Chapter XLVII…

Chapter XLVII

KʻAN TSÊ PRESENTS THE TREACHEROUS LETTER: PʻAN TʻUNG SUGGESTS CHAINING THE SHIPS TOGETHER.

This Kʻan Tsê was from Shanyin, a son of a humble family. He loved books, but as he was too poor to buy he used to borrow. He had a wonderfully tenacious memory, was very eloquent and no coward. Sun Chʻüan had employed him among his advisers and he and Huang Kai were excellent friends. The latter had thought of him to present the treacherous letter as his gifts made him most suitable. Kʻan Tsê accepted with enthusiasm, saying, “When you, my friend, have suffered so much for our lord, could I spare myself? No; while a man lives he must go on fulfilling his mission or he is no better than the herbs that rot in the field.”

Huang Kai slipped off the couch and came over to salute him.

“However, this matter must speed,” continued Kʻan Tsê; “there is no time to lose.”

“The letter is already written,” said Huang Kai.

Kʻan Tsê received it and left. That night he disguised himself as an old fisherman and started in a small punt for the north shore, under the cold, glittering light of the stars.

Soon he drew near the enemy’s camp and was captured by the patrol. Without waiting for day they informed their General, who said at once, “Is he not just a spy?”

“No,” said they, “he is alone, just an old fisherman; and he says he is an adviser in the service of Wu named Kʻan Tsê, and he has come on secret business.”

“Bring him,” said Tsʻao Tsʻao and he was led in. Tsʻao was seated in a brilliantly lighted tent. He was leaning on a small table and as soon as he saw the prisoner, he said, “You are an adviser of Wu; what then are you doing here?”

“People say that you greedily welcome men of ability; I do not think your question a very proper one. Friend Huang, you made a mistake,” said Kʻan.

“You know I am fighting against Wu and you come here privately. Why should I not question you?”

“Huang Kai is an old servant of Wu, one who has served three successive rulers. Now he has been cruelly beaten, for no fault, before the face of all the officers in Chou Yü’s camp. He is grievously angry about this and wishes to desert to your side that he may be revenged. He discussed it with me, and as we are inseparable, I have come to give you his letter asking whether you would receive him.”

“Where is the letter?” said Tsʻao.

The missive was produced and presented. Tsʻao Tsʻao opened it and read:—“I, Huang Kai, have been generously treated by the Sun family and have served them single-heartedly. Lately they have been discussing an attack with our forces on the enormous army of the central government. As every one knows our few are no match for such a multitude and every officer of Wu, wise or foolish, recognises that quite well. However, Chou Yü who, after all, is but a youth and a shallow minded simpleton, maintains that success is possible and rashly desires to smash stones with an egg. Beside this he is arbitrary and tyrannical, punishing for no crime, and leaving meritorious service unrewarded. I am an old servant and for no reason have been shamed in the sight of men. Wherefore I hate him in my heart.

“You, O Minister, treat men with sincerity and are ready to welcome ability and so I, and those under my leadership, desire to enter your service whereby to acquire reputation and remove the shameful stigma. The commissariat, weapons and the supply ships will also come over to you. In perfect sincerity I state these matters; I pray you not to doubt me.”

Leaning there on the low table by his side, Tsʻao turned this letter over and over and read it again and again. Then he smacked the table, opened his eyes wide with anger saying, “Huang Kai is trying to play the personal injury trick on me, is he? And you are in it as the intermediary to present the letter. How dare you come to sport with me?”

He ordered the lictors to thrust forth the messenger and take off his head. Kan Tsê was hustled out, his face untroubled. On the contrary, he laughed aloud. At this Tsʻao told them to bring him back and harshly said to him, “What do you find to laugh at now that I have foiled you and your ruse has failed?”

“I was not laughing at you; I was laughing at my friend’s simplicity.”

“What do you mean by his simplicity?”

“If you want to slay, slay; do not trouble me with a multitude of questions.”

“I have read all the books on the art of war and I am well versed in all ways of misleading the enemy. This ruse of yours might have succeeded with many, but it will not do for me.”

“And so you say that the letter is a vicious trick?” said Kʻan.

“What I say is that your little slip has sent you to the death you risked. If the thing was real and you were sincere, why does not the letter name a time? What have you to say to that?”

Kʻan Tsê waited to the end and then laughed louder than ever, saying, “I am so glad you are not frightened, but can still boast of your knowledge of the books of war. Now you will not lead away your soldiers. If you fight, Chou Yü will certainly capture you. But how sad to think I die at the hand of such an ignorant fellow!”

“What mean you? I, ignorant?”

“You are ignorant of any strategy and a victim of unreason; is not that sufficient?”

“Well then, tell me where is any fault in my navy.”

“You treat wise men too badly for me to talk to you. You can finish me and let there be an end of it.”

“If you can speak with any show of reason, I will treat you differently.”

“Do you not know that when one is going to desert one’s master and become a renegade one cannot say exactly when the chance will occur? If one binds one’s self to a fixed moment and the thing cannot be done just then, the secret will be discovered. One must watch for an opportunity and take it when it comes. Think; is it possible to know exactly when? But you know nothing of common sense; all you know is how to put good men to death. So you really are an ignorant fellow.”

At this Tsʻao changed his manner, got up and came over to the prisoner bowing, “I did not see clearly; that is quite true. I offended you and I hope you will forget it.”

“The fact is that Huang Kai and I are both inclined to desert to you; we even yearn for it as a child desires its parents. Is it possible that we should play you false?”

“If you two could render me so great a service, you shall certainly be richly rewarded.”

“We do not desire rank or riches; we come because it is the will of heaven and the plain way of duty.”

Then wine was set out and Kʻan Tsê was treated as an honoured guest. While they were drinking some one came in and whispered in Tsʻao’s ear. He replied, “Let me see the letter.” Whereupon the man pulled out and gave him a letter, which evidently pleased him.

“That is from the two Tsʻais,” thought Kʻan Tsê. “They are reporting the punishment of my friend and that will be a proof of the sincerity of his letter.”

Turning toward Kʻan Tsê, Tsʻao said, “I must ask you to return to settle the date with your friend: as soon as I know I will have a force waiting.”

“I cannot return; pray, Sir, send some other man you can trust.”

“If some one else should go the secret would out.”

Kʻan Tsê refused again and again but at last gave way, saying, “If I am to go I must not wait here; I must be off at once.”

Tsʻao offered him gold and silks, which were refused. Tsê started, left the camp and re-embarked for the south bank, where he related all that had happened to Huang Kai.

“If it had not been for your persuasive tongue then had I undergone this suffering in vain,” said Huang.

“I will now go to get news of the two Tsʻais,” said Kʻan Tsê.

“Excellent,” said Huang.

He went to the camp commanded by Kan Ning and when they were seated he said to his host, “I was much distressed when I saw how disgracefully you were treated for your intercession on behalf of Huang Kai.”

Kan Ning smiled. Just then the two Tsʻais came, and host and guest exchanged glances. The former said, “The truth is the General is over confident and he reckons us as nobody. We count for nothing. Every one is talking of the way I was insulted. Aiya!” and he shouted and gritted his teeth and smacked the table in his wrath.

Kʻan Tsê leaned over toward his host and said something in a very low voice, at which Kan Ning bent his head and sighed.

The two visitors and spies gathered from this that both Kan and Kʻan were ripe for desertion and determined to probe them.

“Why, Sir, do you anger him? Why not be silent about his injuries?” said they.

“What know you of our bitterness?” said Kʻan Tsê.

“We think you seem much inclined to go over to Tsʻao Tsʻao,” said they.

Kʻan Tsê at this lost colour: Kan Ning started up and drew his sword, crying, “They have found out; they must die to keep their mouths shut.”

“No, no,” cried the two in a flurry. “Let us tell you something quite secret.”

“Quick, then,” cried Kan Ning.

So Tsʻai Ho said, “The truth is that we are only pretended deserters, and if you two gentlemen are of our way of thinking we can manage things for you.”

“But are you speaking the truth?” said Kan.

“Is it likely we should say such a thing if it were untrue?” cried both at the same moment.

Kan Ning put on a pleased look and said, “Then this is the very heaven-given chance.”

“You know we have already told Tsʻao of the Huang Kai affair and how you were insulted.”

“The fact is I have given the Minister a letter on behalf of Huang Kai and he sent me back again to settle the date of his desertion,” said Kʻan.

“When an honest man happens upon an enlightened master his heart will always be drawn toward him,” said Kan Ning.

The four then drank together and opened their hearts to each other. The two brothers Tsʻai wrote a private letter to their master saying that Kan Ning had agreed to join in their plot and play the traitor, and Kʻan Tsê also wrote and they sent the letters secretly to Tsʻao Tsʻao. Kan’s letter said that Huang had found no opportunity so far. However, when he came his boat could be recognised by a black, indented flag. That would mean he was on board.

However, when Tsʻao Tsʻao got these two letters he was still doubtful and called together his advisers to talk over the matter. Said he, “On the other side Kan Ning has been put to shame by the Commander-in-Chief whom he is prepared to betray for the sake of revenge. Huang Kai has been punished and sent Kʻan Tsê to propose that he should come over to our side. Only I still distrust the whole thing. Who will go over to the camp to find out the real truth?”

Then Chiang Kan spoke up, saying, “I failed in my mission the other day and am greatly mortified. I will risk my life again and, this time, I shall surely bring good news.”

Tsʻao Tsʻao approved of him as messenger and bade him start. He set out in a small craft and speedily arrived in Chiangnan landing near the naval camp. Then he sent to inform Chou Yü, who hearing who it was chuckled, saying, “Success depends upon this man.”

Then he called Lu Su and told him to call Pʻang Tʻung to come and do certain things for him.

This Pʻang Tʻung was from Hsiangyang. His other name was Shih-yüan and he had gone to the east of the river to get away from the strife. Lu Su had recommended him to Chou Yü, but he had not yet presented himself. When Chou Yü sent to ask what scheme of attack he would recommend against Tsʻao Tsʻao, Pʻang Tʻung had said to the messenger, “You must use fire against him. But the river is wide and if one ship is set on fire the others will scatter unless they are fastened together so that they must remain in one place. That is the one road to success.”

Lu Su took this message to the General, who pondered over it and then said, “The only person who can manage this is Pʻang Tʻung himself.”

“Tsʻao Tsʻao is very wily,” said Lu Su, “how can Pʻang Tʻung go?”

So Chou Yü was sad and undecided. He could think of no method till suddenly the means presented itself in the arrival of Chiang Kan. He at once sent instructions to Pʻang Tʻung how to act and then sat himself in his tent to await his visitor Chiang Kan.

But the visitor became ill at ease and suspicious when he saw that his old student friend did not come to welcome him and he took the precaution of sending his boat into a retired spot to be made fast before he went to the General’s tent.

When Chou Yü saw him he put on an angry face and said, “My friend, why did you treat me so badly?”

Chiang Kan laughed and said, “I remembered the old days when we were as brothers and I came expressly to pour out my heart to you. Why do you say I treated you badly?”

“You came to persuade me to betray my master, which I would never do unless the sea dried up and the rocks perished. Remembering the old times I filled you with wine and kept you to sleep with me. And you; you plundered my private letters and stole away with never a word of farewell. You betrayed me to Tsʻao Tsʻao and caused the death of my two friends on the other side and so caused all my plans to miscarry. Now what have you come for? Certainly it is not out of kindness to me and I care no more for our old friendship; it is cut in two, destroyed. I would send you back again, but within a day or two I shall attack that rebel and, if I let you stay in my camp, my plans will leak out. So I am going to tell my attendants to conduct you to a certain retired hut in the western hills and keep you there till I shall have won the victory. Then I will send you back again.”

Chiang Kan tried to say something but Chou Yü would not listen. He turned his back and went into the recesses of his tent. The attendants led the visitor off, set him on a horse and took him away over the hills to the small hut, leaving two soldiers to look after him.

When Chiang Kan found himself in the lonely hut he was very depressed and had no desire to eat or sleep. But one night, when the stars were very brilliant, he strolled out to enjoy them. Presently he came to the rear of his lonely habitation and heard, near by, some one crooning over a book. Approaching with stealthy steps he saw a tiny cabin half hidden in a cliff whence a slender beam or two of light stole out between the rafters. He went nearer and peeping in, saw a man reading by the light of a lamp near which hung a sword. And the book was Sun Wu’s “Art of War.”

“This is no common person,” thought he and so he knocked at the door. The door was opened by the reader, who bade him welcome with cultivated and refined ceremony. Chiang Kan enquired his name and the host replied that he was Pʻang Tʻung, sometimes known as Shih-yüan.

“Then you are surely The Master known as ‘Phoenix Fledgeling,’ are you not?”

“Yes; I am he.”

“How often have I heard you talked about! You are famous. But why are you hidden away in this spot?”

“That fellow Chou Yü is too conceited to allow that any one else has any talent and so I live here quietly. But who are you, Sir?”

“I am Chiang Kan.”

Then Pʻang Tʻung made him very welcome and led him in and the two sat down to talk.

“With your gifts you would succeed anywhere,” said Chiang Kan. “If you would enter Tsʻao Tsʻao’s service I would recommend you to him.”

“I have long desired to get away from here and if you, Sir, will present me there is no time like the present. If Chou Yü heard of my wish he would kill me, I am sure.”

So without more ado they made their way down the hill to the water’s edge to seek the boat in which Chiang had come. They embarked and, rowing swiftly, they soon reached the northern shore. At the central camp Chiang landed and went to seek Tsʻao Tsʻao to whom he related the story of the discovery of his new acquaintance.

When Tsʻao Tsʻao heard that the newcomer was Fêng-chʻu, or the “Phoenix Chick” Master, he went to meet him, made him very welcome and soon they sat down to talk on friendly terms.

Tsʻao Tsʻao said questioningly, “And so Chou Yü in his youth is conceited and annoys his officers and rejects all their advice; I know that. But your fame has been long known to me and now that you have been gracious enough to turn my way I pray you not to be niggardly of your advice.”

