and gave orders that the corpse should be buried honourably.

He enquired for any wise and reputable men who were known to be living in the district and was told of a certain cavalry officer named Tsʻui Yen, of Tungwu City, who had on many occasions given valuable advice to Yüan Shao. As the advice was not followed Yen had pleaded indisposition and remained at home.

Tsʻao sent for this man, gave him an office and said to him, “According to the former registers there are three hundred thousand households in the district so that one may well call it a major district.”

Yen replied, “The Empire is rent and the country is torn; the brothers Yüan are at war and the people have been stripped naked. Yet, Sir, you do not hasten to enquire after local conditions and how to rescue the people from misery, but first compute the possibilities of taxation. Can you expect to gain the support of our people by such means?”

Tsʻao accepted the rebuke, changed his policy, thanked him and treated him all the better for it.

As soon as Chʻichou was settled, Tsʻao sent to find out the movements of Yüan Tʻan. He heard he was ravaging Kanling and the places near it in the south and west. Moreover, the scouts brought the news that Yüan Shang had fled to the hills. An expedition had been sent against him but Shang would not face a battle. He had gone away to Yuchou to his brother Hsi.

Tʻan, having surrendered with all his army, yet prepared for another attempt on Chʻichou. Whereupon Tsʻao summoned him. Tʻan refused to come and Tsʻao sent letters breaking off the marriage with his daughter. Soon after Tsʻao led an expedition against Tʻan and marched to Pʻingyüan, whereupon Tʻan sent to Liu Piao to beg assistance. Piao sent for Liu Pei to consult about this and he said, “Tsʻao is very strong now that he has overcome Chʻichou and the Yüans will be unable to hold out for long. Nothing is to be gained by helping this man and it may give Tsʻao the loophole he is always looking for to attack this place. My advice is to keep the army in condition and devote all our energies to defence.”

“Agreed; but what shall we say?” said Piao.

“Write to both the brothers as peacemaker in gracious terms.”

Accordingly Liu Piao wrote thus to Yüan Tʻan:—“When the superior man would escape danger he does not go to an enemy State. I heard recently that you had crooked the knee to Tsʻao, which was ignoring the enmity between him and your father, rejecting the duties of brotherhood and leaving behind you the shame of an alliance with the enemy. If your brother, the successor to Chʻichou, has acted unfraternally, your duty was to bend your inclination to follow him and wait till the state of affairs had settled. Would it not have been very noble to bring about the redress of wrongs?”

And to Yüan Shang he wrote:—“Your brother, the ruler of Chʻingchou, is of an impulsive temperament and confuses right with wrong. You ought first to have destroyed Tsʻao in order to put an end to the hatred which your father bore him and, when the situation had become settled, to have endeavoured to redress the wrongs. Would not that have been well? If you persist in following this mistaken course, remember the hound and the hare, both so wearied that the peasant got the hare.”

From this letter Yüan Tʻan saw that Liu Piao had no intention of helping him, and feeling he alone could not withstand Tsʻao, he abandoned Pʻingyüan and fled to Nanpʻi, whither Tsʻao pursued him. The weather was very cold and the river was frozen, so that his grain boats could not move. Wherefore Tsʻao ordered the inhabitants to break the ice and tow the boats. When the peasants heard the order they ran away. Tsʻao angrily wished to arrest and behead them. When they heard this they went to his camp in a body and offered their heads to the sword.

“If I do not kill you, my order will not be obeyed,” said Tsʻao. “Yet supposing I cut off your heads—but I cannot bear to do that. Quickly flee to the hills and hide so that my soldiers do not capture you.”

The peasants left weeping.

Then Yüan Tʻan led out his army against Tsʻao. When both sides were arrayed Tsʻao rode to the front, pointed with his whip at his opponent and railed at him saying, “I treated you well; why then have you turned against me?”

Tʻan replied, “You have invaded my land, captured my cities and broken off my marriage; yet you accuse me of turning against you.”

Tsʻao ordered Hsü Huang to go out and give battle. Tʻan bade Pʻêng An accept the challenge. After a few bouts Pʻêng An was slain and Tʻan, having lost, fled and went into Nanpʻi, where he was besieged. Tʻan, panic-stricken, sent Hsin Pʻing to see Tsʻao and arrange surrender.

“He is nothing but a fickle-minded child,” said Tsʻao. “He is never of the same mind two days running and I cannot depend upon what he says. Now your brother is in my employ and has a post of importance, you had better remain here also.”

“Sir Minister, you are in error,” said Hsin Pʻing. “It is said that the lord’s honour is the servant’s glory, the lord’s sadness is the servant’s shame. How can I turn my back on the family I have so long served?”

Tsʻao felt he could not be persuaded and sent him back. Pʻing returned and told Tʻan the surrender could not be arranged and Tʻan turned on him angrily calling him a traitor. At this unmerited reproach such a huge wave of anger welled up in the man’s breast that he was overcome and fell in a swoon. They carried him out, but the shock had been too severe and soon after he died. Tʻan regretted his conduct when it was too late.

Then Kuo Tʻu said, “To-morrow when we go out to battle we will drive the people out in front as a screen for the soldiers and we must fight a winning battle.”

That night they assembled all the common people of the place and forced into their hands swords and spears. At daylight they opened the four gates and a huge party with much shouting came out at each, peasantry carrying arms in front, and soldiers behind them. They pushed on toward Tsʻao’s camps and a mêlée began which lasted till near midday. But this was quite indecisive, although heaps of dead lay everywhere.

Seeing that success was at best only partial Tsʻao rode out to the hills near and thence had the drums beaten for a new attack under his own eye. Officers and men, seeing that he could observe them in person, exerted themselves to the utmost and Tʻan’s army was severely defeated. Of the peasantry driven into the battlefield multitudes were slain.

Tsʻao Hung, who displayed very great valour, burst into the press of battle and met Yüan Tʻan face to face. The two slashed and hammered at each other and Tʻan was killed.

Kuo Tʻu saw that his side was wholly disorganised and tried to withdraw into the shelter of the city. Yo Chin saw this and opened a tremendous discharge of arrows so that the moat was soon filled with dead.

The city fell to Tsʻao; he entered and set about restoring peace and order. Then suddenly appeared a new army under one of Yüan Hsi’s captains. Tsʻao led out his men to meet them, but the two commanders laid down their arms and yielded. They were rewarded with the rank of marquis.

Then Chang Yen, the leader of the Black Hills Brigands, came with ten legions and gave in his submission. He was made a General, Chiang-chün.

By an order of Tsʻao Tsʻao’s the head of Yüan Tʻan was exposed and death was threatened to any one who should lament for him. Nevertheless a man dressed in mourning attire was arrested for weeping below the exposed head at the north gate. Taken into Tsʻao’s presence he said he was Wang Hsiu and had been an officer in Chʻingchou. He had been expelled because he had remonstrated with Tʻan, but when the news of Tʻan’s death came he had come to weep for him.

“Did you know of my command?”

“I knew it.”

“Yet you were not afraid?”

“When one has received favours from a man in life it would be wrong not to mourn at his death. How can one stand in the world if one forgets duty through fear? If I could bury his body I would not mind death.”

Tsʻao said, “And there were many such as this in this district. What a pity that the Yüan family could not make the best of them! But if they had done so I should never have dared to turn my eyes toward this place.”

The intrepid mourner was not put to death. The remains of Yüan Tʻan were properly interred and Wang Hsiu was well treated and even given an appointment.

In his new position he was asked for advice about the best way to proceed against Yüan Shang, who had fled to his brother, but he held his peace, thereby winning from Tsʻao renewed admiration for his constancy. “He is indeed loyal!” said Tsʻao.

Then he questioned Kuo Chia, who named certain officers who should be sent to bring about the surrender of the Yüans. Then five captains, to attack Yuchou along three routes, and other armies, were sent against Pingchou.

The two brothers Shang and Hsi heard of Tsʻao’s advance with dismay for they had no hope of successful resistance. Therefore they abandoned the city and hastily marched into Liaohsi to the Governor Wuhuan Chʻu. But the governor was not disposed to incur the enmity of the powerful Tsʻao Tsʻao so he called his subordinates together to swear them to support him and said, “I understand that Tsʻao Tsʻao is the most powerful man of the day and I am going to support him and those who do not go with me I shall put to death.”

Each in turn smeared his lips with the blood of sacrifice and took the oath till it came to the turn of Han Hêng. Instead he dashed his sword to the ground crying, “I have received great benefits from the Yüans. Now my lord has been vanquished; my knowledge was powerless to save him, my bravery insufficient to cause me to die for him; I have failed in my duty. But I refuse to commit the crowning act of treachery and ally myself with Tsʻao.”

This speech made the others turn pale. The chief said, “For a great undertaking there must be lofty principles. However, success does not necessarily depend upon universal support and since Han Hêng is actuated by such sentiments then let him follow his conscience.” So he turned Han Hêng out of the assembly.

Wuhuan Chʻu then went out of the city to meet and welcome Tsʻao Tsʻao’s army and rendered his submission. He was well received and the title given him of Guardian of the North.

Then the scouts came to say that the three captains had marched to Pingchou but that Kao Kan had occupied Hukuan Pass and could not be dislodged. So Tsʻao marched thither himself. The defender still maintaining his position Tsʻao asked for plans. Hsün Yu proposed that a band should go over pretending to be deserters. Tsʻao assented and then called the two brothers Lü, to whom he gave whispered orders. They left with their companies.

Soon they came near the pass and called out, saying, “We are old officers in Yüan’s armies forced into surrender to Tsʻao. We find him so false and he treats us so meanly that we want to return to help our old master. Wherefore quickly open your gates to us.”

Kao Kan was suspicious, but he let the two officers come up to the pass, and when they had stripped off their armour and left their horses they were permitted to enter. And they said to Kao Kan, “Tsʻao’s men are new to the country and not settled; you ought to fall upon their camp this very evening. If you approve we will lead the attack.”

Kao Kan decided to trust them and prepared to attack, giving the two brothers the leadership. But as they drew near Tsʻao’s camp a great noise arose behind them and they found themselves in an ambush attacked on all sides. Realising too late that he had been the victim of a ruse, Kao retreated to the pass, but found it occupied by the enemy. Kao Kan then made the best of his way to the barbarian chieftain Shanyu. Tsʻao gave orders to hold the passes and sent companies in pursuit.

When Kao Kan reached the boundary of Shanyu’s territory he met Tso-hsien, Prince of the northern tribesmen. Kao Kan dismounted and made a low obeisance saying, “Tsʻao is conquering and absorbing all the borders and your turn, O Prince, will come quickly. I pray you help me and let us smite together for the safety of the northern regions.”

The Prince replied, “I have no quarrel with Tsʻao, why then should he invade my land? Do you desire to embroil me with him?”

He would have nothing to do with Kao Kan and sent him away. At his wits’ end Kan decided to try to join Liu Piao and got so far on his journey as Shanglu when he was taken prisoner and put to death by Wang Yen. His head was sent to Tsʻao Tsʻao and Wang was created a marquis for this service.

Thus Pingchou was conquered. Then Tsʻao Tsʻao began to discuss the overthrow of Wuhuan on the west. Tsʻao Hung, speaking in the name of his brother officials, said, “The two brothers Yüan are nearly done for and too weak to be feared. They have fled far into the Sea of Sand and if we pursue them thither it may bring down Liu Piao and Liu Pei upon the capital. Should we be unable to rescue it the misfortune would be immense. Wherefore we beg you to return to Hsütu.”

But Kuo Chia was of different advice. “You are wrong,” said he. “Though the prestige of our lord fills the Empire, yet the men of the desert, relying upon their inaccessibility, will not be prepared against us. Wherefore I say attack, and we shall conquer them. Beside Yüan Shao was kind to the nomads and the two brothers have been more so. They must be destroyed. As for Liu Piao he is a mere gossip, who need not cause the least anxiety. And Liu Pei is unfit for any heavy responsibility and will take no trouble over a light one. You may leave the State with perfect safety and make as long an expedition as you choose. Nothing will happen.”

“You speak well, O Fêng-hsiao,” said Tsʻao. He led his legions, heavy and light, to the edge of the desert, with many waggons.

The expedition marched into the desert. The rolling ocean of yellow sand spread its waves before them and they saw far and near the eddying sand pillars, and felt the fierce winds that drove them forward. The road became precipitous and progress difficult. Tsʻao began to think of returning and spoke thereof to Kuo Chia, who had advised the journey. Kuo had speedily fallen victim to the effects of the climate, and at this time he lay in his cart very ill.

Tsʻao’s tears fell as he said, “My friend, you are suffering for my ambition to subdue the Shamo. I cannot bear to think you should be ill.”

“You have always been very good to me,” said the sick man, “and I can never repay what I owe you.”

“The country is exceedingly precipitous and I am thinking of going back; what think you?”

Chia replied, “The success of an expedition of this kind depends upon celerity. To strike a sudden blow on a distant spot with a heavy baggage train is difficult. To ensure success the need is light troops and a good road to strike quickly before an enemy has time to prepare. Now you must find guides who know the road well.”

Then the sick adviser was left at Ichou for treatment and they sought among the natives for some persons to serve as guides. One of Yüan Shao’s old captains knew those parts well and Tsʻao called him and questioned him. He said, “Between autumn and summer this route is under water, the shallow places too heavy for wheeled traffic, the deep parts insufficient for boats. It is always difficult. Therefore you would do better to return and at Lulungkʻou cross the Paitʻan Pass into the desert. Then advance to Liuchʻêng (Willow City) and smite before there is time to prepare. One sudden rush will settle Mao Tun.”

For this valuable information and plan Tʻien Chʻou was made a “Pacificator of the North” General, and went in advance as leader and guide. Next after him came Chang Liao and Tsʻao brought up the rear. They advanced by double marches.

Tʻien Chʻou led Chang Liao to White Wolf Hill, where they came upon the two Yüans with Mao Tun and a large force of cavalry. Chang Liao galloped to inform his chief and Tsʻao rode up to the top of an eminence to survey the foe. He saw a large mass of cavalry without any military formation advancing in a disorderly crowd.

Said he, “They have no formation, we can easily rout them.”

Then he handed over his ensign of command to Chang Liao who, with Hsü Chʻu, Yü Chin and Hsü Huang, made a vigorous attack from four different points, with the result that the enemy was thrown into confusion. Chang Liao rode forward and slew Mao Tun and the other captains gave in. The brothers Yüan with a few companies of horse got away into Liaotung.

Tsʻao Tsʻao then led his army into Liuchʻêng. For his services he conferred upon Tʻien Chʻou the rank of marquis of Liutʻing and put him over the city. But Tʻien Chʻou declined the rank, saying with tears, “I am a renegade and a fugitive. It is my good fortune that you spared my life and how can I accept a price for Lulung camp? I would rather die than accept the marquisate.”

Tsʻao recognised that reason was on his side and conferred upon him another office. Tsʻao then pacified the Shanyu chieftains; collected a large number of horses and at once set out on the homeward march.

The season was winter, cold and dry. For two hundred li there was no water, and grain also was scanty. The troops fed on horse flesh. They had to dig very deep, thirty to forty chang, [14] to find water.

When Tsʻao reached Ichou he rewarded those who had remonstrated with him against the expedition.

He said, “I took some risk in going so far but by good fortune I have succeeded; with the aid of Heaven I have secured victory. I could not be guided by your advice but still they were counsels of safety and therefore I reward you to prove my appreciation of advice and that hereafter you may not fear to speak your minds.”