“I, too, know well that you are a model of military strategy,” said Pʻang Tʻung, “but I should like to have one look at your disposition.”

So horses were brought and the two rode out to the lines, host and visitor on equal terms, side by side. They ascended a hill whence they had a wide view. After looking all round Pʻang Tʻung remarked, “Sun Wu, come to life again, could not do better, nor Jang Chu if he reappeared. All accords with the precepts. The camp is beside the hill and is flanked by a forest. The front and rear are within sight of each other. Gates of egress and ingress are provided and the roads of advance and retirement are bent and broken.”

“Master, I entreat you not to overpraise me, but to advise me where I can make further improvements,” said Tsʻao.

Then the two men rode down to the naval camp, where twenty four openings were arranged facing the south. The cruisers and the battleships were all lined up so as to protect the lighter craft which lay inside. There were channels to pass to and fro and fixed anchorages and stations.

Pʻang Tʻung surveying all this smiled, saying, “Sir Minister, if this is your method of warfare, you enjoy no empty reputation.” Then pointing to Chiangnan he went on, “Chou, my friend, Master Chou, you are finished; you will have to die.”

They rode back to the chief tent and wine was brought. They discussed military matters and Pʻang Tʻung held forth at length. Remarks and comments flowed freely between the two, and Tsʻao formed an exalted opinion of his new adherent’s abilities and treated him with the greatest honour.

By and bye the guest seemed to have succumbed to the influence of many cups and said, “Have you any capable medical men in your army?”

“What for?” said Tsʻao.

“There is a lot of illness among the marines and you ought to find some remedy.”

The fact was that at this time Tsʻao’s men were suffering from the climate; many were vomiting and not a few had died. It was a source of great anxiety to him and when the newcomer suddenly mentioned it, of course he had to ask advice.

Pʻang Tʻung said, “Your marine force is excellent, but there is just one defect; it is not quite perfect.”

Tsʻao pressed him to say where the imperfection lay.

“I have a plan to overcome the ailment of the men so that no one shall be sick and all fit for service.”

“What is this excellent scheme?” said Tsʻao.

“The river is wide and the tides ebb and flow. The winds and waves are never at rest. Your men from the north are unused to ships and the motion makes them ill. If your ships, large and small, were classed and divided into thirties, or fifties, and joined up stem to stem by iron chains and boards spread across them, to say nothing of men being able to pass from one to the next, even horses could move about on them. If this were done, then there would be no fear of the wind and the waves and the rising and falling tides.”

Coming down from his seat Tsʻao Tsʻao thanked his guest saying, “I could never defeat the land of Wu without this scheme of yours.”

“That is my idea,” said Pʻang Tʻung, “it is for you to decide about it.”

Orders were then issued to call up all the blacksmiths and set them to work, night and day, forging iron chains and great bolts to lock together the ships. And the men rejoiced when they heard of the plan.

In Red Wall’s fight they used the flame, The weapon here will be the same. By Pʻang’s advice the ships were chained, Else Chou had not that battle gained.

Pʻang Tʻung further told Tsʻao Tsʻao saying, “I know many bold men on the other side who hate Chou Yü. If I may use my little tongue in your service I can induce them to come over to you and if Chou Yü be left alone you can certainly take him captive. And Liu Pei is of no account.”

“Certainly if you could render me so great a service I would memorialise the throne and obtain for you one of the highest offices,” said Tsʻao.

“I am not doing this for the sake of wealth or honours, but from a desire to succour mankind. If you cross the river I pray you be merciful.”

“I am Heaven’s means of doing right and could not bear to slay the people.”

Pʻang Tʻung thanked him and begged for a document that would protect his own family. Tsʻao Tsʻao asked where they lived. He replied that they lived by the river bank and Tsʻao Tsʻao ordered a protection to be prepared. Having sealed it he gave it to Pʻang Tʻung who said, “You should attack as soon as I have gone but do not let Chou Yü know anything.”

Tsʻao Tsʻao promised secrecy and the wily traitor took his leave. Just as he was about to embark he met a man in a Taoist robe, with a bamboo comb in his hair, who stopped him saying, “You are very bold. Huang Kai is planning to use the ‘personal injury ruse’ and Kʻan Tsê has presented the letter of pretended desertion. You have proffered the fatal scheme of chaining the ships together lest the flames may not completely destroy them. This sort of mischievous work may have been enough to blind Tsʻao Tsʻao but I saw it all.”

Pʻang Tʻung become helpless with fear, his three hun flown away, his seven po scattered.

By guileful means one may succeed, The victims too find friends in need.

The next chapter will tell who the stranger was.

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Chapter XLVIII

BANQUET ON THE YANGTSE; TSʻAO TSʻAO’S SONG: THE NORTHERN MEN FIGHT ON THE CHAINED SHIPS.

In the last chapter Pʻang Tung was brought up with a sudden shock when some one seized him and said he understood. Upon turning to look at the man he saw it was Hsü Shu, an old friend, and his heart revived. Looking around and seeing no one near he said, “It would be a pity if you upset my plan; the fate of the people of all the eighty-one districts is in your hands.”

Hsü Shu smiled. “And what of the fate of these eighty-three legions of men and horse?” said he.

“Do you intend to wreck my scheme?”

“I have never forgotten the kindness of Uncle Liu, nor my oath to avenge the death of my mother at Tsʻao Tsʻao’s hands. I have said I would never think out a plan for him. So am I likely to wreck yours now, brother? But I have followed the army thus far and after they shall have been defeated, good and bad will suffer alike and how can I escape? Tell me how I can secure safety and I sew up my lips and go away.”

Pʻang Tʻung smiled, “If you are as high-minded as that there is no great difficulty.”

“Still I wish you would instruct me.”

So Pʻang Tʻung whispered something in his ear, which seemed to please Hsü Shu greatly, for he thanked him most cordially and took his leave. Then Pʻang Tʻung betook himself to his boat and left for the southern shore.

His friend gone, Hsü Shu mischievously spread certain rumours in the camp, and next day were to be seen everywhere men in small groups, some talking, others listening, heads together and ears stretched out, till the camps seemed to buzz. Some of the men went to Tsʻao Tsʻao and told him that a rumour was running around that Han Sui and Ma Tʻêng had attacked the capital. This troubled Tsʻao Tsʻao, who called together his advisers to council. Said he, “The only anxiety I have felt in this expedition was about the possible doings of Han Sui and Ma Tʻêng. Now there is a rumour running among the men, and though I know not whether it be true or false, it is necessary to be on one’s guard.”

At this point Hsü Shu said, “You have been kind enough to give me an office, Sir, and I have really done nothing in return. If I may have three companies I will march at once to San Pass and guard it. If there be any pressing matter I will report at once.”

“If you would do this I should be quite at my ease. There are already men beyond the Pass, who will be under your command, and now I will give you three companies of horse and foot and Tsang Pa shall lead the van and march quickly.”

Hsü Shu took leave of the Minister and left in company with Tsang Pa. This was Pʻang’s scheme to secure the safety of Hsü Shu.

A poem says:—

Tsʻao Tsʻao marched south, but at his back There rode the fear of rear attack. Pʻang Tʻung’s good counsel Hsü Shu took, And thus the fish escaped the hook.

Tsʻao Tsʻao’s anxiety diminished after he had thus sent away Hsü Shu. Then he rode round all the camps, first the land forces and then the naval. He boarded one of the large ships and thereon set up his standard. The naval camps were arranged along two lines and every ship carried a thousand bows and crossbows.

While he remained with the fleet occurred the full moon of the eleventh month of the twelfth year of “Established Tranquillity.” The sky was clear; there was no wind and the river lay unruffled. He prepared a great banquet, with music, and thereto invited all his captains. As evening drew on the moon rose over the eastern hills in its immaculate beauty and beneath it lay the broad belt of the river like a band of pure white silk. It was a great assembly and all the guests were clad in gorgeous silks and embroidered robes and the arms of the fighting men glittered in the moonlight. The officers, civil and military, were seated in their proper order of precedence.

The setting, too, was exquisite. The Nanping hills were outlined as in a picture; the boundaries of Chʻaisang lay in the east; the river showed west as far as Hsiakʻou; on the south lay the Hills of Fan, on the north was the “Black” Forest. The view stretched wide on every side.

Tsʻao’s heart was jubilant and he harangued the assembly, “My one aim since I enlisted my first small band of volunteers has been the removal of evil from the State and I have sworn to cleanse the country and restore tranquillity. Now there is only left this land of Chiangnan to withstand me. I am at the head of a hundred legions. I depend upon you, gentlemen, and have no doubt of my final success. After I have subdued Chiangnan there will be no trouble in all the country. Then we shall enjoy wealth and honour and revel in peace.”

They rose in a body and expressed their appreciation saying, “We trust that you may soon report complete victory and we shall all repose in the shade of your good fortune.”

In his elation Tsʻao Tsʻao bade the servants bring more wine and they drank till late at night. Warmed and mellowed, the host pointed to the south bank saying, “Chou Yü and Lu Su know not the appointed time. Heaven is aiding me bringing upon them the misfortune of the desertion of their most trusted friends.”

“O Minister, say nothing of these things lest they become known to the enemy,” said Hsün Yu.

But the Minister only laughed. “You are all my trusty friends,” said he, “both officers and humble attendants. Why should I refrain?”

Pointing to Hsiakʻou he continued, “You do not reckon for much with your puny force, Liu Pei and Chuko Liang. How foolish of you to attempt to shake Tʻaishan! I am now fifty-four and if I get Chiangnan I shall have the wherewithal to rejoice. In the days of long ago the late noble Chʻiao and I were great friends and we came to an agreement on certain matters, for I knew his two daughters were lovely beyond words. Then by some means they became wives to Sun Tsʻê and Chou Yü. But now my palace of rest is built on the Chang River and victory over the south will mean that I marry these two fair women. I will put them in my palace and they shall rejoice my declining years. My desires will then be completely attained.”

He smiled at the anticipation.

Tu Mu, a poet of the Tʻang Dynasty, in one poem says:—

A broken halberd buried in the sand, With deep rust eaten. Loud tells of ancient battles on the strand, When Tsʻao was beaten. Had eastern winds Chou’s plan refused to aid And fan the flame, Two captives fair, locked in the Bronze Bird’s shade, Had gone to shame.

But suddenly amid the merriment was heard the hoarse cry of a raven flying toward the south.

“Why does the raven thus cry in the night?” said Tsʻao to those about him.

“The moon is so bright that he thinks it is day,” said they, “and so he leaves his tree.”

Tsʻao laughed; by this time he was quite intoxicated. He set up his spear in the prow of the ship and poured a libation into the river and then drank three brimming goblets. As he lowered the spear he said, “This is the spear that broke up the Yellow Turbans, captured Lü Pu, destroyed Yüan Shao and subdued his brother, whose armies are now mine. In the north it reached to Liaotung and it stretched out over the whole south. It has never failed in its task. The present scene moves me to the depths and I will sing a song in which you shall accompany me.”

And so he sang:—

When goblets are brimming then song is near birth, But life is full short and has few days of mirth, Life goes as the dew drops fly swiftly away, ’Neath the glance of the glowing hot ruler of day. Man’s life may be spent in the noblest emprise, But sorrowful thoughts in his heart oft arise. Let us wash clean away the sad thoughts that intrude, With bumpers of wine such as Tu Kʻang once brewed. Gone is my day of youthful fire And still ungained is my desire. The deer feed on the level plain And joyful call, then feed again. My noble guests are gathered round, The air is trilled with joyful sound. Bright my future lies before me, As the moonlight on this plain; But I strive in vain to reach it When shall I my wish attain? None can answer; and so sadness Grips my inmost heart again. Far north and south, Wide east and west, We safety seek; Vain is the quest. Man’s heart oft yearns For converse sweet, And my heart burns When old friends greet. The stars are paled by the full moon’s light, The raven wings his southward flight, And thrice he circles round a tree, No place thereon to rest finds he. They weary not the mountains of great height, The waters deep of depth do not complain, Duke Chou no leisure found by day or night Stern toil is his who would the Empire gain.

The song made they sang it with him and were all exceedingly merry; save one guest who suddenly said, “When the great army is on the point of battle and lives are about to be risked, why do you, O Minister, speak such ill words?”

Tsʻao turned quickly toward the speaker, who was Liu Fu, the Governor of Yangchou. This Liu sprang from Hofei. When first appointed to his post he had gathered in the terrified and frightened people and restored order. He had founded schools and encouraged the people to till the land. He had long served under Tsʻao Tsʻao and rendered valuable service.

When he spoke Tsʻao dropped his spear to the level and said, “What ill-omened words did I use?”

“You spoke of the moon paling the stars and the raven flying southward without finding a resting place. These are ill-omened words.”

“How dare you try to belittle my endeavour?” cried Tsʻao, very wrathful; and with that he smote Liu Fu with his spear and slew him.

The assembly broke up and the guests dispersed in fear and confusion. Next day, when he had recovered from his drunken bout, Tsʻao Tsʻao was very grieved at what he had done and when the murdered man’s son came to crave the body of his father for burial, Tsʻao wept and expressed his sorrow.

“I am guilty of your father’s death; I was drunk yesterday. I regret the deed exceedingly. Your father shall be interred with the honours of a minister of the highest rank.”

He sent an escort of soldiers to take the body home for burial.

A few days after this the two leaders of the naval force came to say the ships were all connected together by chains as had been ordered, and all was now ready. They asked for the command to start.

Thereupon the leaders of both land and naval forces were assembled on board a large ship in the centre of the squadron to receive orders. The various armies and squadrons were distinguished by different flags, the central naval squadron, yellow; the leading squadron, red; the rear squadron, black; the left, blue, and the right, white. On shore the horsemen had a red flag; for the vanguard, black; blue and white for the rearguard and the wings respectively. Hsiahou Tun and Tsʻao Hung were in reserve and the general staff was under the leadership of Hsü Chʻu and Chang Liao. The other leaders were ordered to remain in camp, but ready for action.

All being ready, the squadron drums beat the roll thrice and the ships sailed out under a strong north-west wind on a trial cruise and when they got among the waves they were found to be as steady and immoveable as the dry land itself. The northern men showed their delight at the absence of motion by capering and flourishing their weapons. The ships moved on, the squadrons keeping quite distinct. Fifty light cruisers sailed to and fro keeping order and urging progress.

Tsʻao Tsʻao watched his navy from the General’s terrace and was delighted with their evolutions and manœuvres. Surely this meant complete victory. He ordered the recall and the squadrons returned in perfect order to their base.

Then Tsʻao Tsʻao went to his tent and summoned his advisers. He said, “If Heaven had not been on my side, should I have got this excellent plan from the Phoenix Chick? Now that the ships are attached firmly to each other, one may traverse the river as easily as walking on firm earth.”

“The ships are firmly attached to each other,” said Chʻêng Yü, “but you should be prepared for an attack by fire so that they can scatter to avoid it.”

The General laughed. “You look a long way ahead,” said he, “but you see what cannot happen.”

“He speaks much to the point” said Hsün Yü, “why do you laugh at him?”

“Any one using fire depends upon the wind. This is now winter and only west winds blow. You will get neither east nor south winds. I am on the north-west and the enemy is on the south bank. If they use fire they will destroy themselves. I have nothing to fear. If it was the tenth moon, or early spring, I would provide against fire.”

“The Minister is indeed wise,” said the others in chorus. “None can equal him.”

“With northern men unused to shipboard I could never have crossed the river but for this plan,” said Tsʻao.

Then he saw two of the secondary leaders stand up and they said, “We are from the north, but we are also sailors. Pray give us a small squadron and we will seize some of the enemy’s flags and drums for you that we may prove ourselves adepts on the water.”

The speakers were two men who had served under Yüan Shao, named Chiao Chʻu and Chang Nan.

“I do not think naval work would suit you two, born and brought up in the north,” said Tsʻao. “The Chiangnan men are thoroughly accustomed to ships. You should not regard your lives as a child’s plaything.”

They cried, “If we fail, treat us according to army laws.”

“The fighting ships are all chained together, there are only small, twenty-men boats free. They are unsuitable for fighting.”

“If we took large ships where would be the wonderful in what we will do? No; give us a score of the small ships and we will take half each and go straight to the enemy’s naval port. We will just seize a flag, slay a leader and come home.”

“I will let you have the twenty ships and half a company of good, vigorous men with long spears and stiff crossbows. Early to-morrow the main fleet shall make a demonstration on the river and I will also tell Wên Pʻing to support you with thirty ships.”

The two men retired greatly elated. Next morning, very early, food was prepared and at the fifth watch all was ready for a start. Then from the naval camp rolled out the drums and the gongs clanged, as the ships moved out and took up their positions, the various flags fluttering in the morning breeze. And the two intrepid leaders with their squadron of small scouting boats went down the lines and out into the stream.

Now a few days before the sound of Tsʻao Tsʻao’s drums had been heard on the southern bank and the watchers had seen their enemy’s fleet manœuvring in the open river. Chou Yü had watched the manœuvres from the top of a hill till the fleet had gone in again. So when the sound of drums was again heard all the army went up the hills to watch the fleet. All they saw was a squadron of small ships bounding over the waves. But as they came nearer the news was taken to the leader who called for volunteers to go out against them. Han Tang and Chou Tʻai offered themselves. They were accepted and orders were issued to the camps to remain ready for action but not to move till told.

Han and Chou sailed out each with a small squadron of five ships in line.

The two braggarts from the north really only trusted to their boldness and luck. Their ships came down under the powerful strokes of the oars and as they neared the two leaders put on their heart-protectors, gripped their spears and each took his station in the prow of the leading ship of his division. Chiao’s ship led and as soon as he came near enough his men began to shoot at Han Tang, who fended off the arrows with his buckler. Chiao twirled his long spear as he engaged his opponent. But, at the first thrust, he was killed.

His comrade with the other ships was coming up with great shouts when Chou Tʻai sailed up at an angle and these two squadrons began shooting arrows at each other in clouds. Chou Tʻai fended off the arrows with his shield and stood gripping his sword firmly till his ships came within a few feet of the enemy’s ships when he leaped across and cut down Chang Nan. Chang’s dead body fell into the water. Then the battle became confused and the attacking ships rowed hard to get away. The southerners pursued but soon came in sight of Wên Pʻing’s supporting fleet. Once more the ships engaged and the men fought with each other.

Chou Yü with his officers stood on the summit of a mountain and watched his own and the enemy ships out on the river. The flags and the ensigns were all in perfect order. Then he saw Wên Pʻing and his own fleets engaged in battle and soon it was evident that the former was not a match for his own sailors. Wên Pʻing turned about to retire, Chou and Han pursued. Chou Yü fearing lest his sailors should go too far, then hoisted the white flag of recall.

To his officers Chou Yü said, “The masts of their ships stand thick as reeds; Tsʻao himself is full of wiles; how can we destroy him?”

No one replied, for just then the great yellow flag that flapped in the breeze in the middle of Tsʻao’s fleet suddenly fell over into the river.

Chou Yü laughed. “That is a bad omen,” said he.

Then an extra violent blast of wind came by and the waves rose high and beat upon the bank. A corner of his own flag flicked Chou Yü on the cheek and suddenly a thought flashed through his mind. He uttered a loud cry, staggered and fell backward. They picked him up; there was blood upon his lips and he was unconscious. Presently, however, he revived.

And once he laughed, then gave a cry, ’Tis hard to ensure a victory.

Chou Yü’s fate will appear as the story unfolds.

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Chapter XLIX

ON THE SEVEN STARS ALTAR CHUKO SACRIFICES TO THE WINDS: AT THE THREE RIVERS CHOU YÜ LIBERATES FIRE.

In the last chapter Chou Yü was seized with sudden illness as he watched the fleets of his enemy. He was borne to his tent and his officers came in multitudes to enquire after him. They looked at each other saying, “What a pity our general should be taken ill when Tsʻao’s legions threaten so terribly! What would happen if he attacked?”

Messengers with the evil tidings were sent to Wu while the physicians did their best for the invalid. Lu Su was particularly sad at the illness of his patron and went to see Kʻung-ming to talk it over.

“What do you make of it?” said Kʻung-ming.

“Good luck for Tsʻao Tsʻao; bad for us,” said Lu.

“I could cure him,” said Kʻung-ming laughing.

“If you could the State would be very fortunate,” said Lu.

He prayed Kʻung-ming to go to see the sick man. They went, and Lu Su entered first. Chou Yü lay in bed, his head covered by a quilt.

“How are you, General?” said Lu.

“My heart pains me; every now and again I feel faint and dizzy.”

“Have you taken any remedies?”

“My gorge rises at the thought; I could not.”

“I saw Kʻung-ming just now and he says he could heal you. He is just outside and I will call him if you like.”

“Ask him to come in.”

Chou bade his servants help him to a sitting position and Kʻung-ming entered.

“I have not seen you for days,” said he. “How could I guess that you were unwell?”

“How can any one feel secure? We are constantly the playthings of luck, good or bad.

“Yes; Heaven’s winds and clouds are not to be measured. No one can reckon their comings and goings, can they?”

Chou Yü turned pale and a low groan escaped him, while his visitor went on, “You feel depressed, do you not? As though troubles were piling up in your heart?”

“That is exactly how I feel.”

“You need cooling medicine to dissipate this sense of oppression.”

“I have taken a cooling draught, but it has done no good.”

“You must get the humours into good order before the drugs will have any effect.”

Chou Yü began to think Kʻung-ming knew what was really the matter and resolved to test him. “What should be taken to produce a favourable temper?”

“I know one means of producing a favourable temper,” replied Kʻung-ming.

“I wish you would tell me.”

Kʻung-ming got out writing materials, sent away the servants and then wrote a few words:—“One should burn out Tsʻao; all is ready, but there is no east wind,” this he gave to the sick general, saying “That is the origin of your illness.”

Chou Yü read the words with great surprise and it confirmed his secret opinion that Kʻung-ming really was rather more than human. He decided that the only course was to be open and tell him all. So he said, “Since you know the cause of the disease, what do you recommend as treatment? The need of a remedy is very urgent.”

“I have no great talent,” said Kʻung-ming, “but I have had to do with men of no ordinary gifts from whom I have received certain magical books. I can call the winds and summon the rains. Since you need a south-east breeze, General, you must build an altar on the Nanping Mountains, the Altar of the Seven Stars. It must be nine feet high, with three steps, surrounded by a guard of one hundred and twenty men bearing flags. On this altar I will work a spell to procure a strong south-east gale for three days and three nights. Do you approve?”

“Never mind three whole days;” said Chou Yü, “one day of strong wind will serve my purpose. But it must be done at once and without delay.”

“I will sacrifice for a wind for three days from the twentieth day of the moon; will that suit you?”

Chou Yü was delighted and hastily rose from his couch to give the necessary orders. He commanded that five hundred men should be sent to the mountains to build the altar and he told off the guard of one hundred and twenty to bear the flags and be at the orders of Kʻung-ming.

Kʻung-ming took his leave, went forth and rode off with Lu Su to the mountains where they measured out the ground. He bade the soldiers build the altar of red earth from the south-east quarter. It was two hundred and forty feet in circuit, square in shape, and of three tiers, each of three feet, in all nine feet high. On the lowest tier he placed the flags of the twenty-eight “houses” of the heavens; on the east seven, with blue flags, on the north seven, with black flags, on the west seven, with white flags, and on the south seven, with red flags. Around the second tier he placed sixty-four yellow flags, corresponding to the number of the diagrams of the Book of Divination, in eight groups of eight. Four men were stationed on the highest platform, each wearing a Taoist headdress and a black silk robe embroidered with the phoenix and confined with wide sashes. They wore scarlet boots and square-cut skirts. On the left front stood a man supporting a tall pole bearing at its top a plume of light feathers to show by their least movement the wind’s first breathing. On the right front was a man holding a tall pole whereon was a flag with the symbol of the seven stars to show the direction and force of the wind. On the left rear stood a man with a sword, and on the right rear a man with a censer. Below the altar were two score and four men holding flags, umbrellas, spears, lances, yellow banners, white axes, red bannerols and black ensigns. And these were spaced about the altar.

On the appointed day Kʻung-ming, having chosen a propitious moment, bathed his body and purified himself. Then he robed himself as a Taoist, loosened his locks and approached the altar.

He bade Lu Su retire saying, “Return to the camp and assist the General in setting out his forces. Should my prayers avail not, do not wonder.”

So Lu Su left him. Then he commanded the guards on no account to absent themselves, to maintain strict silence and to be reverent; death would be the penalty of disobedience.

Next with solemn steps he ascended the altar, faced the proper quarter, lighted the incense and sprinkled the water in the basins. This done he gazed into the heavens and prayed silently. The prayer ended he descended and returned to his tent. After a brief rest he allowed the soldiers by turns to go away to eat.

Thrice that day he ascended the altar and thrice descended; but there was no sign of the wind.

Here it may be related that Chou Yü with Chʻêng Pʻu and Lu Su and a certain number of military officials on duty, sat waiting in the tent till the wished-for wind should blow and the attack could be launched. Messengers were also sent to Sun Chʻüan to prepare to support the forward movement.

Huang Kai had his fire ships ready, a score of them. The fore parts of the ships were thickly studded with large nails, and they were loaded with dry reeds, wood soaked in fish oil and covered with sulphur, saltpetre and other inflammables. The ships were covered in with black oiled cloth. In the prow of each was a black dragon flag with indentations. A fighting ship was attached to the stern of each to propel it forward. All were ready and awaited orders to move.

Meanwhile Tsʻao Tsʻao’s two spies, the brothers Tsʻai, were being guarded carefully in an outer camp far from the river bank and daily entertained with feasting. They were not allowed to know of the preparations. The watch was so close that not a trickle of information reached the prisoners.

Presently, while Chou Yü was anxiously awaiting in his tent for the desired wind, a messenger came to say that Sun Chʻüan had anchored at a place eighty-five li from the camp, where he awaited news. Lu Su was sent to warn all the various commanders to be ready, the ships and their weapons, sails and oars, all for instant use, and to impress upon them the penalties of being caught unprepared. The soldiers were indeed ready for the fight and yearning for the fray.

But the sky remained obstinately clear and as night drew nigh no breath of air stirred.

“We have been cajoled,” said Chou Yü. “Indeed what possibility is there of a south-east wind in mid-winter?”

“Kʻung-ming would not use vain and deceitful words,” replied Lu Su.

Towards the third watch the sound of a movement arose in the air. Soon the flags fluttered out. And when the general went out to make sure he saw they were flowing toward the north-west. In a very short time the south-east wind was in full force.

Chou Yü was, however, frightened at the power of the man whose help he had invoked. “Really the man has power over the heavens and authority over the earth; his methods are incalculable, beyond the ken of god or devil. He cannot be allowed to live to be a danger to our land of Wu. We must slay him soon to fend off later evils.”

So he resolved to commit a crime to remove his dangerous rival. He called two of the captains of his guard, Ting Fêng and Hsü Shêng, and bade each take a party, one along the river, the other along the road, to the altar on the mountains. As soon as they got there, without asking questions or giving reasons, they were to seize and behead Kʻung-ming. They might expect a solid reward if they brought his head.

The two went off on their nefarious errand, one leading dagger- and axe-men going as fast as oars could propel them along the river, the other at the head of archers and bowmen on horseback. The south-east wind buffeted them as they went on their way.

High was raised the Seven Stars’ Altar, On it prayed the Sleeping Dragon For an eastern wind, and straightway Blew the wind. Had not the wizard Exercised his mighty magic Nought had Chou Yü’s skill availed.

Ting Fêng first arrived. He saw the guards with their flags, dropped off his steed and marched to the altar, sword in hand. But he found no Kʻung-ming. He asked the guards; they told him he had just gone down. Ting Fêng ran down the hill to search. There he met his fellow and they joined forces. Presently a simple soldier told them that the evening before a small, fast boat had anchored there near a sand spit and Kʻung-ming had been seen to go on board. Then the boat had gone up river. So they divided their party into two, one to go by water, the other by land.