The adviser, Kuo Chia, did not live to see the return of his lord. His coffin was placed on the bier in a hall of the government offices and Tsʻao went thither to sacrifice to his manes. Tsʻao mourned for him, saying, “Alas! Heaven has smitten me; Fêng-hsiao is dead.”

Then turning to his officers he said, “You, gentlemen, are of the same age as myself, but he was very young to die. I needed him for the future and unhappily he has been torn from me in the flower of his age. My heart and my bowels are torn with grief.”

The servants of the late adviser presented his last testament, which they said his dying hand had written, and he had told them to say, “If the Minister shall follow the advice given herein then Liaotung will be secure.”

Tsʻao opened the cover and read, nodding his head in agreement and uttering deep sighs. But no other man knew what was written therein.

Shortly after, Hsiahou Tun at the head of a delegation presented a petition saying, “For a long time Kungsun Kʻang, the Prefect of Liaotung, has been contumacious and it bodes ill for peace that the brothers Yüan have fled to him. Would it not be well to attack before they move against you?”

“I need not trouble your tiger courage, gentlemen,” said Tsʻao smiling. “Wait a few days and you will see the heads of our two enemies sent to me.”

They could not believe it.

As has been related the two brothers Yüan escaped to the east with a few squadrons of horse. The Prefect of Liaotung was a son of General Kungsun Tu, “the Warlike” as his title ran. He was a native of Hsiangpʻing. When he heard that the Yüans were on their way to his territory he called a council to decide upon his plan. At the council Kungsun Kung rose saying, “When Yüan Shao was alive he nourished the plan of adding this district to his own. Now his sons, homeless, with a broken army and no officers, are coming here; it seems to me like the dove stealing the magpie’s nest. If we offer them shelter they will assuredly intrigue against us. I advise that they be inveigled into the city, put to death and their heads sent to Tsʻao, who will be most grateful to us.”

Said the Prefect, “I have one fear; Tsʻao will come against us. If so, it would be better to have the help of the Yüans against him.”

“Then you can send spies to ascertain whether the army is preparing to attack us. If it is then save them alive; if not, then follow my advice.”

It was decided to wait till the spies came back. In the meantime the two Yüans had taken counsel together as they approached Liaotung, saying, “Liaotung has a large army strong enough to oppose Tsʻao Tsʻao. We will go thither and submit till we can slay the Prefect and take possession. Then when we are strong enough we will attack and recover our own land.”

With these intentions they went into the city. They were received and lodged in the guests’ quarters, but when they wished to see Kungsun Kʻang he put them off with the excuse of indisposition. However, before many days the spies returned with the news that Tsʻao Tsʻao’s army was quiescent and there was no hint of any attack.

Then Kungsun Kʻang called the Yüans into his presence. But before they came he hid swordmen and axemen behind the arras in the hall. When the visitors came and had made their salutations, Kʻang bade them be seated.

Now it was bitterly cold and on the couch where Shang was sitting were no coverings. So he asked for a cushion. The host surlily said, “When your heads take that long, long journey, will there be any cushions?”

Before Shang could recover from his fright Kʻang shouted, “Why do you not begin?”

At this out rushed the assassins and the heads of the two brothers were cut off as they sat. Packed in a small wooden box they were sent to Tsʻao Tsʻao at Ichou.

All this time Tsʻao had been calmly waiting, and when his impatient officers had petitioned in a body that he would march to the capital if he intended no attack on the east, he told them what he was waiting for. He would go as soon as the heads arrived.

In their secret hearts they laughed. But then, surely enough, a messenger soon came from Liaotung bringing the heads. Then they were greatly surprised and when the messenger presented his letters Tsʻao cried, “Just as Fêng-hsiao said!”

He amply rewarded the messenger and the Governor of Liaotung was made a marquis and General of the Left Wing; and when the officers asked what had happened, Tsʻao told them what the late adviser had predicted. He read to them the dead officer’s testament, which ran something like this:—“Yüan Shang and his brother are going to Liaotung. Illustrious Sir, you are on no account to attack for Kungsun Kʻang has long lived in fear lest the Yüans should absorb his country. When they arrive Kʻang will hesitate. If you attack, he will save the Yüans to help him; if you wait, they will work against each other. This is evident.”

The officers simply jumped with surprise to see how perfectly events had been foreseen.

Then Tsʻao at the head of all his officers performed a grand sacrifice before the coffin of the wise Kuo Chia. He had died at the age of thirty-eight, after eleven years of meritorious and wonderful service in the wars.

When Heaven permitted Kuo Chia’s birth, It made him ablest man on earth. He knew by rote all histories, From him war kept no mysteries. Like Fan’s, his plans were quite decisive, As Chʻên’s, his strokes were most incisive. Too soon he ran his earthly race, Too soon the great beam fell from place.

When Tsʻao returned to Chʻichou he sent off the coffin of his late adviser to the capital where it was interred.

Then certain of his officers said that as the north had been overcome it was time to settle Chiangnan. Tsʻao was pleased and said that had long occupied his thoughts.

The last night he spent in Chʻichou he went to one of the corner towers and stood there regarding the sky. His only companion was Hsün Yu. Presently Tsʻao said, “That is a very brilliant glow there in the south. It seems too strong for me to do anything there.”

“What is there that can oppose your heaven-high prestige?” said Yu.

Suddenly a beam of golden light shot up out of the earth. “Surely a treasure is buried there,” remarked Yu.

They went down from the city wall, called some men and led them to the point whence the light proceeded. There the men were ordered to dig.

The southern skies with portents glow, The northern lands their treasures show.

What the diggers found will appear in the next chapter.

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Chapter XXXIV

A WOMAN OVERHEARS A SECRET: A WARRIOR LEAPS A STREAM.

The story says that the diggers at the spot whence the golden light proceeded presently unearthed a bronze bird. Looking at it, Tsʻao turned to his companion, saying, “What is the portent?”

“You will remember that Shun’s mother dreamed of a jade bird before his birth, so certainly it is a felicitous omen,” said Hsün Yü.

Tsʻao was very pleased and he ordered forthwith the building of a lofty tower to celebrate the find, and they began to dig foundations and cut timber, to burn tiles and to smooth bricks for the Bronze Bird Tower on the banks of the Chang River. Tsʻao set a year for the building.

His younger son, Chih, said, “If you build a terraced tower you should add two others, one on each side. The centre tower and the tallest should be called The Bronze Bird Tower; the side towers named Jade Dragon Tower and Golden Phœnix Tower. Then connect these by flying bridges and the effect will be noble.”

“My son, your words are very good and by and bye when the building is complete I can solace my old age therein.”

Tsʻao Tsʻao had five sons, but this one Chih was the most clever and his essays were particularly elegant. His father was very fond of him and, seeing that the young man took an interest in the building, Tsʻao left him with his brother Pʻei at Yehchün to superintend the work, while he led the army that had recently conquered the Yüans back to the capital. When he arrived he distributed rewards liberally and memorialised the throne obtaining the title of “The Pure Marquis” for the late Kuo Chia. And he took Kuo’s son to be brought up in his own family.

Next he began to consider the reduction of Liu Piao’s power. Hsün Yü said, “The Grand Army has only just returned from the north and needs rest. Wait half a year that the men may recover from the fatigue of the campaign and both Liu Piao and Sun Chʻüan will fall at the first roll of the drums.”

Presently Tsʻao approved of this plan and to rest his men he assigned certain lands to them to till while they rested.

Liu Piao had been very generous to Liu Pei ever since he had come, a fugitive seeking shelter. One day at a banquet there came news that two captains, who had tendered their submission, had suddenly begun plundering the people in Chianghsia. They evidently meant rebellion. “If they really rebel it will cause a lot of trouble,” said Piao, rather dismayed.

“Do not let that trouble you, I will go and settle it,” said Pʻei.

Pleased with this proposal, Piao told off three legions and placed them under his friend, and the army marched as soon as the orders were issued. In a short time it reached the scene and the two malcontents came out to fight. Yüan-tê and his two brothers took their stand beneath the great banner and looked over at the enemy. The two leaders were riding handsome prancing horses and Yüan-tê said, “They certainly have fine steeds.”

As he spoke Chao Yün galloped out with his spear set and dashed toward the enemy. Chang Wu, one of the leaders, came out to meet him, but the combat was very brief for Chang was soon killed. Thereupon Chao Yün laid a hand upon the bridle of the fallen man’s horse to lead him back to his own side. The slain rebel’s companion Chʻên Sun at once rode after him, whereupon Chang Fei uttered a loud shout and rode out to meet him. With one thrust he slew the rebel. Their followers now scattered and Yüan-tê speedily restored order and returned.

Liu Piao, grateful for this service, rode out to the boundary to welcome the victors. They re-entered the city and grand banquets were instituted, at which they emptied great goblets in congratulations over the victory. At one of these banquets the Prefect said, “With such heroism as my brother has shown Chingchou has one upon whom to rely. But a source of sorrow is the south country Yueh, from which a raid may come at any time. Chang Lu and Sun Chʻüan are to be feared.”

“But I have three bold captains,” said Yüan-tê, “quite equal to any task you can set them. Send Chang Fei to keep ward on the southern marches, Kuan Yü to guard the city against Chang Lu and Chao Yün will protect you from Sun Chʻüan. Why need you grieve?”

The scheme appealed strongly to the Prefect, but Tsʻai Mao did not approve. So he spoke to his sister, Liu Piao’s wife, and insisted on the danger of putting these men in such commanding positions all round the prefecture. The lady Tsʻai, thus influenced by her brother, undertook to remonstrate and that night began by saying, “The Chingchou men seem to have a great liking for Liu Pei; they are always coming and going. You ought to take precautions. I do not think you should let them stay in the city. Why not send them on some mission?”

“Yüan-tê is a good man,” replied the Prefect.

“I think others differ from you,” said the lady.

The Prefect said nothing but muttered to himself. Soon after he went out of the city to see Yüan-tê and noticed he was riding a very handsome horse. They told him it was a prize taken from the recently conquered rebels, and as he praised it very warmly, the horse was presented to him. Liu Piao was delighted and rode it back to the city. Kʻuai Yüeh saw it and asked where it had come from. The Prefect told him it was a gift from Liu Pʻei and Yüeh said, “My brother knew horses very well and I am not a bad judge. This horse has tear-tracks running down from his eyes and a white blaze on his forehead. He is called a tilu and he is a danger to his master. That is why Chang Wu was killed. I advise you not to ride him.”

The Prefect began to think. Soon after he asked Yüan-tê to a banquet and in the course of it said, “You kindly presented me with a horse lately and I am most grateful, but you may need him on some of your expeditions and, if you do not mind, I would like to return him.”

Yüan-tê rose and thanked him. The Prefect continued, “You have been here a long time and I fear I am spoiling your career as a warrior. Now Hsinyeh in Hsiangjang is no poverty-stricken town; how would you like to garrison it with your own men?”

Yüan-tê naturally took the offer as a command and set out as soon as he could, taking leave of the Prefect the next day. And so he took up his quarters in Hsinyeh. When he left the city he noticed in the gate a person making him emphatic salutations and the man presently said, “You should not ride that horse.”

Yüan-tê looked at the man and recognised in the speaker one of the secretaries named I Chi, a native of Shanyang. So he hastily dismounted and asked why. I Chi replied, “Yesterday I heard that Kʻuai Yüeh told the Prefect that that horse was a tilu and brought disaster to its owner. That is why it was returned to you. How can you mount it again?”

“I am deeply touched by your affection,” replied Yüan-tê, “but a man’s life is governed by fate and what horse can interfere with that?”

I Chi admitted his superior view, but thereafter he followed Yüan-tê wherever he went.

The arrival of Liu Pʻei in Hsinyeh was a matter of rejoicing to all the inhabitants and the whole administration was reformed.

In the spring of the twelfth year the Lady Kan gave birth to a son who was named Chʻan. The night of his birth a crane settled on the roof of the house, screeched some forty times and then flew away westward.

Just at the time of birth a miraculous incense filled the chamber. Lady Kan one night had dreamed that she was looking up at the sky and the constellation of the Great Bear, Peitou, had fallen down her throat. As she conceived soon after she gave her son the milk-name of O-tou.

While Tsʻao Tsʻao was absent from the capital on his northern expedition, Liu Pʻei went to Liu Piao and said to him, “Why do you not take this opportunity to march against the capital? An empire might follow from that.”

“I am well placed here,” was the reply, “Why should I attempt other things?”

Yüan-tê said no more. Then the Prefect invited him into the private apartments to drink and while they were so engaged he suddenly began to sigh despondently.

“O brother, why do you sigh thus?” asked Yüan-tê.

“I have a secret sorrow that is difficult to speak about,” said Piao.

Yüan-tê was on the point of asking what it was when the Lady Tsʻai came and stood behind the screen, whereat Piao hung his head and became silent. Before long host and guest bade each other farewell and Liu Pʻei went back to his own place.

That winter they heard that Tsʻao Tsʻao had returned from Liuchʻêng and Liu Pʻei sighed when he reflected that his friend had paid no heed to his advice.

Unexpectedly a messenger came from the principal city with a request that Liu Pʻei would go thither to consult with the Prefect. So he started at once with the messenger. He was received very kindly, and when the salutations were over, the two men went into the private quarters at the rear to dine. Presently the host said, “Tsʻao has returned and he is stronger than ever. I am afraid he means to absorb this district. I am sorry I did not follow your advice for I have missed an opportunity.”

“In this period of disruption, with strife on every side, one cannot pretend that there will be no more opportunities. If you only take that what offers there will be nothing to regret.”

“What you say, brother, is quite to the point,” replied Liu Piao.

They drank on for a time till presently Liu Pʻei noticed that his host was weeping, and when he asked the cause of these tears, Piao replied, “It is that secret sorrow I spoke of to you before; I wished to tell you, but there was no opportunity that day.”

“O brother, what difficulty have you, and can I assist you? I am entirely at your service.”

“My wife, of the Chʻên family, bore me a son Chʻi, my eldest. He grew up virtuous but weakly and unfitted to succeed me in my office. Later I took a wife of the Tsʻai family, who bore me a son named Tsʻung, fairly intelligent. If I pass over the elder in favour of the younger there is the breach of the rule of primogeniture, and if I follow law and custom there are the intrigues of the mother’s family and clan to be reckoned with. Further, the army is in the hollow of their hands. There will be trouble and I cannot decide what to do.”

Liu Pʻei said, “All experience proves that to set aside the elder for the younger is to take the way of confusion. If you fear the power of the Tsʻai faction, then gradually reduce its power and influence, but do not let doting affection lead you into making the younger your heir.”

Piao agreed. But the Lady Tsʻai had had a suspicion why her lord had summoned Liu Pʻei and what was the subject of discussion, so she had determined to listen secretly. She was behind the screen when the matter was talked over and she conceived deep resentment against Liu Pʻei for what he had said. On his side he felt that his advice had fallen upon deaf ears and he arose and walked across the room. As he did so he noticed that he was getting heavy and stiff and a furtive tear stole down his cheek as he thought of the past. When he returned and sat down his host noticed the traces of weeping and asked the cause of his sorrow.

“In the past I was always in the saddle and I was slender and lithe. Now it is so long since I rode that I am getting stout and the days and months are slipping by, wasted; I shall have old age on me in no time and I have accomplished nothing. So I am sad.”