Hsü Shêng bade his boatmen put on all sail and take every advantage of the wind. Before very long he saw the fugitive’s boat ahead and when near enough, stood in the prow of his own and shouted, “Do not flee, O Instructor of the Army! The General requests your presence.”

Kʻung-ming, who was seated in the stern of his boat, just laughed aloud, “Return and tell the General to make good use of his men. Tell him I am going up river for a spell and will see him again another day.”

“Pray wait a little while,” cried Hsü. “I have something most important to tell you.”

“I knew all about it, that he would not let me go and that he wanted to kill me. That is why Chao Yün was waiting for me. You had better not approach nearer.”

Seeing the other ship had no sail, Hsü Shêng thought he would assuredly come up with it and so maintained the pursuit. Then when he got too close Chao Yün fitted an arrow to the bowstring and, standing up in the stern of his boat, cried, “You know who I am and I came expressly to escort the Instructor. Why are you pursuing him? One arrow would kill you, only that would cause a breach of the peace between two houses. I will shoot and just give you a specimen of my skill.”

With that he shot, and the arrow whizzed overhead cutting the rope that held up the sail. Down came the sail trailing in the water and the boat swung round. Then Chao Yün’s boat hoisted its sail and the fair wind speedily carried it out of sight.

On the bank stood Ting Fêng. He bade his comrade come to the shore and said, “He is too clever for any man; and Chao Yün is bravest of the brave. You remember what he did at Tangyang Slope. All we can do is to return and report.”

So they returned to camp and told their master about the preparations that Kʻung-ming had made to ensure safety. Chou Yü was indeed puzzled at the depth of his rival’s insight. “I shall have no peace day or night while he lives,” said he.

“At least wait till Tsʻao is done with,” said Lu Su.

And Chou Yü knew he spake wisely. Having summoned the leaders to receive orders, first he bade Kan Ning take with him the false deserter Tsʻai Chung and his soldiers and go along the south bank, showing the flags of Tsʻao Tsʻao, till they reached the “Black” Forest (Wu Lin) just opposite the enemy’s main store of grain and forage. Then they were to penetrate as deeply as possible into the enemy’s lines and light a torch as a signal. Tsʻai Chung’s brother was to be kept in camp for another purpose.

The next order was for Tʻaishih Tzŭ; he was to lead two companies as quickly as possible to Huangchou and cut the enemy’s communications with Hofei. When near the enemy he was to give a signal and if he saw a red flag he would know that Sun Chʻüan was at hand with reinforcements.

These two had the farthest to go and started first. Then Lü Mêng was sent into Wu Lin (the “Black” Forest) with three companies as a support. Kan Ning was ordered to set fire to the camp. A fourth party was to go to the borders of Iling and attack as soon as the signal from the forest was seen. A fifth party of three companies went to Hanyang to fall upon the enemy along the river. Their signal was a white flag and a sixth division supported them.

When these six parties had gone off, Huang Kai got ready his fire ships and sent a soldier with a note to tell Tsʻao Tsʻao that he was coming over that evening. Four fighting ships were told off to support Huang Kai.

The four squadrons, each of three hundred ships, were placed under four commanders, Han Tang, Chou Tʻai, Chiang Chʻin and Chʻên Wu. The score of fire ships preceded them. Chou Yü and Chʻêng Pʻu went on board one of the large ships to direct the battle. Their guards were Ting Fêng and Hsü Shêng. Lu Su, Kʻan Tsê and the advisers were left to guard the camp. Chʻêng Pʻu was greatly impressed with Chou Yü’s ordering of the attack.

Then came a messenger bearing a mandate from Sun Chʻüan making Lu Hsün leader of the van. He was ordered to go to Chʻihuang. The Marquis himself would support him. Chou Yü also sent a man to the western hills to make signals and to hoist flags on the Nanping Mountains.

So all being prepared they waited for dusk.

Here it is necessary to diverge from the direct narrative to say that Yüan-tê was at Hsiakʻou anxiously awaiting the return of his adviser. Then appeared a fleet, led by Liu Chʻi, who had come to find out how matters were progressing. Yüan-tê sent to call him to the battle tower and told him of the south-east wind that had begun to blow and that Chao Yün had gone to meet Kʻung-ming. Not long after a single sail was seen coming up before the wind and he knew it was Kʻung-ming, the Instructor of the Army. So he and Liu Chʻi went down to meet the boat. Soon the vessel reached the shore and Kʻung-ming and Chao Yün disembarked.

Yüan-tê was very glad and after they had enquired after each other’s well-being Kʻung-ming said, “There is no time to tell of any other things now. Are the soldiers and ships ready?”

“They have long been ready,” replied Yüan-tê. “They only await you to direct how they are to be used.”

The three then went to the tent and took their seats. Kʻung-ming at once began to issue orders. “Chao Yün, with three companies is to cross the river and go to the Wu Lin by the minor road. He will choose a dense jungle and prepare an ambush. To-night, after the fourth watch, Tsʻao Tsʻao will hurry along that way. When half his men have passed, the jungle is to be fired. Tsʻao Tsʻao will not be wholly destroyed but many will perish.”

“There are two roads,” said Chao Yün. “One leads to the southern districts and the other to Chingchou. I do not know by which he will come.”

“The south road is too dangerous; Tsʻao Tsʻao will certainly pass along the Chingchou road, so that he may get away to Hsüchʻang.”

Then Chao Yün went away. Next Kʻung-ming said to Chang Fei, “You will take three companies over the river to cut the road to Iling. You will ambush in the Hulu Valley. Tsʻao Tsʻao, not daring to go to South Iling, will go to North Iling. To-morrow, after the rain, he will halt to refresh his men. As soon as the smoke is seen to rise from their cooking fires you will fire the hill side. You will not capture Tsʻao Tsʻao but you will render excellent service.”

So Chang Fei left. Next was called Mi Chu, Mi Fang and Liu Fêng. They were to take command of three squadrons and go along the river to collect the weapons that the beaten soldiers would throw away.

The three left. Then Kʻung-ming said to Liu Chʻi, “The country around Wuchʻang is very important and I wish you to take command of your own troops and station them at strategic points. Tsʻao Tsʻao, being defeated, will flee thither, and you will capture him. But you are not to leave the city without the best of reasons.”

And Liu Chʻi took leave.

Then Kʻung-ming said to Yüan-tê, “I wish you to remain quietly and calmly in Fankʻou while Chou Yü works out his great scheme this night.”

All this time Kuan Yü has been silently waiting his turn but Kʻung-ming said no word to him. When he could bear this no longer he cried, “Since I first followed my brother to battle many years ago I have never been left behind. Now that great things are afoot is there no work for me? What is meant by it?”

“You should not be surprised. I wanted you for service at a most important point only that there was a something standing in the way that prevented me from sending you,” said Kʻung-ming.

“What could stand in the way? I wish you would tell me.”

“You see Tsʻao Tsʻao was once very kind to you and you cannot help feeling grateful. Now when his soldiers have been beaten he will have to flee along the Huayung road and if I sent you to guard it you would have to let him pass. So I will not send you.”

“You are most considerate, Instructor. But though it is true that he treated me well, yet I slew two of his most redoubtable opponents by way of repayment, beside raising a siege. If I happened upon him on this occasion I should hardly let him go.”

“But what if you did?”

“You could deal with me by military rules.”

“Then put that in writing.”

So Kuan Yü wrote a formal undertaking and gave the document to Kʻung-ming.

“What happens if Tsʻao Tsʻao does not pass that way?” said Kuan Yü.

“I will give you a written engagement that he will pass.” Then he continued, “On the hills by the Huayung Valley you are to raise a heap of wood and grass to make a great column of smoke and mislead Tsʻao Tsʻao into coming.”

“If Tsʻao Tsʻao sees a smoke he will suspect an ambush and will not come.” said Kuan Yü.

“You are very simple,” said Kʻung-ming. “Do you not know more of war’s ruses than that? Tsʻao Tsʻao is an able leader but you can deceive him this time. When he sees the smoke he will take it as a subterfuge and risk going that way. But do not let your kindness of heart rule your conduct.”

Thus was his duty assigned Kuan Yü and he left, taking his adopted son, Pʻing, Chou Tsʻang and a half company of swordsmen.

Said Liu Pei, “His sense of rectitude is very profound; I fear if Tsʻao Tsʻao should come that way that my brother will let him pass.”

“I have consulted the stars and Tsʻao the rebel is not fated to come to his end yet. I have purposely designed this manifestation of kindly feeling for Kuan Yü to accomplish and so act handsomely.”

“Indeed there are few such far-seeing men as you are,” said Yüan-tê.

The two then went to Fankʻou whence they might watch Chou Yü’s evolutions. Sun Chʻüan and Chien Yung were left on guard.

Tsʻao Tsʻao was in his great camp in conference with his advisers and awaiting the arrival of Huang Kai. The south-east wind was very strong that day and Chʻêng Yü was insisting on the necessity for precaution. But Tsʻao laughed saying, “The Winter Solstice depends upon the sun and nothing else; there is sure to be a south wind at some one or other of its recurrences. I see nothing to wonder at.”

Just then they announced the arrival of a small boat from the other shore with a letter from Huang Kai. The bearer of the letter was brought in and presented it. It stated that Chou Yü had kept such strict watch that there had been no chance of escape. But now some grain was coming down river and Huang Kai had been named as escort commander, which would give him the opportunity he desired. He would slay one of the known captains and bring his head as an offering when he came. That evening at the third watch, if boats were seen with dragon toothed flags, they would be the grain boats.

This letter delighted Tsʻao Tsʻao who, with his officers, went to the naval camp and boarded a great ship to watch for the arrival of Huang Kai.

In Chiangtung, when evening fell, Chou Yü sent for Tsʻao Ho and bade the soldiers bind him. The unhappy man protested that he had committed no crime but Chou Yü said, “What sort of a fellow are you, think you, to come and pretend to desert to my side? I need a small sacrifice for my flag and your head will serve my purpose. So I am going to us it.”

Tsʻai Ho being at the end of his tether unable to deny the charge suddenly cried, “Two of your own side, Kʻan Tsê and Kan Ning, are also in the plot!”

“Under my directions,” said Chou Yü.

Tsʻai Ho was exceedingly repentant and sad, but Chou Yü bade them take him to the river bank where the black standard had been set up and there, after the pouring of a libation and the burning of paper, he was beheaded, his blood being a sacrifice to the flag.

This ceremony over the ships started and Huang Kai took his place on the third ship. He merely wore breast armour and carried a keen blade. On his flag were written four large characters “Van Leader Huang Kai”. With a fair wind his fleet sailed toward Chʻihpʻi, or Red Wall.

The wind was strong and the waves ran high. Tsʻao Tsʻao in the midst of the central squadron eagerly scanned the river which rolled down under the bright moon like a silver serpent writhing in innumerable folds. Letting the wind blow full in his face Tsʻao Tsʻao laughed aloud for was he not now to obtain his desire?

Then a soldier pointing to the river said, “The whole south is one mass of sails and they are coming up on the wind.”

Tsʻao Tsʻao went to a higher point and gazed at the sails intently and his men told him that the flags were black and dragon shaped, and indented, and among them there flew one very large banner on which was a name Huang Kai.

“That is my friend the deserter,” said he joyfully. “Heaven is on my side to-day.”

As the ships drew closer Chʻêng Yü said, “Those ships are treacherous. Do not let them approach the camp.”

“How know you that?” asked Tsʻao Tsʻao.

And Chʻêng Yü replied, “If they were laden with grain they would lie deep in the water. But these are light and float easily. The south-east wind is very strong and if they intend treachery, how can we defend ourselves?”

Tsʻao Tsʻao began to understand. Then he asked who would go out to stop them, and Wên Pʻing volunteered. “I am well used to the waters,” said he.

Thereupon he sprang into a small light craft and sailed out, followed by a half score cruisers which came at his signal. Standing in the prow of his ship he called out to those advancing toward them, “You southern ships are not to approach; such are the orders of the Minister. Stop there in mid stream.”

The soldiers all yelled to them to lower their sails. The shout had not died away when a bowstring twanged and Wên Pʻing rolled down into the ship with an arrow in the left arm. Confusion reigned on his ship and all the others harried back to their camp.

When the ships were about a couple of li distant, Huang Kai waved his sword and the leading ships broke forth into fire, which, under the force of the strong wind, soon gained strength and the ships became as fiery arrows. Soon the whole twenty dashed into the naval camp.

All Tsʻao Tsʻao’s ships were gathered there and as they wore firmly chained together not one could escape from the others and flee. There was a roar of bombs and fireships came on from all sides at once. The face of the three rivers was speedily covered with fire which flew before the wind from one ship to another. It seemed as if the universe was filled with flame.

Tsʻao Tsʻao hastened toward the shore. Huang Kai, with a few men at his back, leaped into a small boat, dashed through the fire and sought Tsʻao Tsʻao. He, seeing the imminence of the danger, was making for the land, Chang Liao got hold of a small boat into which he helped his master; none too soon, for the ship was burning. They got Tsʻao Tsʻao out of the thick of the fire and dashed for the bank.

Huang Kai seeing a handsomely robed person get into a small boat guessed it must be Tsʻao Tsʻao and pursued. He drew very near and he held his keen blade ready to strike, crying out, “You rebel! do not flee. I am Huang Kai.”

Tsʻao Tsʻao howled in the bitterness of his distress. Chang Liao fitted an arrow to his bow and aimed at the pursuer, shooting at short range. The roaring of the gale and the flames kept Huang Kai from hearing the twang of the string and he was wounded in the shoulder. He fell and rolled over into the water.

He fell in peril of water When flames were high; Ere cudgel bruises had faded, An arrow struck.

Huang Kai’s fate will be told in the next chapter.

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Chapter L

CHUKO LIANG FORESEES THE HUAYUNG EPISODE: KUAN YÜN-CHʻANG RELEASES TSʻAO TSʻAO.

The last chapter closed with Huang Kai in the water wounded, Tsʻao Tsʻao rescued from immediate danger and confusion rampant among the soldiers. Pressing forward to attack the naval camp Han Tang was told by his soldiers that some one was clinging to the rudder of his boat and shouting to him by his familiar name. Han Tang listened carefully and in the voice at once he recognised that Huang Kai was calling to him for help.

“That is my friend Huang Kai,” cried he and they quickly pulled the wounded leader out of the water. Then they saw Huang Kai was wounded for the arrow still stuck. Han bit out the shaft of the arrow but the point was deeply buried in the flesh. They hastily pulled off his wet garments and cut out the metal arrowhead with a dagger, tore up one of the flags and bound up the wound. Then Han Tang gave his friend his own fighting robe to put on and sent him off in a small boat back to camp.

Huang Kai’s escape from drowning must be taken as proof of his natural affinity for, or sympathy with, water. Although it was the period of great cold and he was heavy with armour when he fell into the river yet he escaped with life.

In this great battle at the junction of the rivers, when fire seemed to spread wide over all the wide surface of the water, when the earth quaked with the roar of battle, when land forces closed in on both wings and four battle squadrons advanced on the front, when the ferocity of fire answered the clash of weapons and weapons were aided by fire, under the thrusts of spears and the flights of arrows, burnt by fire and drowned by water, Tsʻao Tsʻao lost an incalculable number of men. And a poet wrote:—

When Wei and Wu together strove For the mastery, In Red Cliff fight the towering ships Vanished from the sea, For there the fierce flames, leaping high, Burned them utterly. So Chou Yü for his liege lord Got the victory.

And another Poem runs:—

The hills are high, the moon shines faint, The waters stretch afar; I sigh to think how oft this land Has suffered stress of war; And I recall how southerners Shrank from the northmen’s might, And how a favouring eastern gale Helped them to win the fight.

Leaving for a while the story of the slaughter on the river it is time to follow Kan Ning. He made Tsʻao Chung guide him into the innermost recesses of Tsʻao Tsʻao’s camp. Then he slew him with one slash of his sword. After this he set fire to the jungle, and at this signal Lü Mêng put fire to the grass in half a score places near to each other. Then other fires were started, and the noise of battle was on all sides.

Tsʻao Tsʻao and the faithful Chang Liao, with a small party of horsemen, fled through the burning forest. They could see no road in front; all seemed on fire. Presently Mao Chieh and Wên Pʻing, with a few more horsemen, joined them. Tsʻao Tsʻao bade the soldiers seek a way through. Chang Liao pointed out that the only suitable road was through the “Black” Forest and they took it.

They had gone but a short distance when they were overtaken by a small party of the enemy and a voice cried, “Tsʻao Tsʻao, stop!” It was Lü Mêng, whose ensign soon appeared against the fiery background. Tsʻao Tsʻao urged his small party of fugitives forward bidding Chang Liao defend him from Lü Mêng. Soon after he saw the light of torches in front and from a gorge there rushed out another force. And the leader cried “Ling Tʻung is here!”

Tsʻao Tsʻao was scared; his liver and gall both seemed torn from within. But just then on his half right he saw another company approach and heard a friendly cry “Fear not, O Minister, I am here to rescue you.”

The speaker was Hsü Huang and he attacked the pursuers.

A move to the north seemed to promise escape, but soon they saw a camp on a hill top. Hsü Huang went ahead to reconnoitre and found the officers in command were Ma Yen and Chang I, who had once been in the service of Yüan Shao. They had three companies of northern men in camp. They had seen the sky redden with the flames, but knew not what was afoot so dared make no move.

This turned out lucky for Tsʻao Tsʻao who now found himself with a fresh force. He sent these two, with a company, to clear the road ahead while the others remained as guard. And he felt much more secure.

The two went forward, but before they had gone very far they heard a shouting and a party of soldiers came out, the leader of them shouting, “I am Kan Hsing-pa of the land of Wu.” Nothing daunted the two leaders would engage, but the redoubtable Kan Ning cut down Ma Yen, and when his brother warrior Chang I set his spear and dashed forward, he too fell beneath a stroke from the fearsome sword. Both leaders dead, the soldiers fled to give Tsʻao Tsʻao the bad news.

At this time Tsʻao Tsʻao expected aid from Hofei for he knew not that Sun Chʻüan was barring the road. But when Sun saw the fires and so knew that his men had won the day he ordered Lu Hsün to give the answering signal. Tʻaishih Tzŭ seeing this came down and his force joined up with that of Lu Hsün and they went against Tsʻao.

As for Tsʻao Tsʻao he could only get away toward Iling. On the road he fell in with Chang Ho and ordered him to protect the retreat. He pressed on as quickly as possible. At the fifth watch he was a long way from the glare and he felt safer. He asked the name of the place where they were. They told him it was west of the “Black” Forest and north of Itu. Seeing the thickly crowded trees all about him, and the steep hills and narrow passes, he threw up his head and laughed. Those about him asked why he was merry and he said he was only laughing at the stupidity of Chou Yü and the ignorance of Chuko Liang. If they had only set an ambush there, as he would have done, why, there was no escape.

He had scarcely finished his explanation when from both sides came a deafening roll of drums and flames sprang up to heaven. Tsʻao Tsʻao nearly fell off his horse, he was so startled. And from the side dashed in a troop, with Chao Yün leading, who cried, “I am Chao Tzŭ-lung and long have I been waiting here.”

Tsʻao Tsʻao ordered Hsü Huang and Chang Ho to engage this new opponent and he himself rode off into the smoke and fire. Chao Yün did not pursue; he only captured his banners and Tsʻao Tsʻao escaped.

The faint light of dawn showed a great black cloud all around, for the south-east wind had not ceased. Suddenly began a heavy down-pour of rain, wetting every one to the skin, but still Tsʻao Tsʻao maintained his headlong flight till the starved faces of the men made a halt imperative. He told the men to forage in the villages about for grain and the means of making a fire. But when these had been found and they began to cook a meal another pursuing party came along and Tsʻao Tsʻao again was terrified. However, these proved to be friends escorting some of his advisers whom he saw with joy.

When giving the order to advance again he asked what places lay ahead, and they told him there were two roads; one was the highway to South Iling and the other a mountain road to the north of Iling.

“Which is the shorter way to Chiangling?” asked Tsʻao Tsʻao.

“The best way is to take the south road through Hulukʻou,” was the reply.

So he gave orders to march that way. By the time Hulukʻou was reached the men were almost starving and could march no more; horses too were worn out. Many had fallen by the roadside. A halt was then made, food was taken by force from the villagers, and as there were still some boilers left they found a dry spot beside the hills where they could rest and cook. And there they began to prepare a meal, boiling grain and roasting strips of horse-flesh. Then they took off their wet clothes and spread them to dry. The beasts, too, were unsaddled and turned out to graze.

Seated comfortably in a somewhat open spot Tsʻao Tsʻao suddenly looked up and began to laugh loud and long. His companions, remembering the sequel of his last laugh, said, “Not long since, Sir, you laughed at Chou Yü and Chuko Liang; that resulted in the arrival of Chao Yün and great loss of men to us. Why do you now laugh?”

“I am laughing again at the ignorance of the same two men. If I was in their place, and conducting their campaign, I should have had an ambush here, just to meet us when we were tired out. Then, even if we escaped with our lives, we should suffer very severely. They did not see this and therefore I am laughing at them.”

Even at that moment behind them rose a great yell. Thoroughly startled, Tsʻao Tsʻao threw aside his breastplate and leaped upon his horse. Most of the soldiers failed to catch theirs and then fires sprang up on every side and filled the mouth of the valley. A force was arrayed before them and at the head was the man of Yen, Chang Fei, seated on his steed with his great spear levelled.

“Whither wouldst thou flee, O rebel?” shouted he.

The soldiers grew cold within at the sight of the terrible warrior. Hsü Chʻu, mounted on a barebacked horse, rode up to engage him and two comrades galloped up to his aid. The three gathered about Chang Fei and a mêlée began, while Tsʻao Tsʻao made off at top speed. The other leaders set off after him and Chang Fei pursued. However, Tsʻao Tsʻao by dint of hard riding got away and gradually the pursuers were out-distanced.

But many had received wounds. As they were going the soldiers said, “There are two roads before us; which shall we take?”

“Which is the shorter?” asked Tsʻao Tsʻao.

“The high road is the more level, but it is fifty li longer than the bye-road which goes to Huayungtao. Only the latter road is narrow and dangerous, full of pits and difficult.”

Tsʻao Tsʻao sent men up to the hill tops to look around. They returned saying there were several columns of smoke rising from the hills along the road. The high road seemed quiet.

Then Tsʻao Tsʻao bade them lead the way along the bye-road.

“Where smoke arises there are surely soldiers,” remarked the officers. “Why go this way?”

“Because the Book of War says that the hollow is to be regarded as solid and the solid as hollow. That fellow Chuko Liang is very subtle and has sent men to make those fires so that we should not go that way. He has laid an ambush on the high road. I have made up my mind and I will not fall a victim to his wiles.”

“O Minister, your conclusions are most admirable. None other can equal you,” said the officers.

And the soldiers were sent along the highway. They were very hungry and many almost too weak to travel. The horses too were spent. Some had been scorched by the flames and they rode forward resting their heads on their whips; the wounded struggled on to the last of their strength. All were soaking wet and all were feeble. Their arms and accoutrements were in a deplorable state, and more than half had been left upon the road they had traversed. Few of the horses had saddles or bridles, for in the confusion of pursuit they had been left behind. It was the time of greatest winter cold and the suffering was indescribable.

Noticing that the leading party had stopped Tsʻao Tsʻao sent to ask the reason. The messenger returned to report that by reason of the rain water collected in the pits and the mire the horses could not move. Tsʻao Tsʻao raged.

He said, “When soldiers come to hills they cut a road, when they happen upon streams they bridge them; such a thing as mud cannot stay an army.”

So he ordered the weak and wounded to go to the rear and come on as they could, while the robust and able were to cut down trees, and gather herbage and reeds to fill up the holes. And it was to be done without delay, or death would be the punishment of the disobedient or remiss.

So the men dismounted and felled trees and cut bamboos, and they levelled the road. And because of the imminence and fear of pursuit a party was told off to hasten the workers and slay any that idled.

The soldiers made their way along the shallower parts, but many fell, and cries of misery were heard the whole length of the way.

“What are you howling for?” cried Tsʻao Tsʻao. “The number of your days is fixed. Any one who howls shall be put to death.”

The remnant of the army, now divided into three, one to march slowly, a second to fill up the waterways and hollows and a third to escort Tsʻao Tsʻao, gradually made its way over the precipitous road. When the going improved a little and the path was moderately level, Tsʻao Tsʻao turned to look at his following and saw he had barely three hundred men. And these lacked clothing and armour and were tattered and disordered.

But he pressed on, and when the officers told him the horses were quite spent and must rest, he replied, “Press on to Chingchou and there we shall find repose.”

So they pressed on. But they had gone only a few li when Tsʻao Tsʻao flourished his whip and broke once again into loud laughter.

“What is there to laugh at?” asked the officers.

“People say those two are able and crafty; I do not see it. They are a couple of incapables. If an ambush had been placed here we should all be prisoners.”

He had not finished this speech when the explosion of a bomb broke the silence and a half company of men with swords in their hands appeared and barred the way. The leader was Kuan Yü holding the famous Black Dragon sword, bestriding the “Red Hare” steed. At this sight the spirits of the soldiers left them and they gazed into each others’ faces in panic.

“Now we have but one course;” said Tsʻao Tsʻao, “we must fight to the death.”

“How can we?” said the officers. “The men are scared, the horses are spent.”

Chʻêng Yü said, “I have always heard that Kuan Yü is haughty to the proud but kindly to the humble; he despises the strong, but is gentle with the weak. He discriminates between love and hate and is always righteous and true. You, O Minister, have shown him kindness, and if you will remind him of that we shall escape this evil.”

Tsʻao Tsʻao agreed to try. He rode out to the front, bowed low and said, “General, I trust you have enjoyed good health.”

“I had orders to await you, O Minister,” replied he, bowing in return, “and I have been expecting you these many days.”

“You see before you Tsʻao Tsʻao, defeated and weak. I have reached a sad pass and I trust you, O General, will not forget the kindness of former days.”

“Though indeed you were kind to me in those days, yet I slew your enemies for you and relieved the siege of Paima. As to the business of to-day, I cannot allow private feelings to outweigh public duty.”

“Do you remember my generals, slain at the five passes? The noble man values righteousness. You are well versed in the histories and must recall the action of Yu-kung, the archer, when he found his master Tzŭ-cho in his power.”

Kuan Yü was indeed a very mountain of goodness and could not forget the great kindness he had received at Tsʻao Tsʻao’s hands, and the magnanimity he had shown over the deeds at the five passes. He saw the desperate straits to which his benefactor was reduced and tears were very near to the eyes of both. He could not press him hard. He pulled at the bridle of his steed and turned away saying to his followers, “Break up the formation.”

From this it was evident that his design was to release Tsʻao Tsʻao, who then went on with his officers, and when Kuan Yü turned to look back they had all passed. He uttered a great shout and the soldiers jumped off their horses and knelt on the ground crying for mercy. But he also had pity for them. Then Chang Liao, whom he knew well, came along and was allowed to go free also.

Tsʻao Tsʻao, his army lost, fled to the Huayung Valley; There in the throat of the gorge met he Kuan Yü. Grateful was Kuan, and mindful of former kindness, Wherefore slipped he the bolt and freed the imprisoned dragon.

Having escaped this danger Tsʻao Tsʻao hastened to get out of the valley. As the throat opened out he glanced behind him and saw only two score and seven horsemen. As evening fell they reached Nanchün and they came upon what they took to be more enemies. Tsʻao Tsʻao thought the end had surely come, but to his delight they were his own men and he regained all his confidence. Tsʻao Jên, who was the leader, said that he had heard of the misfortunes of his master, but he was afraid to venture far from his charge else he would have met him before.

“I nearly missed you as it was,” said Tsʻao Tsʻao.