“I have heard a story that when you were at Hsucheng at the season of green plums you and Tsʻao Tsʻao were discussing heroes. You mentioned this name and that to him as men of parts and he rejected every one of them. Finally he said that you and he were the only two men of real worth in the whole country. If he with all his power and authority did not dare to place himself in front of you, I do not think you need grieve about having accomplished nothing.”

At this flattering speech Liu Pʻei pretended that the wine was getting the better of him and in a half maudlin manner he replied, “If I only had a starting point then I would not trouble about any one in a worldful of fools.”

His host said no more and the guest, feeling that he had slipped up in speech, rose as if drunk, took leave and staggered out saying he must return to his lodging to recover.

The episode has been celebrated in a poem:—

When with crooking fingers counting, Tsʻao Tsʻao reckoned up the forceful Men of real determination, Only two he found; and one was Yüan-tê. But by inaction He had grown both fat and slothful; Yet the months and years in passing Fretted him with nought accomplished.

Though Liu Piao kept silence when he heard the words of Yüan-tê, yet he felt the more uneasy. After the departure of his guest he retired into the inner quarters where he met his wife. The Lady Tsʻai said, “I happened to be behind the screen just now and so heard the words of Liu Pʻei. They betray scant regard for other people and mean that he would take your country if he could. If you do not remove him it will go ill with you.”

Her husband made no reply, but only shook his head. Then the Lady Tsʻai took counsel with her kinsman Tsʻai Mao, who said, “Let me go to the guest-house and slay him forthwith, and we can report what we have done.”

His sister consented and he went out, and that night told off a party of soldiers to do the foul deed.

Now Yüan-tê sat in his lodging by the light of a single candle till about the third watch, when he prepared to retire to bed. He was startled by a knock at his door and in came I Chi, who had heard of the plot against his new master and had come in the darkness to warn him. He related the details of the plot and urged speedy departure.

“I have not said farewell to my host; how can I go away?” said Liu Pʻei.

“If you go to bid him farewell you will fall a victim to the Tsʻai faction,” said I Chi.

So Yüan-tê said a hasty good-bye to his friend, called up his escort and they all mounted and rode away by the light of the stars toward Hsinyeh. Soon after they had left the soldiers arrived at the guest-house, but their intended victim was already well on his way.

Naturally the failure of the plot chagrined the treacherous Tsʻai Mao, but he took the occasion to scribble some calumnious verses on one of the partitions. Then he went to see Liu Piao to whom he said, “Liu Pʻei has treacherous intentions, as can be seen from some lines written on the wall. And his hurried departure is suspicious.”

Liu Piao felt doubtful, but he went to the guest-house and there on the wall he read this poem:

Too long, far too long I have dreamed life away, Gazing at scenery day after day. A dragon can never be kept in a pond, He should ride on the thunder to heaven and beyond.

Greatly angered by what he read, Liu Piao drew his sword and swore to slay the writer. But before he had gone many paces his anger had already died down and he said to himself, “I have seen much of the man, but have never known him write verses. This is the handiwork of some one who wishes to sow discord between us.”

So saying he turned back and with the point of his sword scraped away the poem. Then, putting up his sword, he mounted and rode home. By and bye Tsʻai Mao reminded him that the soldiers were awaiting orders and asked whether they could go to Hsinyeh and arrest Liu Pʻei.

“There is no hurry,” he replied.

Tsʻai Mao saw his brother-in-law’s hesitation and again sought his sister. She said, “Soon there is to be the great gathering at Hsiangyang and we can arrange something for that day.”

Next day Tsʻai Mao petitioned the Prefect, saying, “I pray you, Sir, to attend the Full Harvest Festival at Hsiangyang; it would be an encouragement to the people.”

“I have been feeling my old trouble lately; I certainly cannot go,” replied he, “but my two sons can go to represent me and receive the guests.”

“They are full young,” replied Mao, “They may make some mistakes.”

“Then go to Hsinyeh and request Liu Pʻei to receive the guests,” said Piao.

Nothing could have pleased Tsʻai Mao more, for this would bring Liu Pʻei within reach of his plot. Without loss of time he sent to Yüan-tê requesting him to go to preside at the Festival.

It has been said that Yüan-tê made the best of his way home to Hsinyeh. He felt that he had offended by that slip in speech, but determined to keep silence about it and attempt no explanation. So he discussed it with nobody. Then came the message asking him to preside at the Festival, and he needed counsel.

Sun Chʻien said, “You have seemed worried and preoccupied lately and I think something untoward happened at Chingchou. You should consider well before you accept this invitation.”

Thereupon Yüan-tê told his confidants the whole story.

Kuan Yü said, “You yourself think your speech offended the Prefect, but he said nothing to show displeasure. You need pay no attention to the babble of outsiders. Hsiangyang is quite near and, if you do not go, Liu Chinchou will begin to suspect something really is wrong.”

“You speak well,” said Yüan-tê.

Said Chang Fei, “Banquets are no good; gatherings are no better; it is best not to go.”

“Let me take three hundred horse and foot as escort; there will be no trouble then,” said Chao Yün.

“That is the best course,” said Yüan-tê.

They soon set out for the gathering place and Tsʻai Mao met them at the boundary and was most affable and courteous. Soon arrived the Prefect’s sons at the head of a great company of officers, civil and military. Their appearance put Yüan-tê more at ease. He was conducted to the guest-house and Chao Yün posted his men so as to guard it completely, while he himself, armed, remained close to his chief.

Liu Chʻi said to Yüan-tê, “My father is feeling unwell and could not come, wherefore he begs you, Uncle Liu, to preside at the various ceremonies and conduct the inspections.”

“Really I am unfit for such responsibilities,” said Yüan-tê, “But my brother’s command must be obeyed.”

Next day it was reported that the officials from the forty-one departments of the nine districts had all arrived.

Then Tsʻai Mao said to Kʻuai Yüeh, “This Liu Pʻei is the villain of the age and if left alive will certainly work harm to us. He must be got rid of now.”

“I fear you would forfeit everybody’s favour if you harmed him,” replied Kʻuai.

“I have already secretly spoken in these terms to Prefect Liu,” said Tsʻai, “and I have his word here.”

“So it may be regarded as settled; then we can prepare.”

Tsʻai Mao said, “One of my brothers is posted on the road to the Hsien Hills from the east gate and the others are on the north and south roads. No guard is needed on the west as the Tʻan Torrent is quite safeguard enough. Even with legions he could not get over that.”

Kʻuai replied, “I notice that Chao Yün never leaves him. I feel sure he expects some attack.”

“I have placed five hundred men in ambush in the city.”

“We will tell Wên Pʻing and Wang Wei to invite all the military officers to a banquet at one of the pavilions outside the city, and Chao Yün will be among them. Then will be our opportunity.”

Tsʻai Mao thought this a good device for getting Chao Yün out of the way.

Now oxen and horses had been slaughtered and a grand banquet prepared. Yüan-tê rode to the residence on the horse of ill omen and when he arrived the steed was led into the back part of the enclosure and tethered there. Soon the guests arrived and Yüan-tê took his place as master of the feast, with the two sons of the Prefect, one on each side. The guests were all arranged in order of rank. Chao Yün stood near his lord sword in hand as a faithful henchman should do.

Then Wên and Wang came to invite Chao Yün to the banquet they had prepared for the military officers. But he declined. However, Yüan-tê told him to go, and, after some demur, he went. Then Tsʻai Mao perfected his final arrangements, placing his men surrounding the place like a ring of iron. The three hundred guards that formed the escort of Yüan-tê were sent away to the guest-house.

All were ready and awaiting the signal. At the third course, I Chi took a goblet of wine in his hands and approached Yüan-tê, at the same time giving him a meaning look. Then in a low voice he said, “Make an excuse to get away.”

Yüan-tê understood and presently rose as if stiff with long sitting and went outside. There he found I Chi, who had gone thither after presenting the cup of wine. I Chi then told him more of the plot and that all the roads were guarded except that to the west. And he advised him to lose no time.

Yüan-tê was quite taken aback. However, he got hold of the horse of ill omen, opened the door of the garden and led him out. Then he took a flying leap into the saddle and galloped off without waiting for the escort. He made for the west gate. At the gate the wardens wanted to question him, but he only whipped up his steed and rode through. The guards at the gate ran off to report to Tsʻai Mao, who quickly went in pursuit with a half company of soldiers.

As has been said Yüan-tê burst out at the west gate. Before he had gone far there rolled before him a great river barring the way. It was the Tʻan, many score feet in width, which pours its waters into the Hsiang. Its current was very swift.

Yüan-tê reached the bank and saw the river was unfordable. So he turned his horse and rode back. Then, not far off, he saw a cloud of dust and knew that his pursuers were therein. He thought that it was all over. However, he turned again toward the swift river, and seeing the soldiers now quite near, plunged into the stream. A few paces, and he felt the horse’s fore legs floundering in front while the water rose over the skirt of his robe. Then he plied the whip furiously, crying, “Tilu, Tilu, I trust to you.”

Whereupon the good steed suddenly reared up out of the water and, with one tremendous leap, was on the western bank. Yüan-tê felt as if he had come out of the clouds.

In after years the famous court official, Su Tʻung-pʻo, wrote a poem on this leap over the Tʻan Torrent:—

I’m growing old, the leaves are sere, My sun slopes westward, soon will sink, And I recall that yester year I wandered by Tʻan River brink.

Irresolute, anon I paused, Anon advanced, and gazed around, I marked the autumn’s reddened leaves, And watched them eddying to the ground

I thought of all the mighty deeds Of him who set the House of Han On high, and all the struggles since, The battlefields, the blood that ran.

I saw the nobles gathered round The board, set in the Banquet Hall; Amid them, one, above whose head There hung a sword about to fall.

I saw him quit that festive throng And westward ride, a lonely way; I saw a squadron follow swift, Intent the fugitive to slay.

I saw him reach the River Tʻan, Whose swirling current rushes by; Adown the bank he galloped fast, “Now leap, my steed!” I heard him cry.

His steed’s hoofs churn the swollen stream; What recks he that the waves run high? He hears the sound of clashing steel, Of thundering squadrons coming nigh.

And upward from the foaming waves I saw two peerless beings soar; One was a destined western king, And him another dragon bore.

The Tʻan still rolls from east to west, Its roaring torrent ne’er dry. Those dragons twain, Ah! where are they? Yes, where? But there is no reply.

The setting sun, in dark relief Against the glowing western sky, Throws out the everlasting hills While, saddened, here I stand and sigh.

Men died to found the kingdoms three, Which now as misty dreams remain. Of greatest deeds the traces oft Are faint that fleeting years retain.

Thus Liu Pʻei crossed the rolling river. Then he turned and looked back at the other bank which his pursuers had just gained.

“Why did you run away from the feast?” called out Tsʻai Mao.

“Why did you wish to harm one who has done you no injury?” replied Yüan-tê.

“I have never thought of such a thing; do not listen to what people say to you.”

But Yüan-tê saw that his enemy was fitting an arrow to his bowstring, so he whipped up his steed and rode away south-west.

“What spirits aided him?” said Tsʻai Mao to his followers.

Then he turned to go back to the city, but in the gate he saw Chao Yün coming out at the head of his company of guards.

By wondrous leap the dragon steed his rider’s life could save. Now follows him, on vengeance bent, his master’s henchman brave.

The next chapters will tell what fate befell the traitor.

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Chapter XXXV

YÜAN-TÊ MEETS A RECLUSE AT NANCHANG: TAN FU MEETS A NOBLE LORD AT HSINYEH.

Just as Tsʻai Mao was going into the city he met Chao Yün and his three hundred coming out. It had happened that, while at the banquet, Chao Yün had noticed some movement of men and horses and had at once gone to the banquet-hall to see if all was well with his lord. Missing him from his place he had become anxious and gone to the guest-house. There he heard that Tsʻai Mao had gone off to the west gate with troops. So he quickly took his spear, mounted and went, he and the escort, in hot haste along the same road. Meeting Tsʻai Mao near the gate he said, “Where is my lord?”

“He left the banquet-hall quite suddenly and I know not whither he has gone,” was the reply.

Now Chao Yün was cautious and careful and had no desire to act hastily, so he urged his horse forward till he came to the river. There he was checked by a torrent without ford or bridge. At once he turned back and shouted after Tsʻai Mao, “You invited my lord to a feast; what means this going after him with a squadron of horse?”

Mao replied, “It is my duty to guard the officials who have assembled here as I am the chief captain.”

“Whither have you driven my lord?” asked Chao.

“They tell me he rode quite alone out through the west gate, but I have not seen him.”

Chao Yün was anxious and doubtful. Again he rode to the river and looked around. This time he noticed a wet track on the farther side. He thought to himself that it was almost an impossible crossing for a man and a horse, so he ordered his men to scatter and search. But they also could find no trace of Liu Pei.

Chao Yün turned again to the city. By the time he had reached the wall Tsʻai Mao had gone within. He then questioned the gate wardens, and they all agreed in saying that Liu Pei had ridden out at full gallop. That was all they knew. Fearing to re-enter the city lest he should fall into an ambush, Chao started for Hsinyeh.

After that marvellous life-saving leap over the torrent, Yüan-tê felt elated but rather dazed. He could not help feeling that his safety was due to an especial interposition of Providence. Following a tortuous path, he urged his steed toward Nanchang. But the sun sank to the west and his destination seemed yet a long way off. Then he saw a young cowherd seated on the back of a buffalo and playing on a short pipe.

“If I were only as happy!” sighed Yüan-tê.

He checked his horse and looked at the lad, who stopped his beast, ceased playing on the pipe and stared fixedly at the stranger.

“You must be Yüan-tê, the General who fought the Yellow Turbans,” said the boy presently.

Yüan-tê was taken aback.

“How can you know my name, a young rustic like you living in such a secluded place?” said he.

“Of course I do not know you, but my master often has visitors and they all talk about Yüan-tê, the tall man whose hands hang down below his knees and whose eyes are very prominent. They say he is the most famous man of the day. Now you, General, are just such a man as they talk about, and surely you are he.”

“Well, who is your master?”

“My master’s name is Ssŭma, a compound surname, and his ming is Hui; his other name is Tê-tsʻao. He belongs to Yingchou and his Taoist appellation is Shui-ching, ‘The Water-mirror.’”

“Who are your master’s friends that you mentioned?”

“They are Pʻang Tê-kung and Pʻang Tʻung of Hsiangyang.”

“And who are they?”

“Relatives. Pʻang Tê-kung is ten years older than my master; the other is five years younger. One day my master was up in a tree picking mulberries when Pʻang Tʻung arrived. They began to talk and kept it up all day, my master did not come down till the evening. My master is very fond of Pʻang Tʻung and calls him brother.”

“And where does your master live?”

“In that wood there, in front,” said the cowherd pointing to it. “There he has a farmstead.”

“I really am Liu Yüan-tê and you might lead me to your master that I may salute him.”

The cowherd led the way for about two li, when Liu Pei found himself in front of a farm house. He dismounted and went to the centre door. Suddenly came to his ear the sound of a lute most skilfully played and the air was extremely beautiful. He stopped his guide and would not allow him to announce a visitor, but stood there rapt by the melody.

Suddenly the music ceased. He heard a deep laugh and a man appeared, saying, “Amidst the clear and subtle sounds of the lute there suddenly rang out a high note as though some noble man was near.”

“That is my master,” said the lad pointing.