The fugitives found repose in the city, where Chang Liao soon joined them. He also praised the magnanimity of Kuan Yü.

When Tsʻao Tsʻao mustered the miserable remnant of his host he found nearly all were wounded and he bade them rest. Tsʻao Jên poured the wine of consolation whereby his master might forget his sorrows. And as Tsʻao drank among his familiars he became exceedingly sad.

Wherefore they said, “O Minister, when you were in the cave of the tiger and trying to escape you showed no sign of sorrow; now that you are safe in a city, where you have food and the horses have forage, where all you have to do is to prepare for revenge, suddenly you lose heart and grieve; why thus?”

Replied Tsʻao Tsʻao, “I am thinking of my friend Kuo Chia; had he been alive he would not have let me suffer this loss.”

He beat his breast and wept, saying “Alas for Fêng-hsiao! I grieve for Fêng-hsiao! I sorrow for Fêng-hsiao!”

The reproach shamed the advisers. Next day Tsʻao Tsʻao called Tsʻao Jên and said, “I am going to the capital to prepare another army for revenge. You are to guard this district and, in case of necessity, I leave with you a sealed plan. You are only to open the cover when hard-pressed, and then you are to act as directed. Wu will not dare to look this way.”

“Who is to guard Hofei and Hsiangyang?”

“Chingchou is particularly your care and Hsiahou Tun is to hold Hsiangyang. As Hofei is most important I am sending Chang Liao thither with good aids. If you get into difficulties send at once to tell me.”

Having made these dispositions Tsʻao Tsʻao set off at once with a few followers. He took with him the officers who had come over to his side when Chingchou fell into his hands.

Tsʻao Jên placed Tsʻao Hung in charge of the south of Iling.

After having allowed the escape of Tsʻao Tsʻao, Kuan Yü found his way back to headquarters. By this time the other detachments had returned bringing spoil of horses and weapons and supplies of all kinds. Only Kuan Yü came back empty-handed. When he arrived Chuko Liang was with his brother congratulating him on his success. When Kuan Yü was announced Kʻung-ming got up and went to welcome him, bearing a cup of wine.

“Joy! O General,” said he. “You have done a deed that overtops the world. You have removed the country’s worst foe and ought to have been met at a distance and felicitated.”

Kuan Yü muttered inaudibly and Kʻung-ming continued, “I hope it is not because we have omitted to welcome you on the road that you seem sad.”

Turning to those about him he said, “Why did you not tell us he was coming?”

“I am here to ask for death,” said Kuan Yü.

“Surely Tsʻao Tsʻao came through the valley?”

“Yes; he came that way, and I could not help it; I let him go.”

“Then whom have you captured?”

“No one.”

“Then you remembered the old kindness of Tsʻao Tsʻao and so allowed him to escape. But your acceptance of the task with its conditions is here. You will have to suffer the penalty.”

He called in the lictors and told them to take away Kuan Yü and put him to death.

Kuan Yü risked life when he spared Tsʻao In direst need, And age-long admiration gained For kindly deed.

What actually befell will be seen in the next chapter.

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Chapter LI

A GREAT BATTLE BETWEEN NORTH AND SOUTH: KʻUNG-MING ANGERS CHOU YÜ.

Kuan Yü had died there but for his elder brother, who said to the great strategist, “We three pledged ourselves to live and die together. Although my brother Yün-chʻang has offended I cannot bear to break our oath. I hope you will only record this against him and let him atone later for the fault by some specially meritorious service.”

So the sentence was remitted. In the meantime Chou Yü mustered his officers and called over his men, noted the special services of each and sent full reports to his master. The soldiers who had surrendered were all transported across the river. All this done they spread the feast of victory.

The next step was to attack and capture Nanchün. The van of the army camped on the river bank. There were five camps and the general’s tent was in the centre. He summoned his officers to a council. At this moment Sun Chʻien arrived with congratulations from Liu Pei. Chou Yü received him and, having saluted in proper form, Chʻien said, “My lord sent me on this special mission to felicitate the General on his great virtue and offer some unworthy gifts.”

“Where is Yüan-tê?” asked Chou Yü.

“He is now encamped at Yuchiangkʻou.”

“Is Kʻung-ming there?” asked Chou Yü, taken aback.

“Both are there,” said Chʻien.

“Then return quickly, and I will come in person to thank them.”

The presents handed over, Sun Chʻien was sent back forthwith to his own camp. Then Lu Su asked Chou Yü why he had started when he heard where Liu Pei was camped.

“Because,” replied Chou Yü, “camping there means that he has the intention of taking Nanchün. Having spent much military energy and spared no expenditure, we thought the district should fall to us easily. Those others are opposed to us and they wish to get the advantage of what we have already accomplished. However, they must remember that I am not dead yet.”

“How can you prevent them?” asked Lu Su.

“I will go myself and speak with them. If all goes well, then, let it be so; in case it does not, then I shall immediately settle up Liu Pei without waiting for Nanchün to be taken.”

“I should like to accompany you,” said Lu Su.

The General and his friend started, taking with them a guard of one squadron of light horse. Having arrived at Yuchiangkʻou they sought out Sun Chʻien, who, in turn, went in to see Yüan-tê and told him Chou Yü had come to render thanks.

“Why has he come?” asked Yüan-tê of his all-wise adviser.

“Is it likely he would come out of simple politeness? Of course he has come in connection with Nanchün.”

“But if he brings an army, can we stand against it?” asked Yüan-tê.

“When he comes you may reply thus and thus.”

Then they drew up the warships in the river and ranged the soldiers upon the bank and when the arrival of Chou Yü was formally announced, Chao Yün, with some horsemen, went to welcome him. When Chou Yü saw what bold men they looked he began to feel uncomfortable, but he went on his way. Being met at the camp gates by Liu Pei and Kʻung-ming, he was taken in to the chief tent, where the ceremonies were performed and preparations for a banquet had been made.

Presently Liu Pei raised his cup in felicitation on the recent victory gained by his guest. The banquet proceeded and after a few more courses Chou Yü said, “Of course you are camped here with no other idea than to take Nanchün?”

“We heard you were going to take the place and came to assist. Should you not take it then we will occupy it.”

Chou Yü laughed. “We of the east have long wished for this district. Now that it is within our grasp we naturally shall take it.”

Liu Pei said, “There is always some uncertainty. Tsʻao Tsʻao left Tsʻao Jên to guard the district and you may be certain that there is good strategy behind him to say nothing of his boldness as a warrior. I fear you may not get it.”

“Well, if we do not take it then, Sir, you may have it,” said Chou Yü.

“Here are witnesses to your words,” said Liu Pei, naming those at table. “I hope you will never repent what you have just said.”

Lu Su stammered and seemed unwilling to be cited as one of the witnesses but Chou Yü said, “When the word of a noble man has gone forth it is ended; he never regrets.”

“This speech of yours, Sir, is very generous,” interjected Kʻung-ming. “Wu shall try first, but if the place does not fall there is no reason why my lord should not capture it.”

The two visitors then took their leave and rode away. As soon as they had left Liu Pei turned to Kʻung-ming and said, “O Master, you bade me thus reply to Chou Yü, but though I did so I have turned it over and over in my mind without finding any reason in what I said. I am alone and weak, without a single foot of land to call my own. I desired to get possession of Nanchün that I might have, at least, a temporary shelter, yet I have said that Chou Yü may attack it first and if it fall to Wu, how can I get possession?”

Kʻung-ming laughed and replied, “First I advised you to attack Chingchou, but you would not listen; do you remember?”

“But it belonged to Liu Piao and I could not bear to attack it then. Now it belongs to Tsʻao Tsʻao I might do so.”

“Do not be anxious,” replied the adviser. “Let Chou Yü go and attack it; some day, my lord, I shall make you sit in the high places thereof.”

“But what design have you?”

“So and so,” replied Kʻung-ming.

Yüan-tê was satisfied with the reply, and only strengthened his position at Chiangkʻou. In the meantime Chou Yü and Lu Su returned to their own camp and the latter said, “Why did you tell Liu Pei that he might attack Nanchün?”

“I can take it with a flick of my finger,” replied Chou Yü, “but I just manifested a little pretended kindliness.”

Then he enquired among his officers for a volunteer to attack the city. One Chiang Chʻin offered himself, and was put in command of the vanguard, with Hsü Shêng and Ting Fêng as helpers. He was given five companies of veterans and they moved across the river. Chou Yü promised to follow with supports.

On the other side Tsʻao Jên ordered Tsʻao Hung to guard Iling and so hold one corner of a triangular defence. When the news came that Wu had crossed the river Han, Tsʻao said, “We will defend and not offer battle.”

But Niu Chin said impetuously, “To let the enemy approach the walls and not offer battle is timidity. Our men, lately worsted, need heartening and must show their mettle. Let me have half a company of veterans and I will fight to a finish.”

Tsʻao Jên could not withstand this offer and so the half company went out of the city. At once Ting Fêng came to challenge the leader and they fought a few bouts. Then Ting Fêng pretended to be defeated, gave up the fight and retreated into his own lines. Niu Chin followed him hard. When he had got within the Wu formation, at a signal from Ting Fêng, the army closed round and Niu Chin was surrounded. He pushed right and left, but could find no way out. Seeing him in the toils, Tsʻao Jên, who had watched the fight from the wall, donned his armour and came out of the city at the head of his own bold company of horsemen and burst in among the men of Wu to try to rescue his colleague. Beating back Hsü Shêng he fought his way in and presently rescued Niu Chin.

However, having got out he saw several score of horsemen still in the middle unable to make their way out, whereupon he turned again to the battle and dashed in to their rescue. This time he met Chiang Chʻin on whom he and Niu Chin made a violent onslaught. Then the brother Tsʻao Shun came up with supports and the great battle ended in a defeat for the men of Wu.

So Tsʻao Jên went back victor, while the unhappy Chiang Chʻin returned to report his failure. Chou Yü was very angry and would have put to death his hapless subordinate but for the intervention of the other officers.

Then he prepared for another attack where he himself would lead. But Kan Ning said, “General, do not be in too great hurry; let me go first and attack Iling, the supporting angle of the triangle. After that the conquest of Nanchün will be easy.”

Chou Yü accepted the plan and Kan, with three companies, went to attack Iling.

When news of the approaching army reached him Tsʻao Jên called to his side Chʻên Chiao, who said, “If Iling be lost then Nanchün is lost too. So help must be sent quickly.”

Thereupon Tsʻao Shun and Niu Chin were sent by secret ways to the aid of Tsʻao Hung. Tsʻao Shun sent a messenger to the city to ask that they should cause a diversion by a sortie at the time the reinforcements should arrive.

So when Kan Ning drew near, Tsʻao Hung went out to meet and engage him. They fought a score of rounds, but Tsʻao Hung was overcome at last and Kan Ning took the city. However, as evening fell the reinforcements came up and the captor was surrounded in the city he had taken. The scouts went off immediately to tell Chou Yü of this sudden change of affairs which greatly alarmed him.

“Let us hasten to his rescue,” said Chʻêng Pʻu.

“This place is of the greatest importance,” said Chou Yü, “and I am afraid to leave it undefended lest Tsʻao Jên should attack.”

“But he is one of our first leaders and must be rescued,” said Lü Mêng.

“I should like to go myself to his aid, but whom can I leave here in my place?” said Chou Yü.

“Leave Lin Tʻung here,” said Lü Mêng; “I will push on ahead and you can protect my advance. In less than ten days we shall be singing the pæan of victory.”

“Are you willing?” said Chou Yü to the man who was to act for him.

“If the ten day period is not exceeded I may be able to carry on for that time; I am unequal to more than that.”

Ling Tʻung’s consent pleased Chou Yü who started at once, leaving a legion for the defence of the camp. Lü Mêng said to his chief, “South of Iling is a little-used road that may prove very useful in an attack on Nanchün. Let us send a party to fell trees and barricade this road so that horses cannot pass. In case of defeat the defeated will take this road and will be compelled to abandon their horses, which we shall capture.”

Chou Yü approved and the men set out. When the main army drew near Iling, Chou Yü asked who would try to break through the besiegers and Chou Tʻai offered himself. He girded on his sword, mounted his steed and burst straight into the Tsʻao army. He got through to the city wall.

From the city wall Kan Ning saw the approach of his friend Chou Tʻai and went out to welcome him. Chou Tʻai told him that the Commander-in-Chief was on the way to his relief and Kan Ning at once bade the defenders prepare from within to support the attack of the rescuers.

When the news of the approach of Chou Yü had reached Iling the defenders had sent to tell Tsʻao Jên, who was at Nanchün and they prepared to repel the assailants. So when the army of Wu came near they were at once attacked. Simultaneously Kan Ning and Chou Tʻai attacked on two sides and the men of Tsʻao were thrown into confusion. The men of Wu fell on lustily and the three leaders all fled by a bye-road, but, finding the way barred with felled trees and other obstacles, they had to abandon their horses and go afoot. In this way the men of Wu gained some five hundred steeds.

Chou Yü, pressing on as quickly as possible toward Nanchün, came upon Tsʻao Jên and his army marching to save Iling. The two armies engaged and fought a battle which lasted till late in the evening. Then both drew off and Tsʻao Jên withdrew into the city.

During the night he called his officers to a council. Then said Tsʻao Hung, “The loss of Iling has brought us to a dangerous pass; now it seems the time to open the letter of the Minister our Chief and see what plans he arranged for our salvation in this peril.”

“You but say what I think,” replied Tsʻao Jên. Whereupon he tore open the letter and read it. His face lighted up with joy and he at once issued orders to have the morning meal prepared at the fifth watch. At daylight the whole army moved out of the city but they left a semblance of occupation in the shape of banners on the walls.

Chou Yü went up to the tower of observation and looked over the city. He saw that the flags along the battlements had no men behind them and he noticed that every man carried a bundle at his waist behind so that he was prepared for a long march. Thought Chou Yü to himself, “Tsʻao Jên must be prepared for a long march.”