Liu Pei saw before him a tall figure, slender and straight as a pine tree, a very “chosen vessel.” Hastening forward he saluted. The skirt of his robe was still wet from the river.

“You have escaped from a grave danger to-day, Sir,” said “Water-mirror.”

Yüan-tê was startled into silence, and the cowherd said to his master, “This is Liu Yüan-tê.”

“Water-mirror” asked him to enter and when they were seated in their relative positions as host and guest, Yüan-tê glanced round the room. Upon the bookshelves were piled books and manuscripts. The window opened upon an exquisite picture of pines and bamboos and a lute lay upon a stone couch. The room showed refinement in its last degree.

“Whence come you, illustrious Sir?” asked the host.

“By chance I was passing this way and the lad pointed you out to me. So I came to bow in your honoured presence. I cannot tell what pleasure it gives me.”

“Water-mirror” laughed. “Why this mystery? Why must you conceal the truth? You have certainly just escaped from a grave danger.”

Then the story of the banquet and the flight was told.

“I knew it all from your appearance,” said his host. “Your name has long been familiar,” continued he, “but whence comes it that, up to the present, you are only a homeless devil?”

“I have suffered many a check during my life,” said Liu Pei, “and through one of them am I here now.”

“It should not be so; but the reason is that you still lack the one man to aid you.”

“I am simple enough in myself, I know; but I have Sun Chʻien, Mi Chu and Chien Yung on the civil side, and for warriors I have Kuan Yü, Chang Fei and Chao Yün. These are all most loyal helpers and I depend upon them not a little.”

“Your fighting men are good: fit to oppose a legion. The pity is you have no really able adviser. Your civilians are but pallid students of books, not men fitted to weave and control destiny.”

“I have always yearned to find one of those marvellous recluses who live among the hills till their day arrive. So far I have sought in vain.”

“You know what the Master said, ‘In a hamlet of ten households there must be one true man.’ Can you say there is no man?”

“I am simple and uninstructed; I pray you enlighten me.”

“You have heard what the street boys sing:—

In eight and nine begins decay, Four years, then comes the fateful day, When destiny will show the way, And the dragon flies out of the mire O!

This song was first heard when the new reign-style was adopted. The first line was fulfilled when Liu Piao lost his first wife, and when his family troubles began. The next line relates to the approaching death of Liu Piao and there is not a single man among all his crowd of officers who has the least ability. The last two lines will be fulfilled in you, General.”

Yüan-tê started up in surprise, crying, “How could such a thing be?”

“Water-mirror” continued, “At this moment the marvellously clever ones of all the earth are all here and you, Sir, ought to seek them.”

“Where are they? Who are they?” said Yüan-tê quickly.

“If you could find either Fu-lung (Hidden Dragon) or Fêng-chʻu (Phoenix Fledgeling), you could restore order in the Empire.”

“But who are these men?”

His host clapped his hands, smiled and said, “Good; very good.”

When Yüan-tê persisted and pressed home his questions “Water-mirror” said, “It is getting late. You might stay the night here, General, and we will talk over these things to-morrow.”

He called to a lad to bring wine and food for his guest and his horse was taken to the stable and fed. After Yüan-tê had eaten he was shown to a chamber opening off the main room and went to bed. But the words of his host would not be banished and he lay there only dozing till far into the night.

Suddenly he became fully awake at the sound of a knock at the door and a person entering. And he heard his host say “Where are you from, Yüan-chih?”

Liu Pei rose from his couch and listened secretly. He heard the man reply, “It has long been said that Liu Piao treated good men as good men should be treated and bad men as they should be treated. So I went to see for myself. But that reputation is undeserved. He does treat good men correctly but he cannot use them, and he treats wicked men in the right way, all but dismissing them. So I left a letter for him and came away; and here I am.”

“Water-mirror” replied, “You, capable enough to be the adviser of a king, ought to be able to find some one fit to serve. Why did you cheapen yourself so far as to go to Liu Piao? Beside there is a real hero right under your eyes and you do not know him.”

“It is just as you say,” replied the stranger.

Liu Pei listened with great joy for he thought this visitor was certainly one of the two he was advised to look for. He would have shown himself then and there, but he thought that would look strange. So he waited till daylight, when he sought out his host and said, “Who was it came last night?”

“A friend of mine,” was the reply.

Yüan-tê begged for an introduction. “Water-mirror” said, “He wants to find an enlightened master and so he has gone elsewhere.”

When the guest asked his name his host only replied, “Good, good.” And when he asked who they were who went by the names of Fu-lung and Fêng-chʻu he only elicited the same reply.

Yüan-tê then, bowing low before his host, begged him to leave the hills and help him to bring about the restoration of the ruling house to its prerogatives. But he replied, “Men of the hills and deserts are unequal to such a task. However, there must be many far abler than I who will help you if you seek them.”

While they were talking they heard outside the farm the shouts of men and neighing of horses, and a servant came in to say that a captain with a large company of men had arrived. Yüan-tê went out hastily to see who these were and found Chao Yün. He was much relieved and Chao dismounted and entered the house.

“Last night, on my return to our city,” said Chao, “I could not find my lord, so I followed at once and traced you here. I pray you return quickly as I fear an attack on the city.”

So Yüan-tê took leave of his host and the whole company returned to Hsinyeh. Before they had gone far another troop appeared, and, when they had come nearer, they saw the two brothers. They met with great joy and Yüan-tê told them of the wonderful leap his horse had made over the torrent. All expressed surprise and pleasure.

As soon as they reached the city a council was called and Chao Yün said, “You ought first of all to indite a letter to Liu Piao telling him all these things.”

The letter was prepared and Sun Chʻien bore it to the seat of government. He was received, and Liu Piao at once asked the reason of Yüan-tê’s hasty flight from the festival. Whereupon the letter was presented and the bearer related the machinations of Tsʻai Mao and told of the escape and the amazing leap over the torrent. Liu Piao was very angry, sent for Tsʻai Mao and berated him soundly, saying, “How dare you try to hurt my brother?” and he ordered him out to execution.

Liu Piao’s wife, Tsʻai Mao’s sister, prayed for a remission of the death penalty, but Liu Piao refused to be appeased. Then spoke Sun Chʻien, saying, “If you put Tsʻai to death, I fear Uncle Liu will be unable to remain here.”

Then he was reprieved, but dismissed with a severe reprimand.

Liu Piao sent his elder son back with Sun Chʻien to apologise. When Chʻi reached Hsinyeh, Yüan-tê welcomed him and gave a banquet in his honour. After some little drinking, the chief guest suddenly began to weep and presently said, “My stepmother always cherishes a wish to put me out of the way, and I do not know how to avoid her anger. Could you advise me, Uncle?”

Yüan-tê exhorted him to be careful and perfectly filial and nothing could happen. Soon after the young man took his leave, and wept at parting. Yüan-tê escorted him well on his way and, pointing to his steed, said, “I owe my life to this horse: had it not been for him I had been already below the Springs.”

“It was not the strength of the horse, but your noble fortune, Uncle.”

They parted, the young man weeping bitterly. On re-entering the city Yüan-tê met a person in the street wearing a hempen turban, a cotton robe confined by a black girdle, and black shoes. He came along singing a song.

The universe is riven, alack! now nears the end of all, The noble mansion quakes, alack! what beam can stay the fall? A wise one waits his lord, alack! but hidden in the glen, The seeker knows not him, alack! nor me, of common men.

Yüan-tê listened. “Surely this is one of the men ‘Water-mirror’ spoke of,” thought he.

He dismounted, spoke to the singer and invited him into his residence. Then when they were seated he asked the stranger’s name.

“I am from Yingshang and my name is Tan Fu. I have known you by repute for a long time and they said you appreciated men of ability. I wanted to come to you but every way of getting an introduction seemed closed. So I bethought me of attracting your notice by singing that song in the market place.”

Yüan-tê thought he had found a treasure and treated the newcomer with the greatest kindness. Then Tan Fu spoke of the horse that he had seen Yüan-tê riding and asked to look at him. So the animal was brought round.

“Is not this a tilu?” said Tan Fu. “But though he is a good steed he risks his master. You must not ride him.”

“He has already fulfilled the omens,” said Yüan-tê, and he related the story of the leap over the torrent.

“But this was saving his master, not risking him; he will surely harm some one in the end. But I can tell you how to avert the omen.”

“I should be glad to hear it,” said Yüan-tê.

“If you have an enemy against whom you bear a grudge, give him this horse and wait till he has fulfilled the evil omens on this man: then you can ride him in safety.”

Yüan-tê changed colour. “What, Sir! You are but a new acquaintance and you would advise me to take an evil course and to harm another for my own advantage? No, Sir! I cannot listen.”

His guest smiled. “People said you were virtuous. I could not ask you directly, so I put it that way to test you.”

Yüan-tê’s expression changed. He rose and returned the compliment, saying, “But how can I be virtuous while I lack your teaching?”

“When I came here, I heard the people saying:

Since Liu came here, O blessed day! We’ve had good luck: long may he stay!

So you see the effects of your virtue extend to the ordinary people.”

Thereupon Tan Fu was made Organiser in Chief of the army.

The one idea that held Tsʻao Tsʻao after his return from Chʻichou was the capture of Chingchou. He sent Tsʻao Jên and Li Tien, with the two brothers Lü who had surrendered, to camp at Fanchʻêng with three legions and so threaten Chingchou and Hsiangyang. Thence he sent spies to find out the weak points.

Then the two Lüs petitioned Tsʻao Jên saying, “Liu Pei is strengthening his position at Hsinyeh and laying in large supplies. Some great scheme is afoot and he should be checked. Since our surrender we have performed no noteworthy service and, if you will give us half a legion, we promise to bring you the head of Liu Pei.”

Tsʻao Jên was only too glad, and the expedition set out. The scouts reported this to Yüan-tê who turned to Tan Fu for advice.

Tan Fu said, “They must not be permitted to cross the boundary. Send your two brothers right and left, one to attack the enemy on the march, the other to cut off the retreat. You and Chao Yün will make a front attack.”

The two brothers started and then Yüan-tê went out at the gate with three companies to oppose the enemy. Before they had gone far they saw a great cloud of dust behind the hills. This marked the approach of the brothers Lü. Presently, both sides being arrayed, Yüan-tê rode out and stood by his standard. He called out, “Who are you who thus would encroach on my territory?”

“I am the great general Lü Kʻuang, and I have the orders of the minister to make you prisoner,” said the leader.

Yüan-tê ordered Chao Yün to go out, and the two captains engaged. Very soon Chao had disposed of his opponent and Yüan-tê gave the signal to attack. Lü Hsiang could not maintain his position and led his men off. Soon his men found themselves attacked by an army rushing in from the side led by Kuan Yü. The loss was more than a half and the remainder fled for safety.

About ten li farther on they found their retreat barred by an army under Chang Fei, who stood in the way with a long spear ready to thrust. Crying out who he was, he bore down upon Lü Hsiang, who was slain without a chance of striking a blow. The men again fled in disorder. They were pursued by Yüan-tê and the greater part killed or captured.

Then Yüan-tê returned into his own city where he rewarded Tan Fu and feasted his victorious soldiers. Some of the defeated men took the news of the deaths of the leaders and the capture of their comrades to Tsʻao Jên.

Tsʻao Jên, much distressed, consulted his colleague who advised staying where they were and holding on till reinforcements could arrive.

“Not so,” said Tsʻao Jên. “We cannot support calmly the death of two leaders and the loss of so many men. We must avenge them quickly. Hsinyeh is but a crossbow slug of a place and not worth disturbing the Minister for.”

“Liu Pei is a man of metal,” said Li Tien. “Do not esteem him lightly.”

“What are you afraid of?” said Jên.

“The Rule of War says ‘To know your enemy and yourself is the secret of victory,’” replied Tien. “I am not afraid of the battle, but I do not think we can conquer.”

“You are a traitor!” cried Jên angrily. “Then I will capture Liu Pei myself.”

“Do so; and I will guard this city,” said Tien.

“If you do not go with me, it is a proof that you are a traitor,” retorted Tsʻao Jên.

At this reproach, Li Tien felt constrained to join the expedition. So they told off two and a half legions with which they crossed the river for Hsinyeh.

The officers all keenly felt the shame of many slain, The Chief determines on revenge and marches out again.

What measure of success the expedition met with will be related in the next chapter.

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Chapter XXXVI

CAPTURE OF FANCHʻÊNG: CHUKO LIANG RECOMMENDED.

In hot anger, Tsʻao Jên lost no time in marching out to avenge the loss of so many of his army. He hastily crossed the river to attack Hsinyeh and trample it in the dust.

When Tan Fu got back into the city he said to his master, “When Tsʻao Jên, now at Fanchʻêng, hears of his losses, he will try to retrieve them and will come to attack us.”

“What is the counter move?” asked Yüan-tê.

“As he will come with all his force his own city will be left undefended; we will surprise it.”

“By what ruse?”

The adviser leaned over and whispered to his chief. Whatever the plan was it pleased Yüan-tê, who made arrangements. Soon the scouts reported Tsʻao Jên crossing the river with a mighty host.

“Just as I guessed,” said Tan Fu, hearing of it.

Then he suggested that Yüan-tê should lead out one army against the invaders. He did so, and, when the formation was complete, Chao Yün rode to the front as champion and challenged the other side.

Li Tien rode out and engaged. At about the tenth bout Li Tien found he was losing and retired toward his own side. Chao Yün pressed after him, but was checked by a heavy discharge of arrows from the wings. Then both sides stopped the battle and retired to their camps.

Li Tien reported to his chief that their opponents were brave, very full of spirit, and that they would be hard to overcome and advised a retreat on Fanchʻêng.

Tsʻao Jên angrily replied, “You damped the men’s spirits before we started, and now you betray us. You have been bought and you deserve death.”

He called in the executioners and they led away their victim. But the other officers came to intercede and Tien was spared. However, he was transferred to the command of the rear, while Tsʻao Jên himself led the attack.

Next day the drums beat an advance and Tsʻao Jên, having drawn up his men, sent a messenger over to ask if his opponent recognised his plan of array. So Tan Fu went on a hill and looked over it. Then he said to Liu Pei “The arrangement is called ‘The Eight Docked Gates,’ and each ‘gate’ has a name. If you enter by one of the three named ‘Birth,’ ‘Bellevue’ and ‘Expanse’ you succeed; if by one of the ‘gates’ ‘Wounds,’ ‘Fear,’ or ‘Annihilation,’ you sustain injuries. The other two ‘gates’ are named ‘Obstacles’ and ‘Death,’ and to enter them means the end. Now, though the eight ‘gates’ are all there quite correct, the central ‘key-post’ is lacking and the formation can be thrown into confusion by entry from the south-east and exit due west.”

Wherefore certain orders were issued and Chao Yün, leading half a company, rode out on his prancing steed to break the array. He burst in, as directed, at the south-east and, with great clamour and fighting, reached the centre. Tsʻao Jên made for the north, but Chao Yün, instead of following him, made a dash westward and got through. Thence he turned round to the south-east again and smote till Tsʻao Jên’s army was in disarray. A general advance was signalled and the defeat was severe. The beaten enemy retired.

Tan Fu forbade pursuit and they returned.

The loss of the battle convinced Tsʻao Jên of the wisdom of his colleague and he sent for him to consult.

“They certainly have some very able person in Liu Pei’s army since my formation was so quickly broken,” said Tsʻao Jên.