So he went down from the tower of observation and sent out an order for two wings of the army to be ready. One of these was to attack and, in case of its success, the other was to pursue at full speed till the clanging of the gongs should call them to return. He took command of the leading force in person and Chʻêng Pʻu commanded the other. Thus they advanced to attack the city.

The armies being arrayed facing each other, the drums rolled out across the plain. Tsʻao Hung rode forth and challenged, and Chou Yü, from his place by the standard, bade Han Tang respond. The two champions fought near two score bouts and then Tsʻao Hung fled. Thereupon Tsʻao Jên came out to help him and Chou Tʻai rode out at full speed to meet him. These two exchanged a half score passes and then Tsʻao Jên fled.

His army fell into confusion. Thereupon Chou Yü gave the signal for the advance of both his wings and the men of Tsʻao were sore smitten and defeated. Chou Yü pursued to the city wall, but Tsʻao’s men did not enter the city. Instead, they went away north-west. Han Tang and Chou Tʻai pressed them hard.

Chou Yü, seeing the city gates standing wide open and no guards upon the walls, ordered the raiding of the city. A few score horsemen rode in first, Chou Yü followed and whipping his steed. As he galloped into the enclosure around the gate, Chʻên Chiao stood on the defence tower. When he saw Chou Yü enter, in his heart he applauded the god-like perspicacity of the Minister Tsʻao Tsʻao.

Then was heard the clap-clap of a watchman’s rattle. At this signal the archers and crossbowmen let fly and the arrows and bolts flew forth in a sudden fierce shower, while those who had won their way to the van of the inrush went headlong into a deep trench. Chou Yü managed to pull up in time, but turning to escape, he was wounded in the left side and fell to the ground. Niu Chin rushed out from the city to capture the chief, but Hsü Shêng and Ting Fêng at the risk of their lives got him away safe. Then the men of Tsʻao dashed out of the city and wrought confusion among the men of Wu, who trampled each other down and many more fell into the trenches. Chʻêng Pʻu tried to draw off, but Tsʻao Jên and Tsʻao Hung came toward him from different directions and the battle went hardly against the men from the east, till help came from Ling Tʻung, who bore back their assailants. Satisfied with their success Tsʻao led his men into the city, while the losers marched back to their own camp.

Chou Yü, sorely wounded, was taken to his own tent and the army physician called in. With iron forceps he extracted the sharp bolt and dressed the wound with a lotion designed to counteract the poison of the metal. But the pain was intense and the patient rejected all nourishment. The physician said the missile had been poisoned and the wound would require a long time to heal. The patient must be kept quiet and especially free from any irritation, which would cause the wound to re-open.

Thereupon Chʻêng Pʻu gave orders that each division was to remain in camp. Three days later Niu Chin came within sight and challenged the men of Wu to battle, but they did not stir. The enemy hurled at them taunts and insults till the sun had fallen low in the sky, but it was of no avail and Niu withdrew.

Next day Niu Chin returned and repeated his insulting abuse. Chʻêng Pʻu dared not tell the wounded general. The third day, waxing bolder, the enemy came to the very gates of the stockade, the leader shouting that he had come for the purpose of capturing Chou Yü.

Then Chʻêng Pʻu called together his officers and they discussed the feasibility of retirement into Wu that he might seek the opinion of the Marquis.

Ill as he was Chou Yü still retained control of the expedition. He knew that the enemy came daily to the gates of his camp and reviled him although none of his officers told him. One day Tsʻao Jên came in person and there was much rolling of drums and shouting. Chʻêng Pʻu, however, steadily refused to accept the challenge and would not let any one go out. Then Chou Yü summoned the officers to his bedside and said, “What mean the drums and the shouting?”

“The men are drilling,” was the reply.

“Why do you deceive me?” said Chou Yü angrily. “Do I not know that our enemies come day by day to our gates and insult us? Yet Chʻêng Pʻu suffers this in silence and makes no use of his powers and authority.”

He sent for Chʻêng Pʻu and, when he arrived, asked him why he acted thus.

“Because you are ill and the physician said you were on no account to be provoked to anger. Wherefore, although the enemy challenged us to battle, I kept it from you.”

“And if you do not fight what think you should be done?” said Chou Yü.

And they all said they desired to return to the east till he had recovered from his wound, when they would make another expedition.

Chou Yü lay and listened. Suddenly he sprang up, crying, “The noble man who has eaten of his lord’s bounty should die in his lord’s battles; to return to one’s home wrapped in a horse’s hide is a happy fate. Am I the sort of man to bring to nought the grand designs of my country?”

So speaking he proceeded to gird on his armour and he mounted his horse. The wonder of the officers only redoubled when their General placed himself at the head of some hundreds of horsemen and went out of the camp gates toward the enemy, then fully arrayed. Tsʻao Jên, their general, stood beneath the great standard.

At sight of the opponents Tsʻao Jên flourished his whip and began to hurl abuse at them, “Chou Yü, you babe! I think your fate has met you. You dare not face my men.”

The stream of insult never ceased. Presently Chou Yü could stand it no longer. Riding out to the front he cried, “Here I am, base churl; look at me!”

The whole Tsʻao army were taken aback. But Tsʻao Jên turned to those about him and said, “Let us all revile him!” And the whole army yelled insults.

Chou Yü grew angry and sent Pʻan Chang out to fight. But before he had delivered his first blow Chou Yü suddenly uttered a loud cry, and he fell to the ground with blood gushing from his mouth.

At this the Tsʻao army rushed to the battle and the men of Wu pressed forward to meet them. A fierce struggle waged around the General’s body, but he was borne off safely and taken to his tent.

“Do you feel better?” asked Chʻêng Pʻu anxiously.

“It was a ruse of mine,” whispered Chou Yü in reply.

“But what avails it?”

“I am not suffering, but I did that to make our enemies think I was very ill and so oppose them by deceit. I will send a few trusty men to pretend desertion and tell them I am dead. That will cause them to try a night raid on the camp and we shall have an ambush ready for them. We shall get Tsʻao Jên easily.”

“The plan seems excellent,” said Chʻêng Pʻu.

Soon from the tent there arose the sound of wailing as for the dead. The soldiers around took up the cry and said one to another, “The General is dead of his wound,” and they all put on the symbols of mourning.

Meanwhile Tsʻao Jên was consulting with his officers. Said he, “Chou Yü lost his temper and that has caused his wound to re-open and brought on that flow of blood. You saw him fall to the ground and he will assuredly die soon.”

Just then there came in one who said that a few men had come over from the enemy asking to be allowed to join the army of Tsʻao; among them were two of Tsʻao’s men who had been made prisoners.

Tsʻao Jên sent for the deserters and questioned them. They told him a story of Chou Yü’s wound and death that day. The leaders were all in mourning. They had deserted because they had been put to shame by the second in command.

Pleased at this news Tsʻao Jên at once began to arrange to make a night attack on the camp and, if possible, get the head of the dead general to send to the capital.

“Success depends upon promptitude, so act without delay,” said Chʻên Chiao.

Niu Chin was told off as van leader, Tsʻao Jên himself led the centre, while the rear was commanded by Tsʻao Hung and Tsʻao Shun. Chʻên Chiao, and a few men, were left to guard the city.

At the first watch they left the city and took the way toward Chou Yü’s camp. When they drew near not a man was visible, but flags and banners and spears were all there, evidently to keep up an appearance of preparation. Feeling at once that they had been tricked they turned to retreat. But a bomb exploded and this was the signal for an attack on all four sides. The result was a severe defeat for the raiders and the army of Tsʻao Jên was entirely broken and scattered abroad so that no one part of the beaten army could aid the other.

Tsʻao Jên, with a few horsemen got out of the press and presently met Tsʻao Hung. The two leaders ran away together and by the fifth watch they had got near Nanchün. Then they heard a beating of drums and Lin Tʻung appeared barring the way. There was a small skirmish and Tsʻao Jên went off at an angle. But he fell in with Kan Ning, who attacked him vigorously. Tsʻao Jên dared not go back to Nanchün, but he made for Hsiangyang along the main road. The men of Wu pursued him for a time and then desisted.

Chou Yü and Chʻêng Pʻu then made their way to Nanchün where they were startled to see flags on the walls and every sign of occupation. Before they had recovered from their surprise there appeared one who cried, “Pardon, General; I had orders from my chief to take this city. I am Chao Tzŭ-lung of Chʻangshan.”

Chou Yü was fiercely angry and gave orders to assault the city, but the defenders sent down flights and flights of arrows and his men could not stay near the rampart. So he withdrew and took counsel. In the meantime he decided to send a force to capture Chingchou and another to take Hsiangyang. Nanchün could be taken later.

But even as these orders were being given the scouts came in hurriedly to report that Chuko Liang, suddenly producing a military commission, had induced the guards of Chingchou to leave it and go to the rescue of Chou Yü. Whereupon Chang Fei had occupied the town. Soon after another messenger came to say that Hsiahou Tun, at Hsiangyang, had received from Chuko Liang despatches, supported by a commission in due form, saying that Tsʻao Jên was in danger and needed help, whereupon Hsiahou Tun had marched off and Kuan Yü had seized that town.

Thus the two towns that Chou Yü wanted had fallen, without the least effort, into the hands of his rival Liu Pei.

“How did Chuko Liang get this military commission with which he has imposed on the captains?” asked Chou Yü.

Chʻêng Pʻu replied, “He seized that of Chʻên Chiao; and so has got all this district into his power.”

Chou Yü uttered a great cry for at that moment his wound had suddenly burst open.

A city falls, but not to us the gain; The guerdon is another’s; ours the pain.

The next chapter will say what befell Chou Yü.

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Chapter LII

CHUKO LIANG TALKS CUNNINGLY TO LU SU: CHAO YÜN, BY A RUSE, CAPTURES KUEIYANG

Chou Yü’s anger at seeing that his rival, Kʻung-ming, had surprised Nanchün, and at hearing the same news of Chingchou and Hsiangyang, was but natural. And this sudden fit of rage caused his wound to re-open. However, he soon recovered. All his officers besought him to accept the situation, but he said, “What but the death of that bumpkin, Chuko, will assuage my anger? If Chʻêng Pʻu can but aid me in an attack on Nanchün I can certainly restore it to my country.”

Soon Lu Su came in, to whom Chou Yü said, “I simply must fight Liu Pei and Chuko Liang till it is decided which shall have the upper hand. I must also recapture the city. Perhaps you can assist me.”

“It cannot be done,” replied Lu Su. “We are now at grips with Tsʻao Tsʻao and victory or defeat is undecided. Our lord has not been successful in overcoming Hopei. Do not fight near home, or it will be like people of the same household destroying each other and should Tsʻao Tsʻao take advantage of this position to make a sudden descent we should be in a parlous condition. Further, you must remember that Liu Pei and Tsʻao Tsʻao are united by the bonds of old friendship and, if the pressure becomes too great, Liu Pei may relinquish these cities, offer them to Tsʻao Tsʻao and join forces with him to attack our country. That would be a real misfortune.”

“I cannot help being angry” said Chou Yü, “to think that we should have used our resources for their benefit. They get all the advantage.”

“Well, let me go and see Yüan-tê and talk reason to him. If I can arrive at no understanding then attack at once.”

“Excellent proposal!” cried all present.

So Lu Su, with his escort, went away to Nanchün to carry out his proposal and try to arrange matters. He reached the city wall and summoned the gate, whereat Chao Yün came out to speak with him.

“I have something to say to Liu Yüan-tê,” said he; “I wish to see him.”

“My lord and Chuko Liang are in Chingchou,” was the reply.

Lu Su turned away and hasted to Chingchou. He found the walls bedecked with flags and everything in excellent order. In his heart he admired the sight, and thought what an able man was the commander of that army.

The guards reported his arrival and Kʻung-ming ordered them to throw wide the gate. He was led to the government house and, after the usual exchange of salutes, Kʻung-ming and his visitor took their respective seats. Having finished the tea, Lu Su said, “My master, the Marquis Wu, and the Commander of his army, Chou Yü, have sent me to lay before the Imperial Uncle their views. When Tsʻao Tsʻao led his huge host southward he gave out that it was for the conquest of Chiangnan; really his intention was to destroy Liu Pei. Happily our army was able to repulse that mighty host and so saved him. Wherefore Chingchou with its nine districts ought to belong to us. But by a treacherous move your master has occupied Chingchou and Hsiangyang, so that we have spent our treasure in vain and our armies have fought to no purpose. The imperial Uncle has reaped the benefits to the full. This is not as it should be.”

Kʻung-ming replied, “Tzŭ-ching, you are a man of high intelligence; why do you hold such language? You know the saying, that all things turn to their owner. These places have never belonged to Wu, but were of the patrimony of Liu Piao, and though he is dead, his son remains. Should not the uncle assist the nephew to recover his own? Could my master have refrained?”

“If the nephew Liu Chʻi, the rightful heir, had occupied these cities there would have been something to say. But he is at Chianghsia and not here.”

“Would you like to see him?” said Kʻung-ming.

At the same time he ordered the servants to request Liu Chʻi to come. Thereupon he at once appeared, supported by two attendants. Addressing Lu Su he said, “I am too weak to perform the correct ceremonies; I pray you pardon me, Tzŭ-ching.”

Lu Su said not a word; he was too much taken aback. However, he recovered himself presently and said, “But if the heir had not been here, what then?”

“The heir is living but from day to day; should he go, then——there will be something to talk about.”

“Should he die, then you ought to return these cities to us.”

“You state the exact facts,” said Kʻung-ming.

Then a banquet was prepared and, that over, Lu Su took his leave. He hastened back to his own camp and gave Chou Yü an account of his mission.

“But what is there for us in the chance of Liu Chʻi’s death?” said Chou Yü. “He is in his very first youth. When will these places fall to us?”

“Rest content, General; let me guarantee the return of these places.”

“But how can you?” asked Chou Yü.

“Liu Chʻi has indulged too freely in wine and women; he is a wreck and rotten to the core, miserably emaciated and panting for breath. I will not give him half a year’s life. Then I will go to Liu Pei and he will be unable to deny the request.”