“My chief anxiety is about Fanchʻêng,” said Li Tien.

“I will raid their camp this night,” said Jên. “If I succeed we will decide upon what should be done next. If I fail, we will return to Fanchʻêng.”

“The camp will be well prepared against such a thing and you will fail,” said Li.

“How can you expect to fight successfully when you are so full of doubts?” said Jên, angrily.

He held no more converse with his cautious colleague, but himself took command of the van and set out. Tien was relegated to the rear. The attack on the enemy’s camp was fixed for the second watch.

Now as Tan Fu was discussing plans with his chief a whirlwind went by, which Fu said foretold a raid on the camp.

“How shall we meet it?” said Yüan-tê.

“The plans are quite ready,” was the reply.

He whispered them to the chief. So at the second watch, when the enemy arrived, they saw fires on all sides; the stockades and huts burning. Tsʻao Jên understood at once that all hope of a surprise was vain and he turned to get away as quickly as possible. This was the signal for Chao Yün to fall on and that cut his return road. He hastened north toward the river, and reached the bank, but, while waiting for boats to cross the stream, up came Chang Fei and attacked.

By dint of great efforts and with the support of his colleague he got into a boat, but most of the men were drowned in the stream. As soon as he got to the farther shore he bolted for Fanchʻêng. He reached the wall and hailed the gate, but, instead of a friendly welcome, he heard the rolling of drums, which was soon followed by the appearance of a body of men. Kuan Yü led them.

“I took the city a long time ago,” shouted Kuan Yü.

This was a severe shock to Jên, who turned to flee. As soon as he faced about Kuan Yü attacked and killed many of his men. The remnant hastened to Hsüchʻang. On the road the beaten general wondered who had advised his opponents with such success.

While the defeated general had to find his way back to the capital, Yüan-tê had scored a great success. Afterwards he marched to Fanchʻêng, where he was welcomed by the magistrate Liu Pi, himself a scion of the ruling family, who had been born in Changsha. He received Yüan-tê as a guest in his own house and gave banquets and treated him exceedingly well.

In the train of the magistrate, Yüan-tê saw a very handsome and distinguished-looking young man, and asked who he was.

Liu Pi replied, “He is my nephew, Kʻôu Fêng, an orphan, whom I am taking care of.”

Yüan-tê had taken a great liking for the lad and proposed to adopt him. His guardian was willing, and so the adoption was arranged. The young man’s name was changed to Liu Fêng. When Yüan-tê left, he took his adopted son with him. He was then made to bow before Kuan Yü and Chang Fei as uncles.

Kuan Yü was doubtful of the wisdom of adopting another son, saying, “You have a son; why do you think it necessary to adopt another? It may cause confusion.”

“How? I shall treat him as a father should and he will serve me as befits a son.”

Kuan Yü was displeased. Then Yüan-tê and Tan Fu began further discussions of strategy and they decided to leave a guard in Fanchʻêng and to return to Hsinyeh.

In the meantime Tsʻao Tsʻao’s defeated generals had gone back. When they saw the Minister, Tsʻao Jên threw himself on the ground weeping and acknowledging his faults. He told the tale of his losses.

“The fortune of war,” said Tsʻao Tsʻao. “But I should like to know who laid Liu Pei’s plans.”

“That was Tan Fu,” said Jên.

“Who is he?” asked Tsʻao.

Chʻêng Yü said, “The man is not Tan Fu. When young this man was fond of fencing and used to take up the quarrels of other men and avenge their wrongs. Once, after killing his man, he let down his hair, muddied his face and was trying to escape when a lictor caught him and questioned him. He would not reply. So they carted him through the streets beating a drum and asking if any one recognised him. Nobody dared own to knowing him, if they did so. However, his companions managed to release him secretly and he ran away under some other name. Then he turned to study and wandered hither and thither wherever scholars were to be found. He was a regular disputant with Ssŭma Hui. His real name is Hsü Shu (Yüan-chih) and he comes from Yingchou. Tan Fu is merely an assumed name.”

“How does he compare with yourself?” asked Tsʻao.

“Ten times cleverer.”

“It is a pity. If able men gather to Liu Pei his wings will soon grow. What is to be done?”

“Hsü Shu is there now; but if you wanted him it would not be difficult to call him,” replied Hsün Yu.

“How could I make him come?” said Tsʻao.

“He is noted for his affection for his mother. His father died young, leaving his mother a widow with one other son. Now that son is dead and his mother has no one to care for her. If you sent and got his mother here and told her to write and summon her son he would surely come.”

Tsʻao sent without loss of time and had the old lady brought to the capital, where he treated her exceedingly well. Presently he said, “I hear you have a very talented son, who is now at Hsinyeh helping on that rebel Liu Pei against the government. There he is like a jewel in a muck-heap; it is a pity. Supposing you were to call him, I could speak of him before the Emperor and he might get an important office.”

Tsʻao bade his secretaries bring along the “four precious things of the study,” with which the dame could write to her son.

“What sort of a man is Liu Pei?” asked she.

Tsʻao replied, “A common sort of person from Pʻeichün, irresponsible enough to style himself Imperial Uncle, and so claiming some sort of connection with the Hans. He is neither trustworthy nor virtuous. People say he is a superior man as far as externals go, but a mean man by nature.”

The dame answered in a hard voice, “Why do you malign him so bitterly? Every one knows he is a descendant of one of the Han Princes and so related to the House. He has condescended to take a lowly office and is respectful to all men. He has a reputation for benevolence. Every one, young and old, cowherds and firewood cutters, all know him by name and know that he is the finest and noblest man in the world. If my son is in his service, then has he found a fitting master. You, under the name of a Han minister, are really nothing but a Han rebel. Contrary to all truth you tell me Yüan-tê is a rebel, whereby you try to induce me to make my son leave the light for darkness. Are you devoid of all sense of shame?”

As she finished speaking she picked up the inkstone to strike Tsʻao Tsʻao. This so enraged him that he forgot himself and the need for caution and bade the executioners lead off the old woman and put her to death. The adviser Chʻêng Yü, however, stopped this act of folly by pointing out the effect it would have on his reputation and how it would enhance hers, beside adding a keen desire for revenge to the motives which led Hsü Shu to labour in the interest of Liu Pei. He closed his remarks saying, “You had better keep her here so that Hsü Shu’s body and his thoughts may be in different places. He can not devote all his energies to helping our enemy while his mother is here. If you keep her I think I can persuade the son to come and help you.”

So the outspoken old lady was saved. She was given quarters and cared for. Daily Chʻêng Yü went to ask after her health, falsely claiming to being a sworn brother of her son’s, and so entitled to serve her and treat her as a filial son would have done. He often sent her gifts and wrote letters to her so that she had to write in reply. And thereby he learned her handwriting so that he could forge a “home” letter. When he could do this without fear of detection he wrote one and sent it by the hand of a trusty person to Hsinyeh.

One day a man arrived enquiring for one Tan Fu, a secretary; he had a letter from home for him. The soldiers led him to Tan Fu. The man said he was an official carrier of letters and had been told to bring this one. Tan Fu quickly tore it open and read:—

“On your brother’s death recently I was left alone; no relative was near and I was lonely and sad. To my regret, the Minister Tsʻao Tsʻao inveigled me into coming to the capital, and now he says you are a rebel and he has thrown me into bonds. However, thanks to Chʻêng Yü, my life has been spared so far, and, if you would only come and submit too, I should be quite safe. When this reaches you, remember how I have toiled for you and come at once, that you may prove yourself a filial son. We may together find some way of escape to our own place and avoid the dangers that threaten me. My life hangs by a thread and I look to you to save me. You will not require a second summons.”

Tears gushed from Hsü Shu’s eyes as he read, and with the letter in his hand he went to seek his chief, to whom he told the true story of his life and how he had joined Yüan-tê. “I heard that Liu Piao treated men well and went to him. I happened to arrive at a time of confusion. I saw he was of no use, so I left him very soon. I arrived at the retreat of Ssŭma Shui-ching (‘Water-mirror’) late one night and told him, and he blamed me for not knowing a master when I saw one. Then he told me of you and I sang that wild song in the streets to attract your attention. You took me: you used me. But now my aged mother is the victim of Tsʻao Tsʻao’s wiles. She is in prison and he threatens to do worse. She has written to call me and I must go. I hoped to be able to render you faithful service, but, with my dear mother a captive, I should be useless. Therefore I must leave you and hope in the future to meet you again.”

Yüan-tê broke into loud moans when he heard that his adviser was to leave.

“The bond between mother and son is divine,” said he, “and I do not need to be reminded where your duty lies. When you have seen your venerable mother perhaps I may have again the happiness of receiving your instruction.”

Having said farewell, Hsü Shu prepared to leave at once. However, at Yüan-tê’s wish he consented to stay over the night.

Then Sun Chʻien said privately to his master, “Hsü Shu is indeed a genius, but he has been here long enough to know all our secrets. If you let him go over to Tsʻao, he will be in his confidence and that will be to our detriment. You ought to keep him at all costs and not let him go. When Tsʻao sees he does not come he will put the mother to death, and that will make Hsü Shu the more zealous in your service, for he will burn to avenge his mother’s death.”

“I cannot do that. It would be very cruel and vile to procure the death of his mother that I might retain the son’s services. If I kept him it would lead to a rupture of the parental lien, and that would be a sin I would rather die than commit.”

Both were grieved and sighed. Yüan-tê asked the parting guest to a banquet, but he declined saying, “With my mother a prisoner I can swallow nothing, nay, though it were brewed from gold or distilled from jewels.”

“Alas! your departure is as if I lost both my hands,” said Yüan-tê. “Even the liver of a dragon or the marrow of a phoenix would be bitter in my mouth.”

They looked into each other’s eyes and wept. They sat silent till dawn. When all was ready for the journey the two rode out of the city side by side. At Long Pavilion they dismounted to drink the stirrup cup. Yüan-tê lifted the goblet and said, “It is my mean fortune that separates me from you, but I hope that you may serve well your new lord and become famous.”

Hsü Shu wept as he replied, “I am but a poor ignorant person whom you have kindly employed. Unhappily I have to break our intercourse in the middle, but my venerable mother is the real cause. Though Tsʻao Tsʻao use all manner of means to coerce me, yet will I never plan for him.”

“After you are gone I shall only bury myself in the hills and hide in the forests,” said Yüan-tê.

Tan Fu said, “I had in my heart for you the position of leader of the chieftains, but my plans have been altogether upset by my mother. I have been of no advantage to you nor should I do any good by remaining. But you ought to seek some man of lofty wisdom to help you in your great emprise. It is unseemly to be downcast.”

“I shall find none to help better than you, my master.”

“How can I permit such extravagant praise?” said Tan Fu. “I am only a useless blockhead.”

As he moved off he said to the followers, “Officers, I hope you will render the Princely One good service, whereby to write his name large in the country’s annals and cause his fame to glow in the pages of history. Do not be like me, a man who has left his work half done.”

They were all deeply affected. Yüan-tê could not bring himself to part from his friend. He escorted him a little further, and yet a little further, till Shu said, “I will not trouble you, O Princely One, to come further. Let us say our farewell here.”

Yüan-tê dismounted, took Hsü Shu by the hands and said, “Alas! we part. Each goes his way and who knows if we shall meet again?”

His tears fell like rain and Shu wept also. But the last goodbyes were said and when the traveller had gone Yüan-tê stood gazing after the little party and watched it slowly disappear. At the last glimpse he broke into lamentation.

“He is gone! What shall I do?”

One of the trees shut out the travellers from his sight and he testily pointed at it, saying, “Would that I could cut down every tree in the countryside!”

“Why?” said his men.

“Because they hinder my sight of Hsü Yüan-chih.”

Suddenly they saw Hsü Shu galloping back.

Said Yüan-tê, “He is returning; can it be that he is going to stay?”

So he hastened forward to meet him and when they got near enough he cried, “This return is surely for no slight reason.”

Checking his horse, Hsü Shu said, “In the turmoil of my feelings I forgot to say one word. There is a man of wonderful skill living about twenty li from the city of Hsiangyang, why not seek him?”

“Can I trouble you to ask him to visit me?”

“He will not condescend to visit you; you must go to him. But if he consent you will be as fortunate as the Chous when they got the aid of Lü Wang, or Han when Chang Liang came to help.”

“How does the unknown compare with yourself?”

“With me? Compared with him I am as a worn-out cart-horse to a kilin, an old crow to a phoenix. This man is of the same kidney as Kuan Chung and Yo I but, in my opinion, he is far their superior. He has the talent to measure the heavens and mete the earth; he is a man who overshadows every other in the world.”

“I would know his name.”

“He belongs to Yangtu of Langya; and his name, a double name, is Chuko Liang. His minor name is Kʻung-ming. He is of good family. His father was an official but died young and the young fellow went with his uncle to Chingchou, the Prefect of which was an old friend of his uncle’s, and he became settled there. Then his uncle died and he, with a younger brother, Chün, were farmers. They used to amuse themselves with the composition of songs in the ‘Old Father Liang’ style.

“On their land was a ridge of hills called the Sleeping Dragon and the elder of the two took it as a name and called himself ‘Master Sleeping Dragon.’ This is your man; he is a veritable genius. You ought really to visit him and if he will help you, you need feel no more anxiety about peace in the Empire.”

“‘Water-mirror’ spoke that time of two men, Fu-lung and Fêng-chʻu, and said if only one of them could be got to help me all would be well. Surely he, whom you speak of, is one of them.”

“Fêng-chʻu, or ‘Phoenix Fledging,’ is ‘Pʻang Tʻung’: and Fu-lung, or ‘Hidden Dragon,’ is ‘Chuko Kʻung-ming.’”

Yüan-tê jumped with delight, “Now at last I know who the mysterious ones are. How I wish they were here! But for you I should have still been like a blind man,” said he.

Some one has celebrated in verse this interview where Hsü Shu from horseback recommended Kʻung-ming:—

Yüan-tê heard that his able friend Must leave him, with saddened heart, For each to the other had grown very dear, Both wept when it came to part. But the parting guest then mentioned a name That echoed both loud and deep, Like a thunder clap in a spring-time sky, And there wakened a dragon from sleep.

Thus was the famous Kʻung-ming recommended to the lord he was to serve, and Hsü Shu rode away.

Now Yüan-tê understood the speech of the hermit Ssŭma Hui, and he woke as one from a drunken sleep. At the head of his officers, he retook the road to the city and having prepared rich gifts set out, with his brothers, for Nanyang.

Under the influence of his emotions at parting Hsü Shu had mentioned the name and betrayed the retreat of his friend. Now he thought of the possibility that Kʻung-ming would be unwilling to play the part of helper in Yüan-tê’s scheme, so he determined to go to visit him. He therefore took his way to Reposing Dragon Ridge and dismounted at the cottage. Asked why he had come, he replied, “I wished to serve Liu Pei of Hsiangchou but my mother has been imprisoned by Tsʻao Tsʻao, and has sent to call me. Therefore I have had to leave him. At the moment of parting I commended you to him. You may expect him speedily and I hope, Sir, you will not refuse your aid but will consent to use your great talents to help him.”

Kʻung-ming showed annoyance and said, “And so you have made me the victim of your sacrifice.”

So saying he shook out his sleeves and left the room. The guest shamefacedly retired, mounted his horse and hastened on his way to the capital to see his mother.

To help the lord he loved right well, He summoned the aid of another, When he took the distant homeward way, At the call of a loving mother.

What was the sequel will appear in the following chapters.

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Chapter XXXVII

ANOTHER SCHOLAR INTRODUCED: THE THREE VISITS TO THE RECLUSE.

As has been said Hsü Shu hastened to the capital. When Tsʻao Tsʻao knew he had arrived he sent two of his confidants to receive him and so he was led first to the minister’s palace.

“Why did such an illustrious scholar as you bow the knee to Liu Pei?” said Tsʻao.

“I am young and I fled to avoid the results of certain escapades. I spent some time as a wanderer and so came to Hsinyeh where I became good friends with him. But my mother is here and when I thought of all her affection I could no longer remain absent.”

“Now you will be able to take care of your mother at all times. And I may have the privilege of receiving your instruction.”

Hsü Shu then took his leave and hastened to his mother’s dwelling. Weeping with emotion he made his obeisance to her at the door of her room.

But she was greatly surprised to see him and said, “What have you come here for?”

“I was at Hsinyeh, in the service of Liu of Yuchou when I received your letter. I came immediately.”

His mother suddenly grew very angry. Striking the table she cried, “You shameful and degenerate son! For years you have been a vagabond in spite of all my teaching. You are a student and know the books. You must then know that loyalty and filial piety are often opposed. Did you not recognise in Tsʻao a traitor, a man who flouts his king and insults the mighty ones? Did you not see that Liu Pei was virtuous and upright as all the world knows? Moreover, he is of the House of Han and when you were with him you were serving a fitting master. Now on the strength of a scrap of forged writing, with no attempt at any enquiry, you have left the light and plunged into darkness and earned a disgraceful reputation. Truly you are stupid! How can I bear to look upon you? You have besmirched the fair fame of your forefathers and are of no use in the world.”

The son remained bowed to the earth, not daring to lift his eyes while his mother delivered this vilifying tirade. As she said the last word she rose suddenly and left the room. Soon after one of the servants came out to say she had hanged herself. Her son rushed in to try to save her, but was too late.

A eulogy of her conduct has been written thus:—

Wise Mother Hsü, fair is your fame, The storied page glows with your name, From duty’s path you never strayed, The family’s renown you made. To train your son no pains you spared, For your own body nothing cared. You stand sublime, from us apart, Through simple purity of heart. Brave Liu Pei’s virtues you extolled, You blamed Tsʻao Tsʻao, the basely bold. Of blazing fire you felt no fear, You blenched not when the sword came near, But dreaded lest a wilful son Should dim the fame his fathers won. Yes, Mother Hsü was of one mould With famous heroines of old, Who never shrank from injury, And even were content to die. Fair meed of praise, while still alive, Was yours, and ever will survive. Hail! Mother Hsü, your memory, While time rolls on, shall never die.

At sight of his mother dead Hsü Shu fell in a swoon and only recovered consciousness after a long time. By and bye Tsʻao heard of it and sent mourning gifts, and in due course went in person to condole and sacrifice. The body was interred on the south of the capital and the dead woman’s unhappy son kept vigil at her tomb. He steadily rejected all gifts from Tsʻao Tsʻao.

At that time Tsʻao was contemplating an attack on the south. His advisers dissuaded him, saying he should await milder weather; and he yielded. But he began to prepare, and led the river waters aside to form a lake, which he called the Training Lake, where he could accustom his men to fight on the water.

As has been said Yüan-tê prepared gifts to offer to Chuko Liang on his visit. One day his servants announced a stranger of extraordinary appearance, wearing a lofty head-dress and a wide belt.

“Surely this is he” said Yüan-tê, and, hastily arranging his dress, he went to welcome the visitor. But the first glance showed him that it was the recluse of the mountains, Ssŭma Hui. However, Yüan-tê was glad to see him and led him into the inner apartment as he would an old friend. There Pei conducted him to the seat of honour and made his obeisance, saying, “Since leaving you that day in the mountains I have been overwhelmed with military preparations and so have failed to visit you as courtesy demanded. Now that the brightness has descended upon me I hope this dereliction of duty may be pardoned.”

“I hear Hsü Yüan-chih is here. I have come expressly to see him,” replied the visitor bluntly.

“He has lately left for Hsüchʻang. A messenger came with a letter telling of the imprisonment of his mother.”

“Then he has just fallen into Tsʻao Tsʻao’s trap, for that letter was a forgery. I have always known his mother to be a very noble woman, and even if she were imprisoned by Tsʻao she would not summon her son like that. Certainly the letter was a forgery. If the son did not go, the mother would be safe; if he went, she would be a dead woman.”

“But how?” asked Yüan-tê, dismayed.

“She is a woman of the highest principles, who would be greatly mortified at the sight of her son under such conditions.”

Liu Pei said, “Just as your friend was leaving he mentioned the name of a certain Chuko Liang. What think you of him?”

Hui laughed, saying, “If Yüan-chih wanted to go, he was free to go. But why did he want to provoke him into coming out and showing compassion for some one else?”

“Why do you speak like that?” asked Yüan-tê.

He replied, “Five men, Kʻung-ming, Tsʻui Chou-pʻing, Shih Kuang-yuan, Mêng Kung-wei and Hsü Yüan-chih were the closest of friends. They formed a little coterie devoted to meditation on essential refinement. Only Kʻung-ming arrived at a perception of its meaning. He used to sit among them with his arms about his knees muttering and then, pointing to his companions, he would say, ‘You, gentlemen, would become governors and prefects if you were in official life.’

“When they asked him what was his ambition he would only smile and always compared himself with the great scholars Kuan Chung and Yo I. No one could gauge his talents.”

“How comes it that Yingchou produces so many able men?” said Yüan-tê.

“That old astrologer, Yin Kʻuei, used to say that the stars clustered thick over the district and so there were many wise men.”

Now Kuan Yü was there and when he heard Kʻung-ming so highly praised he said, “Kuan Chung and Yo I are the two most famous men mentioned in the ‘Spring and Autumn.’ They well overtopped the rest of mankind. Is it not a little too much to say that Kʻung-ming compares with these two?”

“In my opinion he should not be compared with these two, but rather with two others,” said Hui.

“Who are these two?” asked Kuan Yü.

“One of them is Chiang Tzŭ-ya, who laid the foundations of the Chou dynasty so firmly that it lasted eight hundred years, and the other Chang Tzŭ-fang, who made Han glorious for four centuries.”

Before the surprise called forth by this startling statement had subsided, the visitor walked down the steps and took his leave. Liu Pei would have kept him if he could, but he was obdurate. As he stalked proudly away he threw up his head and said, “Though the ‘Sleeping Dragon’ has found his lord, he has not been born at the right time. It is a pity.”

“What a wise hermit!” was Liu Pei’s comment.

Soon after the three brothers set out to find the abode of the wise man. When they drew near the spot they saw a number of peasants in a field hoeing up the weeds, and as they worked they sang:—

“The earth is a chequered board, And the sky hangs over all, Under it men are contending, Some rise, but a many fall. For those who succeed ’tis well, But for those who go under rough. There’s a dozing dragon hard by, But his sleep isn’t deep enough.”

They stopped to listen to the song and, calling up one of the peasants, asked who made it.

“It was made by Master ‘Sleeping Dragon,’” said the labourer.

“Then he lives hereabout. Where?”

“South of this hill there is a ridge called The Sleeping Dragon and close by is a sparse wood. In it stands a modest cottage. That is where Master Chuko takes his repose.”

Yüan-tê thanked him and the party rode on. Soon they came to the ridge, most aptly named, for indeed it lay wrapped in an atmosphere of calm beauty.

A poet wrote of it thus:—

Not far from Hsiangyang’s massive walls There stands, clear cut against the sky, A lofty ridge, and at its foot A gentle stream goes gliding by.

The contour, curving up and down, Although by resting cloud it’s marred, Arrests the eye; and here and there The flank by waterfalls is scarred.

There, like a sleeping dragon coiled, Or phoenix hid among thick pines, You see, secure from prying eyes, A cot, reed-built on rustic lines.

The rough-joined doors, pushed by the wind, Swing idly open and disclose The greatest genius of the world Enjoying still his calm repose.

The air is full of woodland scents, Around are hedgerows trim and green, Close-growing intercrossed bamboos Replace the painted doorway screen.

But look within and books you see By every couch, near every chair; And you may guess that common men Are very seldom welcomed there.

The hut seems far from human ken, So far, one might expect to find Wild forest denizens there, trained To serve in place of human kind.

Without a hoary crane might stand As warden of the outer gate; Within a long-armed gibbon come To offer fruit upon a plate.

But enter; there refinement reigns; Brocaded silk the lutes protect, And burnished weapons on the walls The green of pines outside reflect.

For he who dwells within that hut Is talented beyond compare, Although he lives the simple life And harvest seems his only care.

He waits until the thund’rous call Shall bid him wake, nor sleep again; Then will he forth and at his word Peace over all the land shall reign.

Yüan-tê soon arrived at the door of the retreat, dismounted and knocked at the rough door of the cottage. A youth appeared and asked what he wanted.

Yüan-tê replied, “I am Liu Pei, General of the Han Dynasty, Marquis of Ichêngtʻing, Magistrate of Yuchou and Uncle of the Emperor. I am come to salute the Master.”

“I cannot remember so many titles,” said the lad.

“Then simply say that Liu Pei has come to enquire after him.”

“The master left this morning early.”

“Whither has he gone?”

“His movements are very uncertain. I do not know whither he has gone.”

“When will he return?”

“That also is uncertain. Perhaps in three days, perhaps in ten.”

The disappointment was keen.

“Let us go back since we cannot see him,” said Chang Fei.

“Wait a little time,” said Yüan-tê.

“It would be better to return,” said Kuan Yü, “then we might send to find out when this man had come back.”

So Yüan-tê agreed, first saying to the boy, “When the master returns, tell him that Liu Pei has been.”

They rode away. Presently Liu Pei stopped and looked back at the surroundings of the little cottage in the wood. The mountains were picturesque rather than grand, the water clear rather than profound, the plain was level rather than extensive, the woods luxuriant rather than extensive. Gibbons ranged through the trees and cranes waded in the shallow water. The pines and the bamboos vied with each other in verdure. It was a scene to linger upon.

While Liu Pei stood regarding it, he saw a figure coming down a mountain path. The man’s bearing was lofty; he was handsome and dignified. He wore a comfortable-looking bonnet on his head and a black robe hung about his figure in easy folds. He used a staff to help him down the steep path.

“Surely that is he!” said Yüan-tê.

He dismounted and walked over to greet the stranger, whom he saluted deferentially, saying, “Are you not Master Sleeping Dragon, Sir?”

“Who are you, General?” said the stranger.

“I am Liu Pei.”

“I am not Kʻung-ming, but I am a friend of his. My name is Tsʻui Chou-pʻing.”

“Long have I known of you! I am very glad to see you,” replied Yüan-tê. “And now I pray you to be seated just where we are and let me receive your instruction.”

The two men sat down in the wood on a stone and the two brothers ranged themselves by Liu Pei’s side.

Chou-pʻing began, saying, “General, for what reason do you wish to see Kʻung-ming?”

Liu Pei replied, “The Empire is in confusion and troubles gather everywhere. I want your friend to tell me how to restore order.”

“You, Sir, wish to arrest the present disorder although you are a kindly man and, from the oldest antiquity, the correction of disorder has demanded stern measures. On the day that the founder of the Han dynasty first put his hand to the work and slew the wicked ruler of Tsʻin, order began to replace disorder. Good government began with The Founder, (206 B.C.), and endured two hundred years; two centuries of tranquillity. Then came Wang Mang’s rebellion and disorder took the place of order. Anon, arose Kuang-Wu, who restored the Dynasty, and order once more prevailed. We have had two centuries of order and tranquillity, and the time of trouble and battles is due. The restoration of peace will take time; it cannot be quickly accomplished. You, Sir, wish to get Kʻung-ming to regulate times and seasons, to repair the cosmos; but I fear the task is indeed difficult and to attempt it would be a vain expenditure of mental energy. You know well that he who goes with the favour of Heaven travels an easy road, he who goes contrary meets difficulties. One cannot escape one’s lot; one cannot evade fate.”

“Master,” replied Pei, “your insight is indeed deep and your words of wide meaning, but I am a scion of the House of Han and must help it. Dare I talk of the inevitable and trust to fate?”

Chou-pʻing replied, “A simple denizen of the mountain wilds is unfitted to discuss the affairs of Empire. But you bade me speak and I have spoken; perhaps somewhat madly.”

“Master, I am grateful for your instruction. But know you whither Kʻung-ming has gone?”

“I also came to see him and I know not where he is,” said Chou-pʻing.

“If I asked you, Master, to accompany me to my poor bit of territory, would you come?”

“I am too dilatory, too fond of leisure and ease, and no longer have any ambitions. But I will see you another time.”

And with these words he saluted and left.

The three brothers also mounted and started homeward. Presently Chang Fei said, “We have not found Kʻung-ming and we have had to listen to the wild ravings of this so-called scholar. There is the whole result of this journey.”

“His words were those of a deep thinker,” replied Yüan-tê.

Some days after the return to Hsinyeh, Yüan-tê sent to find out whether Kʻung-ming had returned and the messenger came back saying that he had. Wherefore Liu Pei prepared for another visit. Again Chang Fei showed his irritation by remarking, “Why must you go hunting after this villager? Send and tell him to come.”

“Silence!” said Yüan-tê, “The Teacher Mêng, (Mencius) said, ‘To try to see the sage without going his way is like barring a door you wish to enter.’ Kʻung-ming is the greatest sage of the day; how can I summon him?”

So Yüan-tê rode away to make his visit, his two brothers with him as before. It was winter and exceedingly cold; angry clouds covered the whole sky. Before they had gone far a bitter wind began to blow in their faces and the snow began to fall. Soon the mountains were of jade and the trees of silver.

“It is very cold and the earth is frozen hard, no fighting is possible now.” Said Chang Fei. “Yet we are going all this way to get advice which will be useless to us. Where is the sense of it? Let us rather get back to Hsinyeh out of the cold.”

Yüan-tê replied, “I am set upon proving my zeal to Kʻung-ming, but if you, my brother, do not like the cold, you can return.”

“I do not fear death; do you think I care for the cold? But I do care about wasting my brother’s energies,” said Chang Fei.

“Say no more,” said Yüan-tê, and they travelled on.

When they drew near the little wood they heard singing in a roadside inn and stopped to listen. This was the song:—

Although possessed of talent rare, This man has made no name; Alas! the day is breaking late That is to show his fame. O friends you know the tale: Th’ aged man constrained to leave His cottage by the sea. To follow in a prince’s train His counsellor to be. Eight hundred feudal chieftains met Who came with one accord; The happy omen, that white fish, That leapt the boat aboard; The gory field in distant wilds, Whence flowed a crimson tide, And him acknowledged chief in war Whose virtues none denied; That Kaoyang rustic, fond of wine, Who left his native place And went to serve so faithfully The man of handsome face; And one who spoke of ruling chiefs In tones so bold and free, But sitting at the festive board Was full of courtesy; And one, ’twas he who laid in dust Walled cities near four score— But men of doughty deeds like these On earth are seen no more. Now had these men not found their lord Would they be known to fame? Yet having found, they served him well And so achieved a name.

The song ended, the singer’s companion tapping the table sang:—

We had a famous emperor, Who drew his shining sword, Cleansed all the land within the seas And made himself its lord. In time his son succeeded him, And so from son to son The lordship passed, held firm until Four hundred years had run. Then dawned a day of weaklier sons, The fiery virtue failed, Then ministers betrayed their trust, Court intrigues vile prevailed. The omens came; a serpent black Coiled on the dragon throne, While in the hall of audience Unholy haloes shone. Now bandits swarm in all the land And noble strives with chief, The common people, sore perplexed, Can nowhere find relief. Let’s drown our sorrows in the cup, Be happy while we may, Let those who wish run after fame That is to last for aye.

The two men laughed loud and clapped their hands as the second singer ceased. Yüan-tê thought full surely the longed-for sage was there, so he dismounted and entered the inn. He saw the two merry-makers sitting opposite each other at a table. One was pale with a long beard; the other had a strikingly refined face. Yüan-tê saluted them and said, “Which of you is Master Sleeping Dragon?”

“Who are you, Sir?” asked the long-bearded one. “What business have you with Sleeping Dragon?”

“I am Liu Pei. I want to enquire of him how to restore tranquillity to the world.”

“Well, neither of us is your man, but we are friends of his. My name is Shih Kuang-yüan and my friend here is Mêng Kung-wei.”

“I know you both by reputation,” said Yüan-tê smiling. “I am indeed fortunate to meet you in this haphazard way. Will you not come to the Sleeping Dragon’s retreat and talk for a time? I have horses here for you.”

“We idle folk of the wilds know nothing of tranquillising States. Do not trouble to ask, please. Pray mount again and go your way in search of Sleeping Dragon.”

So he remounted and went his way. He reached the little cottage, dismounted and tapped at the door. The same lad answered his knock and he asked whether the Master had returned.

“He is in his room reading,” said the boy.

Joyful indeed was Liu Pei as he followed the lad in. In front of the middle door he saw written this pair of scrolls:—

By purity manifest the inclination: By repose affect the distant.

As he was looking at this couplet he heard some one singing in a subdued voice and stopped by the door to peep in. He saw a young man close to a charcoal brazier, hugging his knees while he sang:—

The phoenix flies high, ah me! And only will perch on a wutung tree. The scholar is hid, ah me! Till his lord appear he can patient be. He tills his fields, ah me! He is well-content and I love my home, He awaits his day, ah me! His books and his lute to leave and roam.

As the song ended Yüan-tê advanced and saluted saying, “Master, long have I yearned for you, but have found it impossible to salute you. Lately one Hsu spoke of you and I hastened to your dwelling, only to come away disappointed. This time I have braved the elements and come again and my reward is here; I see your face, and I am indeed fortunate.”

The young man hastily returned the salute and said, “General, you must be that Liu Pei of Yuchou who wishes to see my brother.”

“Then, Master, you are not the Sleeping Dragon!” said Yüan-tê, starting back.

“I am his younger brother, Chün. He has an elder brother, Chin, now with Sun in Chiangtung as a secretary. Kʻung-ming is the second of our family.”

“Is your brother at home?”

“Only yesterday he arranged to go a jaunt with Tsʻui Chou-pʻing.”

“Whither have they gone?”

“Who can say? They may take a boat and sail away among the lakes, or go to gossip with the priests in some remote mountain temple, or wander off to visit a friend in some far away village, or be sitting in some cave with a lute or a chessboard. Their goings and comings are uncertain and nobody can guess at them.”

“What very poor luck have I! Twice have I failed to meet the great sage.”

“Pray sit a few moments and let me offer you some tea.”

“Brother, since the master is not here I pray you remount and go,” said Chang Fei.

“Since I am here, why not a little talk before we go home again?” said Yüan-tê.

Then turning to his host he continued, “Can you tell me if your worthy brother is skilled in strategy and studies works on war?”

“I do not know.”

“This is worse than the other,” grumbled Chang Fei. “And the wind and snow are getting worse; we ought to go back.”

Yüan-tê turned on him angrily and told him to stop.

Chün said, “Since my brother is absent I will not presume to detain you longer. I will return your call soon.”

“Please do not take that trouble. In a few days I will come again. But if I could borrow paper and pencil I would leave a note to show your worthy brother that I am zealous and earnest.”

Chün produced the “four treasures” of the scholar and Yüan-tê, thawing out the frozen brush between his lips, spread the sheet of delicate note-paper and wrote:—

“Pei has long admired your fame. He has visited your dwelling twice, but to his great disappointment he has gone empty away. He humbly remembers that he is a distant relative of the Emperor, that he has undeservedly enjoyed fame and rank. When he sees the proper government wrested aside and replaced by pretence, the foundation of the State crumbling away, hordes of bravos creating confusion in the country and an evil cabal behaving unseemly toward the rightful Prince, then his heart and gall are torn to shreds. Though he has a real desire to assist, yet is he deficient in the needful skill. Wherefore he turns to the Master, trusting in his kindness, graciousness, loyalty and righteousness. Would the Master but use his talent, equal to that of Lü Wang, and perform great deeds like Chang Tzŭ-fang, then would the Empire be happy and the throne would be secure.”

“This is written to tell you that, after purification of mind with fasting and of body with fragrant baths, Pei will come again to prostrate himself in your honoured presence and receive enlightenment.”

The letter written and given to Chün, Yüan-tê took his leave, exceedingly disappointed at this second failure. As he was mounting he saw the serving lad waving his hand outside the hedge and heard him call out, “The old Master is coming”

Yüan-tê looked and then saw a figure seated on a donkey leisurely jogging along over a bridge.

The rider of the donkey wore a cap with long flaps down to his shoulders and his body was wrapped in a fox fur robe. A youth followed him bearing a jar of wine. As he came through the snow he hummed a song:—

’Tis eve, the sky is overcast. The north wind comes with icy blast, Light snowflakes whirl adown until A white pall covers dale and hill.

Perhaps above the topmost sky White dragons strive for mastery, The armour scales from their forms riven Are scattered o’er the world wind-driven.

Amid the storm there jogs along A simple wight who croons a song. “O poor plum trees, the gale doth tear Your blossoms off and leave you bare.”

“Here at last is the Sleeping Dragon,” thought Yüan-tê, hastily slipping out of the saddle. He saluted the donkey rider as he neared and said, “Master, it is hard to make way against this cold wind. I and my companions have been waiting long.”

The rider got off his donkey and returned the bow, while Chuko Chün from behind said, “This is not my brother; it is his father-in-law, Huang Chʻêng-yen.”

Yüan-tê said, “I chanced to hear the song you were singing; it is very beautiful.”

Chʻêng-yen replied, “It is a little poem I read in my son-in-law’s house and I recalled it as I crossed the bridge and saw the plum trees in the hedge. And so it happened to catch your ear, noble Sir.”

“Have you seen your son-in-law lately?” asked Yüan-tê.

“That is just what I have come to do now.”

At this Yüan-tê bade him farewell and went on his way. The storm was very grievous to bear, but worse than the storm was the grief in his heart as he looked back at Sleeping Dragon Ridge.

One winter’s day through snow and wind A prince rode forth the sage to find; Alas! his journey was in vain, And sadly turned he home again.

The stream stood still beneath the bridge A sheet of ice draped rock and ridge, His steed benumbed with biting cold But crawled as he were stiff and old.

The snow-flakes on the rider’s head Were like pear-blossoms newly shed, Or like the willow-catkins light They brushed his cheek in headlong flight.

He stayed his steed, he looked around, The snow lay thick on tree and mound, The Sleeping Dragon Ridge lay white A hill of silver, glistening bright.

After the return to Hsinyeh the time slipped away till spring was near. Then Yüan-tê cast lots to find the propitious day for another journey in search of the sage. The day being selected he fasted for three days and then changed his dress ready for the visit. His two brothers viewed the preparations with disapproval and presently made up their minds to remonstrate.

The sage and the fighting man never agree, A warrior despises humility.

The next chapter will tell what they said.

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Chapter XXXVIII

PLAN FOR THREE KINGDOMS: THE SUNS AVENGE THEMSELVES.

Nothing discouraged by two unsuccessful visits to the retreat of the sage whose advice he sought to secure, Liu Pei made preparations for a third visit. His brothers disapproved, and Kuan Yü said, “Brother, you have sought him twice, surely this is showing even too much deference. I do not believe in this fame of his for learning; he is avoiding you and dare not submit to the test. Why so obstinately hold this idea?”

“You are wrong, my brother. Duke Huan of Chʻi paid five visits to the ‘Hermit of the Eastern Suburb’ before he got to see his face. And my desire to see the sage is even greater than his.”

“I think you are mistaken,” said Chang Fei. “How can this villager be such a marvel of wisdom? You should not go again and, if he will not come, I will bring him with a hempen rope.”

“Have you forgotten the great Prince Wên’s visit to Chiang Tzŭ-ya, the old man of the Eastern Sea? If he could show such deference to a wise man, where am I too deferential? If you will not go, your brother and I will go without you,” said Yüan-tê.

“If you two go, how can I hang back?” said Chang Fei.

“If you go, then you must be polite.”

Fei said he would not forget himself, and the three set out. When they were half a li from the little cottage, Yüan-tê dismounted, deciding to show his respect by approaching the house on foot. Very soon he met Chuko Chün, whom he saluted with great deference, enquiring whether his brother was at home.

“He returned last evening; you can see him to-day, General.”

As he said this he went off with some swagger.

“Fortune favours me this time,” said Yüan-tê, “I am going to see the master.”

“That was a rude fellow”, said Fei, “it would not have hurt him to have conducted us to the house. Why did he go off like that?”

“Each one has his own affairs,” said his brother. “What power have we over him?”

Soon the three stood at the door and they knocked. The serving lad came out and asked their business and Yüan-tê said very deferentially, “I would trouble the servant of the genius, gentle page, to inform the Master that Liu Pei wishes to pay his respects to him.”

“My Master is at home, but he is asleep.”

“In that case do not announce me.”

He bade his two brothers wait at the door quietly and he himself entered with careful steps. There was the man he sought, lying asleep on the couch, stretched on a simple mat. Yüan-tê saluted him with joined hands at a respectful distance.

The time passed and still the sleeper did not wake. The two brothers left without, beginning to feel impatient, also came in and Chang Fei was annoyed at seeing his revered elder brother respectfully standing by while another slept.

“What an arrogant fellow is this Master?” said he. “There is our brother waiting, while he sleeps on perfectly carelessly. I will go to the back of the place and let off a bomb and see if that will rouse him.”

“No, no; you must do nothing of the kind,” whispered Kuan Yü, and then Yüan-tê told them to go out again.

Just then he noticed that the Master moved. He turned over as though about to rise, but, instead, he faced the wall and again fell asleep. The serving lad made as if he would rouse his master, but Yüan-tê forbade him to be disturbed and he waited yet another weary hour. Then Kʻung-ming woke up repeating to himself the lines:—

“Can any know what fate is his? Yet have I felt throughout my life, The day would come at last to quit The calm retreat for toil and strife.”

As he finished he turned to the lad saying, “Have any of the usual people come?”

“Liu, the Uncle of the Emperor is here,” said the boy. “He has been waiting some time.”

“Why did you not tell me?” said he, rising from the couch. “I must dress.”

He rose and turned into a room behind to dress. In a short time he re-appeared, his clothing properly arranged, to receive his visitor.

Then Yüan-tê saw coming toward him a man rather below medium height with a refined face. He wore a head-wrap and a long crane-white gown. He moved with much dignity as though he was rather more than mortal.

Yüan-tê bowed saying, “I am one of the offshoots of the Han family, a simple person from Cho. I have long known the Master’s fame, which has indeed thundered in my ear. Twice I have come to visit you, without success. Once I left my name on your writing table; you may have my note.”

Kʻung-ming replied, “This hermit is but a dilatory person by temperament. I know I have to thank you for more than one vain visit and I am ashamed to think of them.”

These courteous remarks and the proper bows exchanged, the two men sat in their relative positions as host and guest and the serving lad brought tea. Then Kʻung-ming said, “From your letter I know that you grieve for both people and government. If I were not so young and if I possessed any talent, I would venture to question you.”

Yüan-tê replied, “Ssŭma Hui and Hsü Shu have both spoken of you; can it be that their words were vain? I trust, O Master, that you will not despise my worthlessness but will condescend to instruct me.”

“The two men you speak of are very profound scholars. I am but a peasant, a mere farmer, and who am I that I should talk of Empire politics? Those two misled you when they spoke of me. Why do you reject the beautiful jewel for a worthless pebble?”

“But your abilities are world embracing and marvellous. How can you be content to allow time to pass while you idle away life in these secluded haunts? I conjure you, O Master, to remember the inhabitants of the world and remove my crass ignorance by bestowing instruction upon me.”

“But what is your ambition, General?”

Yüan-tê moved his seat nearer to his host and said, “The Hans are sinking; designing ministers steal away their authority. I am weak, yet I desire to restore the State to its right mind. But my ignorance is too vast, my means are too slender and I know not where to turn. Only you, Master, can lighten my darkness and preserve me from falling. How happy should I be if you would do so!”

Kʻung-ming replied, “One bold man after another has arisen in various parts of the Empire ever since the days of the great rebel Tung Cho. Tsʻao Tsʻao was not so powerful as Yüan Shao, but he overcame him by seizing the favourable moment and using his men properly. Now he is all-powerful; he rules an immense army and, through his control of the Court, the various feudal lords as well. You cannot think of opposing him. Then the Suns have held their territory in Chiangtung for three generations. Their position may not appear too secure, but they have popularity to appeal to. You can gain support but win no success there. Chingchou on the north rests on the two rivers Han and Mien; their interests lie in all to the south of them; on the east they touch Wu and on the west they extend to the ancient states Pa and Shu. This is the area in which decisive battles have to be won and one must hold it in order to be secure and Heaven has virtually made it yours. Yichou is an important place, fertile and extensive, a country favoured of Heaven and that through which the Founder of Han obtained the Empire. Its ruler Liu Chang is ignorant and weak. The people are noble and the country prosperous, but he does not know how to hold it all, and all the able men of the district are yearning for an enlightened prince. As you are a scion of the Family, well known throughout the land as trusty and righteous, a whole-hearted hero, who greatly desires to win the support of the wise, if you get possession of Yi and Ching, if on the west you are in harmony with the Jung tribes, on the south win over I and Yüeh, make an alliance with Sun Chʻüan, and maintain good government, you can await confidently the day when heaven shall offer you the desired opportunity. Then you may depute a worthy leader to go to the north-east while you take command of an expedition to the north-west, and will you not find the warmest welcome prepared for you by the people? This done the completion of the task will be easy. The Hans will be restored. And I will be your adviser in all these operations if you will only undertake them.”

He paused while he bade the lad bring out a map. As this was unrolled Kʻung-ming went on, “There you see the fifty four divisions of Ssŭchʻuan. Should you wish to take the overlordship you will yield to Tsʻao Tsʻao in the north till the time of Heaven be come, to Sun Chʻüan in the south till the position may become favourable. You, General, will be the Man and complete the trinity. Chingchou is to be taken first as a home, the west next for the foundation of domination. When you are firmly established you can lay your plans for the attainment of the whole Empire.”

As Kʻung-ming ceased his harangue, Yüan-tê left his place and saluted him, saying, “Your words, O Master, render everything so clear that meseems the clouds are swept aside and I see the clear sky. But Chingchou belongs to Liu Piao, my kinsman, and Yichou to another kinsman; I could hardly take the land from them.”

“I have studied the stars and I know Liu Piao is not long for this world; the other is not the sort of man to endure. Both places will certainly fall to you.”

Yüan-tê bowed his acknowledgments. And so, in one conversation, Kʻung-ming proved that he, who had lived in complete retirement all his life, knew and foresaw the three fragments into which the Empire was to break. True, indeed, is it that throughout all the ages no one has ever equalled his intelligence and mastery of the situation.

Behold, when Liu Pei frets that he is weak, Then “Sleeping Dragon” is not far to seek; When he desires to know how things will hap, The Master, smiling, shows him on the map.

“Though I be of small repute and scanty virtue,” said Yüan-tê, “I hope, O Master, you will not despise me for my worthlessness, but will leave this retreat to help me. I will assuredly listen most reverently to your words.”

Kʻung-ming replied, “I have long been happy on my farm and am fond of my leisure. I fear I cannot obey your command.”

Yüan-tê wept. “If you will not, O Master, what will become of the people?”

The tears rolled down unchecked upon the lapel and sleeves of his robe. This proved to Kʻung-ming the sincerity of his desire and he said, “General if you will accept me, I will render what trifling service I can.”

Then Yüan-tê was delighted. He called in Kuan and Chang to make their bow and brought out the gifts he had prepared. Kʻung-ming refused them all.

“These are not gifts to engage your services, but mere proof of my regard,” said Yüan-tê.

Then the presents were accepted. They all remained that night at the farm. Next day Chuko Chün returned and his brother said to him, “Uncle Liu has come thrice to see me and now I must go with him. Keep up the farm in my absence and do not let the place go to ruin for, as soon as my work is accomplished, I will certainly return.”

Then, turning from his humble home, He thought of peaceful days to come, When he should take the homeward way And ne’er beyond the valley stray. But duty kept him in the west, And there he found his place of rest.

An old poem may be quoted here:—

The Founder of Han seized his gleaming blade And at Mangtang the blood of the white snake flowed. He conquered Tsʻin, destroyed Chʻu and entered Hsienyang. After two centuries of rule the line was near broken, But Kuang-Wu, the great, restored the glory at Loyang. And his children occupied the throne Till decay began in the days of Huan and Ling. The Emperor Ling removed the capital to Hsüchʻang, And, within the four seas, all was confusion. Bold spirits started up in fierce contention. Tsʻao Tsʻao, seized the favourable moment And the Imperial authority passed into his hands, While the Suns made to themselves A glorious heritage east of the river, Solitary and poor, Liu Pei wandered from place to place, Till he found a haven in Hsinyeh. Sorely distressed he was at the sorrows of the people, But the Sleeping Dragon conceived a noble ambition, Within his breast were thoughts Of great things to be accomplished by force of arms. Then, because of the parting words of Hsü Shu, And by the thrice repeated visits to his retreat, The great hero found and knew his mentor. When the age of Kʻung-ming was but thrice nine years, He turned from his books, put aside his lute And left the peaceful fields he had loved, Under his guidance Chingchou was taken And the Land of the Four Streams conquered. He unrolled great schemes, as one all knowing, In speech, he went to and fro in the world. The sound of war drums rolled from his tongue, The words from his heart stirred one to the utmost depths, The dragon pranced, the tiger glared, And peace was brought to the world. Through all the ages his fame shall never decay.

After taking leave of the younger brother, Yüan-tê and his followers left for Hsinyeh, with Kʻung-ming as companion. When they took up their abode there, Kʻung-ming was treated as a master, eating at the same table, sleeping on the same couch as Liu Pei. They spent whole days conversing over the affairs of the Empire.

Kʻung-ming said, “Tsʻao Tsʻao is training his men for naval service and hence certainly intends to invade the country south of the river. We ought to send our spies to ascertain what he is really doing.”

So spies were despatched.

Now after Sun Chʻüan had succeeded to the heritage of his father and brother he sent far and wide to invite men of ability to aid him. He established lodging places for them in Wu, and directed Ku Yung and Chang Hung to welcome and entertain all those who came. And year by year they flocked in, one recommending another. Among them were Kʻan Tsê, of Kueichi; Yen Chün, of Pʻêngchʻêng; Hsüeh Tsung, of Pʻeihsien; Chʻêng Ping, of Junan; Chu Huan, of Wuchün; Lu Chi, of the same place; Chang Wên, of Wu; Ling Tʻung, of Kueichi and Wu Tsʻan of Wuchʻêng; and all these scholars were treated with great deference.

Some able leaders came also, Lü Mêng, of Junan; Lu Hsün, of Wuchün; Hsü Shêng, of Langya; Pʻan Chang, of Tungchün and Ting Fêng of Luchiang. Thus Sun Chʻüan obtained the assistance of many men of ability both in peace and war and all went well with him.

In the seventh year of “Established Tranquillity” Tsʻao Tsʻao had broken the power of Yüan Shao. Then he sent a messenger to Chiangtung ordering Sun Chʻüan to send his son to court to serve in the retinue of the Emperor. Sun, however, hesitated to comply with this request and the matter was the subject of much discussion. His mother, the lady Wu, sent for Chou Yü and Chang Chao and asked their advice.

The latter said, “He wishes a son to be present at court as a hostage whereby he has a hold upon us, as formerly was the case with all the feudal chiefs. If we do not comply with this request he will doubtless attack the territory. There is some peril.”

Chou Yü said, “Our lord has succeeded to the heritage and has a large army of veterans and ample supplies. He has able men ready to do his bidding, and why should he be compelled to send a hostage to any man? To send a hostage is to be forced into joining Tsʻao, and to carry out his behests, whatever they be. Then we shall be in his power. It would be better not to send, but rather to wait patiently the course of events and prepare plans to attack.”

“That is also my opinion,” said the Dowager.

So Sun Chʻüan dismissed the messenger but did not send his son. Tsʻao Tsʻao resented this and had since nourished schemes for the destruction of the Suns. But their realisation had been delayed by the dangers on the north and, so far, no attack had been made.

Late in the eighth year, Sun Chʻüan led his armies against Huang Tsu and fought on the Great River, where he was successful in several battles. One of Sun’s leaders, Ling Tsʻao, led a fleet of light vessels up the river and broke into Hsiakʻou but was killed by an arrow. He left a son, Ling Tʻung, fifteen years of age, who led another expedition to recover his father’s corpse and was so far successful. After that, as the war was inclined to go against him, Sun Chʻüan turned again to his own country.

Now Sun Chʻüan’s brother, Sun I, was Prefect of Tanyang. He was a hard man and given to drink and, in his cups, very harsh to his men, ordering the infliction of severe floggings. Two of his officers, Kuei Lan and Tai Yüan, bore their chief a grudge and sought to assassinate him. They took into their confidence one Pien Hung, of the escort, and the three plotted to kill their master at a great assembly of officials at Tanyang amid the banquets and junketings.

Sun’s wife was skilled in divination and on the day of the great banquet she cast a most inauspicious lot. Wherefore she besought her husband to stay away from the assembly. But he was obstinate and went. The faithless guardsman followed his master in the dusk when the gathering dispersed, and stabbed him with a dagger. The two prime movers at once seized their accomplice and beheaded him in the market place. Then they went to Sun’s residence, which they plundered. Kuei Lan was taken with the beauty of the dead Prefect’s wife and told her that as he had avenged the death of her husband she must go with him, or he would slay her. The wife pleaded that it was too soon after her husband’s death to think of re-marriage but promised to be his after the mourning sacrifices.

She thus obtained a respite, which she utilised to send for two old Generals of her husband’s, Sun Kao and Fu Ying. They came and she tearfully told her tale.

“My husband had great faith in you. Now Kuei and Tai have compassed his death, and have laid the crime on Pien Hung. They have plundered my house and carried off my servants and slaves. Worse than this, Kuei Lan insists that I shall be his wife. To gain time I have pretended to favour this proposal and I pray you now to send the news to my husband’s brother and beg him to slay these two miscreants and avenge this wrong. I will never forget your kindness in this life or the next.”

And she bowed before them. They wept also and said, “We were much attached to our master and now that he has come to an untimely end we must avenge him. Dare we not carry out your behests?”

So they sent a trusty messenger. On the day of the sacrifices the lady called in her two friends and hid them in a secret chamber. Then the ceremonies were performed in the great hall. These over, she put off her mourning garb, bathed and perfumed herself, and assumed an expression of joy. She laughed and talked as usual, so that Kuei Lan rejoiced in his heart, thinking of the pleasure that was to be his.

When night came she sent a slave girl to call her suitor to the Palace, where she entertained him at supper. When he had well drunk, she suggested that they should retire and led him to the chamber where her friends were waiting. He followed without the least hesitation. As soon as she entered the room she called out, “Where are you, Generals?” Out rushed the two men, and the drunken man, incapable of any resistance, was despatched with daggers.

Next she invited Tai Yüan to a supper and he was slain in similar fashion. After that she sent to the houses of her enemies and slew all therein. This done, she resumed her mourning garb and the heads of the two men were hung as a sacrifice before the coffin of her husband.

Very soon her brother-in-law came with an army, and hearing the story of the deeds of the two generals from the widow, gave them office and put them over Tanyang. When he left he took the widow to his own home to pass the remainder of her days. All those who heard of her brave conduct were loud in praise of her virtue:—

Full of resource and virtuous, few in the world are like her. Guilefully wrought she and compassed the death of the lusty assassins, Faithful servants are always ready to deal with rebellion, None can ever excel that heroine famous in East Wu.

The brigandage that had troubled Wu had all been suppressed and a large fleet (of seven thousand) keels were in the Yangtse River ready for service. Sun Chʻüan appointed Chou Yü to be the Admiral-in-Chief.

In the twelfth year (207 A.D.) the Dowager Lady Wu, feeling her end approaching, called to her the two advisers Chou Yü and Chang Chao and spoke thus:—“I came of a family of Wu, but losing my parents in early life, my brother and I went into Yüeh, and then I married into this family. I bore my husband four sons, not without premonitions of the greatness to be theirs. With my first, I dreamed of the moon and with my second, Chʻüan, of the sun, which omens were interpreted by the soothsayer as signs of their great honour. Unhappy Tsʻê died young, but Chʻüan inherited and it is he whom I pray you both to assist with one accord. Then may I die in peace.”

And to her son she said, “These two you are to serve as they were your masters and treat them with all respect. My sister and I both were wives to your father, and so she is also a mother to you and you are to serve her after I am gone as you now serve me. And you must treat your sister with affection and find a handsome husband for her.”

Then she died and her son mourned for her, but of that and her burial nothing will be said.

The following year they began to discuss an attack upon Huang Tsu. Chang Chao said the armies should not move during the period of mourning; however, Chou Yü, more to the point, said that vengeance should not be postponed on that account; it could not wait upon times and seasons. Still Sun Chʻüan halted between two opinions and would not decide.

Then came Lü Mêng, the Commander of the North, who said to his master, “While I was at Lungchiushuikʻou one of Huang Tsu’s captains, Kan Ning by name, offered to surrender. I found out all about him. He is something of a scholar, is forceful, fond of wandering about as a knight-errant. He assembled a band of outlaws with whom he roamed over the rivers and lakes where he would terrorise everybody. He wore a bell at his waist and at the sound of this bell every one fled and hid. He fitted his boats with sails of Ssŭchʻuan brocade and people called him the ‘Pirate with Sails of Silk.’

“Then he reformed. He and his band went to Liu Piao, but they left him when they saw he would never accomplish anything and now they would serve under your banner, only that Huang Tsu detains them at Hsiakʻou. Formerly when you were attacking Huang Tsu, he owed the recovery of Hsiakʻou to this same Kan Ning, whom he treated with liberality, but when Su Fei, the Commander-in-Chief, recommended him for promotion, Huang Tsu said he was unsuited for any high position as, after all, he was no more than a pirate.

“So Kan Ning became a disappointed and resentful man. Su Fei tried to win him over to good humour and invited him to wine parties and said, ‘I have put your name forward many times but our chief says he has no place suitable for you. However, time slips away and man’s life is not very long. One must make the most of it. I will put you forward for the magistracy of Ohsien, whence you may be able to advance.’ So Kan Ning got away from Hsiakʻou and would have come to you then, but he feared that he would not be welcomed, since he had assisted Huang Tsu and killed Ling Tsʻao. I told him you were always ready to welcome able men and would nourish no resentment for former deeds. After all, every man was bound to do his best for his master. He would come with alacrity if he only felt sure of a welcome. I pray you to express your pleasure.”

This was good news for Sun Chʻüan and he said, “With his help I could destroy Huang Tsu.” Then he bade Lü Mêng bring Kan to see him.

When the salutations were over, the chief said, “My heart is entirely captivated by your coming; I feel no resentment against you. I hope you will have no doubts on that score and I may as well tell you that I desire some plan for the destruction of Huang Tsu.”

He replied, “The dynasty is decadent and without influence. Tsʻao Tsʻao will finally absorb the country down to the river unless he is opposed. Liu Piao provides nothing against the future and his sons are quite unfitted to succeed him. You should lay your plans to oust him at once before Tsʻao Tsʻao anticipates you. The first attack should be made on Huang Tsu, who is getting old and avaricious, so that every one hates him. He is totally unprepared for a fight and his army is undisciplined. He would fall at the first blow. If he were gone, you would control the western passes and could conquer Pa and Shu (Szechʻuan). And you would be securely established.”

“The advice is most valuable,” said Sun Chʻüan, and he made his preparations. Chou Yü was appointed Commander-in-Chief; Lü Mêng was van-leader; Tung Hsi and Kan Ning were sub-leaders. Sun Chʻüan himself would command the main army of ten legions.

The spies reported that Huang Tsu, at the news of an expedition against him, called his officers together to consult. He placed Su Fei in chief command. He also appointed van-leaders, and other officers, and prepared for defence. He had two squadrons of ships under the command of Chʻên Chiu and Têng Lung. On these he placed strong bows and stiff crossbows to the number of more than a thousand and secured the boats to heavy hawsers so that they formed a barrier in the river.

At the approach of the men of Wu the drums beat for the ships to attack. Soon arrows and bolts flew thick, forcing back the invaders, who withdrew till several li of water lay between them and the defenders.

“We must go forward,” said Kan Ning to his colleague.

So they chose a hundred light craft and put picked men on them, fifty to a boat. Twenty were to row the boats and thirty to fight. These latter were armoured swordsmen. Careless of the enemy’s missiles these boats advanced, got to the defenders’ fleet and cut the hawsers of their ships so that they drifted hither and thither in confusion. Kan Ning leaped upon one boat and killed Têng Lung. Chʻên Chiu left the fleet and set out for the shore. Lü Mêng dropped into a small boat and went among the larger ships setting them on fire. When Chʻên Chiu had nearly reached the bank, Lü reckless of death went after him, got ahead and struck him full in the breast so that he fell.

Before long Su Fei came along the bank with reinforcements, but it was too late; the armies of Wu had already landed and there was no hope of repelling them. Su Fei fled into the open country, but he was made prisoner. He was taken to Sun Chʻüan who ordered that he be put into a cage-cart and kept till Huang Tsu should be captured. Then he would execute the pair. And the attack was pressed; day and night they wrought to capture Hsiakʻou.

He sees his ships cut loose and burned, By the “Silk-sailed Pirate” he once spurned.

For Huang Tsu’s fate, see next chapter.

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