But Chou Yü was still unmollified. Suddenly came a messenger from Sun Chʻüan, who said, “Our lord is laying siege to Hofei but in several battles has had no victory. He now orders you to withdraw from here and go to Hofei to help him.”

Thereupon Chou Yü marched back to Chʻaisang. Having reached home he began to give attention to the recovery of his health. He sent Chʻêng Pʻu with the marine and land forces to Hofei ready for Sun Chʻüan’s call.

Liu Pei was exceedingly well satisfied with the possession of his new territory and his thoughts turned to more ambitious schemes. Then a certain man came to him to suggest a plan. This man was I Chi and, remembering the kindly feeling of other days, Yüan-tê received him most graciously. When he was seated, and his host had asked what he proposed, he said, “You wish for a plan to accomplish yet greater deeds; why not seek wise men and ask them?”

“Where are these wise men to be found?” asked Yüan-tê.

I Chi replied, “In this district there is a certain family named Ma, five brothers, all of whom are known as men of ability. The youngest is called Ma Su, or Ma Yu-chʻang. The ablest is Ma Liang, or Chi-chʻang, who has white hairs in his eyebrows, and the villagers have a little rhyming couplet that means there are five sons in the family Ma but white eyebrows is the best of them. You should get this man to draw up a plan for you.”

So Yüan-tê told them to request his presence. Ma Liang came and was received with great respect. He was asked to suggest a plan for the security of the newly acquired district and he said, “Attacked as it is on all sides this district is not one in which one is permanently secure. You should let Liu Chʻi remain here till he is recovered from his present illness, the actual protection of the place being left in the hands of trusty friends. Obtain an Edict appointing him Governor and the people will be content. Then conquer Wuling, Changsha, Kueiyang and Linling and with the resources you will thus acquire you will have the means for further plans. That should be your policy.”

“Which of the four districts should be first taken?” asked Liu Pei.

“The nearest, Linling, which lies in the west of Hsiang (Hunan). The next is Wuling and after these the other two.”

Ma Liang was given an appointment as secretary, with I Chi as his second. Then Yüan-tê consulted Kʻung-ming about sending Liu Chʻi to Hsiangyang, so that Yün-chʻang could be free to return. Next they made preparations to attack Linling, and Chang Fei was to lead the van. Chao Yün was to guard the rear while Yüan-tê and Kʻung-ming were to command the main body. A legion and a half were left to hold Chingchou. Mi Chu and Liu Fêng were left to guard Chiangling.

The Prefect of Linling was Liu Tu. When danger thus threatened he called in his son Liu Hsien and they discussed the case. The son was very self-confident and said to his father, “Have no anxiety. They may have the known and famous warriors, Chang Fei and Chao Yün, but we have our leader, Hsing Tao-yung, who is match for any number of men. He can withstand them.”

So Liu Hsien, with the famous leader, was entrusted with the defence. At the head of a full legion they made a camp about thirty li from the city, with the shelter of hills and a river. Their scouts brought news that Kʻung-ming was close at hand with one army. Hsing Tao-jung decided to check his advance and went forth to oppose him. When both sides were arrayed, Hsing rode to the front. In his hand he held a battle-axe called Cleaver of Mountains. In a mighty voice he cried, “Rebels, how comes it that you have dared to enter our territory?”

From the centre of the opposing army, where appeared a cluster of yellow flags, there came out a small four-wheeled carriage in which sat, very erect, a certain man dressed in white, with a turban on his head. In one hand he held a feather fan, with which he signed to the warrior to approach. At the same time he said, “I am Chuko Kʻung-ming, of Nanyang, whose plans broke up the countless legions of Tsʻao Tsʻao so that nothing of them returned whence they started. How then can you hope to oppose me? I now offer you peace and it will be well for you to surrender.”

Hsing laughed derisively. “Their defeat was owing to the plan of Chou Yü; you had nothing to do with it. How dare you try to deceive me?”

So saying he swung up his battle-axe and came running toward Kʻung-ming. But he turned his carriage and retired within the lines which closed up behind him. Hsing still came rushing on. As he reached the array the men fell away on both sides and let him enter. Well within he looked round for his chief opponent. Seeing a yellow flag moving along quietly he concluded that Kʻung-ming was with it and so followed it. When the flag had gone over the shoulder of a hill it stopped. Then suddenly as if the earth had opened and swallowed it up, the four-wheeled carriage disappeared, while in its place came a ferocious warrior, with a long spear in his hand and mounted on a curvetting steed. It was Chang Fei, who dashed at Hsing with a tremendous roar.

Nothing daunted Hsing Tao-jung whirled up his battle-axe and went to meet Chang Fei. But after four or five bouts he saw that there was no chance of victory for him, so he turned his horse and ran. Chang Fei pursued, the air shaking with the thunder of his voice.

Then the ambushed men appeared. Tao-jung, nothing daunted, rushed into their midst. But in front appeared another warrior barring the way, who called out, “Do you know me? I am Chao Tzŭ-lung of Chʻangshan.”

Hsing Tao-jung knew that all was over; he could neither fight nor fly. So he dismounted and gave in. He was fettered and taken to camp, where were Yüan-tê and Kʻung-ming. The former ordered him out to execution, but Kʻung-ming hastily checked him.

“We will accept your submission if you capture Liu Hsien for us,” said he.

The captive accepted the offer without the least hesitation, and when Kʻung-ming asked how he intended to do it, he replied, “If you will set me free, I shall be cunning of speech. If you raid the camp this evening you will find me your helper on the inside. I will make Liu Hsien a prisoner and will hand him over to you. He being captured, his father will surrender at once.”

Yüan-tê doubted the good faith of the man, but Kʻung-ming said he knew he could answer for him. Wherefore he was set free and went back to camp, where he related all that had occurred.

“What can we do?” asked Liu Hsien.

“We can meet trick with trick. Put soldiers in ambush to-night outside our camp while within everything will appear as usual. When Kʻung-ming comes we shall capture him.”

The ambush was prepared. At the second watch a troop came out of the darkness and appeared in the gate. Each man carried a torch and they began to set fire to all about them. Out dashed Liu Hsien and Hsing Tao-jung and the incendiaries forthwith fled. The two warriors pursued them, but the fugitives ran and then suddenly disappeared at about ten li from the camp. Much surprised the two turned to wend their way back to their own camp.

It was still burning for no one had extinguished the flames. Soon from behind them came out Chang Fei. Liu Hsien called out to his companion not to enter the burning camp, but to go with him to attack Kʻung-ming’s stockade.

Thereupon they turned again, but at a distance of ten li Chao Yün and a troop suddenly debouched upon their road. Chao Yün attacked and Hsing Tao-jung fell. Liu Hsien turned to flee, but Chang Fei was close upon him and made him prisoner. He was thrown across a horse, bound and taken to camp. When he saw Kʻung-ming he laid blame on his fallen comrade saying he had listened to his evil counsel and this deed was not his own wish. Kʻung-ming ordered them to loose his bonds, had him properly dressed and gave him wine to cheer him and help him forget his troubles. When he was recovered he was told to go to his father and persuade him to yield.

“And if he does not, the city shall be destroyed and every one put to death,” said Kʻung-ming as he left.

The son returned to the city and told his father these things. Liu Tu at once decided to yield and forthwith hoisted the flag of surrender, opened the gates, and went out taking his seal of office with him. He was re-appointed to his prefectship, but his son was sent to Chingchou for service with the army.

The people of Linling all rejoiced greatly at the change of rulers. Yüan-tê entered the city, calmed and re-assured the people and rewarded his army.

But he at once began to think of the next move and asked for an officer to volunteer to take Kueiyang. Chao Yün offered, but Chang Fei vehemently proposed himself for the command of the expedition. So they wrangled and contended.

Then said Kʻung-ming, “Undoubtedly Chao Yün was first to volunteer, wherefore he is to go.”

Still Chang Fei opposed and insisted on going. They were told to decide the dispute by drawing lots and Chao Yün drew the winning lot. Chang Fei was still very angry and grumbled, “I would not have wanted any helpers: just three companies and I would have done it.”

“I also only want three companies,” said Chao Yün. “And if I fail I am willing to suffer the penalties.”

Kʻung-ming was pleased that he recognised his responsibility so fully, and with the commission gave him three companies of veterans.

Though the matter was thus settled Chang Fei was discontented and pressed his claim till Yüan-tê bade him desist and retire.

With his three companies Chao Yün took the road to Kueiyang. The Prefect Chao Fan soon heard of his approach and hastily called his officers to take counsel. Two of them, Chʻên Ying and Pao Lung, offered to meet the invaders and turn them back.

These two warriors belonged to Kueiyang and had made themselves famous as hunters. Chʻên used a “Flying Fork” and Pao could draw a bow with such force that he had been known to send an arrow through two tigers. So strong were they, as well as bold.

They stood before Chao Fan and said, “We will lead the way against Liu Pei.”

The Prefect replied, “I know that Liu Pei is of the Imperial family: Kʻung-ming is exceedingly resourceful: Kuan Yü and Chang Fei are very bold. But the commander of this force is Chao Tzŭ-lung who, on one occasion, faced a hundred legions and never blenched. Our small force here cannot stand against such people. We shall have to yield.”

“Let me go out to fight,” said Chʻên Ying. “If I cannot capture Chao Yün then you can yield.”

The Prefect could not resist him and gave his consent. Then Chʻên Ying, with three companies, went forth and soon the two armies came within sight of each other. When Chʻên Ying’s army was drawn up he girded on his “Flying Fork” and rode to the front. Chao Yün gripped his spear and rode to meet him. Chao Yün began to rail at Chʻên Ying, saying, “My master is the brother of Liu Piao to whom belonged this land. Now he is supporting his nephew the heir and son of Liu Piao. Having taken Chingchou I am come to soothe and comfort the people here. Why then do you oppose me?”

“We are supporters of the Minister Tsʻao and are no followers of your master,” was the reply.

Chao Yün, waxing angry, firmly grasped his spear and rode forward. His opponent twirled “Flying Fork” and advanced. The horses met, but after four or five encounters Chʻên Ying, realising that there was no hope of victory, turned and fled. Chao Yün followed. Suddenly turning, Chʻên Ying got close to Chao Yün and flung the fork. Chao Yün deftly caught it and threw it back. Chʻên Ying dodged away, but Chao Yün soon caught him up, seized Chʻên Ying, dragged him out of the saddle and threw him to the ground. Then he called up his soldiers and they bound the prisoner. He was taken to the camp, while his men scattered and fled.

“I thought you would not dare a combat with me,” said Chao Yün to the prisoner when they had returned to camp. “However, I am not going to put you to death. You are free. But persuade your master to yield.”

Chʻên Ying asked pardon, put his hands over his head and fled like a frightened rat. When he reached his city he told the Prefect all these things.

“My original desire was to yield, but you insisted on fighting and this is what it has brought you to.”

So spoke the Prefect. He bade Chʻên begone and then prepared his letter of submission and put up his seal. With a small party he went out of the city and wended his way to Chao Yün’s camp. Chao received him graciously, offered him wine and then accepted the seal of office. After the wine had gone round several times Chao Fan became talkative, “General, your surname is the same as mine, and five centuries ago we were one family. You are from Chênting and so am I. Moreover we are from the same village. If you do not mind we might swear brotherhood. I should be very happy.”

Chao Yün was pleased and they compared ages. They were of the same year. However, Chao Yün was the elder by four months and so Chao Fan made his bow as younger brother. The two men, having so many things in common, were very pleased with each other and seemed fitted to be close friends.

At eventide the feast broke up and the late Prefect returned to his dwelling. Next day he requested Chao Yün to enter the city, where, after he had assured the people of their safety, Chao Yün went to a banquet at the ya-mên. When they had become mellow with wine the Prefect invited Chao Yün into the inner quarters, where wine was again served. When Chao Yün was a little intoxicated, his host bade a woman come forth and offer a cup of wine to the guest.

The woman was dressed entirely in white silk and her beauty was such as to overthrow cities and ruin states.

“Who is she?” asked Chao Yün.

“My sister-in-law; her maiden name was Fan.”

Chao Yün at once changed his look and treated her with deference. When she had offered the cup the host told her to be seated and join the party but Chao Yün declined this addition to the evening and the lady withdrew.

“Why did you trouble your sister-in-law to present wine to me, brother?” asked Chao Yün.

“There is a reason,” said the host smiling. “I pray you let me tell you. My brother died three years ago and left her a widow. But this cannot be regarded as the end of the story. I have often advised her to marry again, but she said she would only do so if three conditions were satisfied in one man’s person. The suitor must be famous for literary grace and warlike exploits, secondly, handsome and highly esteemed and, thirdly, of the same name as our own. Now where in all the world was such a combination likely to be found? Yet here are you, brother, dignified, handsome and prepossessing, a man whose name is known all over the wide world and of the desired name. You exactly fulfil my sister’s ambitions. If you do not find her too ugly, I should like her to marry you and I will provide a dowry. What think you of such an alliance, such a bond of relationship?”

But Chao Yün rose in anger, shouting, “As I have just sworn brotherhood with you, is not your sister-in-law my sister-in-law? How could you think of bringing such confusion into the relationship.”

Shame suffused Chao Fan’s face and he said, “I only thought of being kind to you; why are you so very rude to me?”

He looked right and left to his attendants with murder in his eye. Chao Yün raised his fist and knocked him down. Then he strode out of the place, mounted and rode out of the city.

Chao Fan at once called in his two fighting men. Chʻên Ying said, “He has gone away in a rage, which means that we shall have to fight him.”

“I greatly fear you will lose,” said Chao Fan.

“We will pretend to be deserters,” said Pao Lung, “and so get among his men. When you challenge him we will suddenly catch him.”

“We shall have to take some others with us,” said Chʻên.

“Half a company will be ample,” said Pao.

So in the night the two men and their followers ran over to Chao Yün’s camp to desert.

Chao Yün understood the trick they would play, but he called them in and they said, “When Chao Fan tempted you with that fair lady he wanted to make you drunk and get you into the private apartments so that he might murder you and send your head to Tsʻao Tsʻao. Yes; he was as wicked as that even. We saw you go away in anger and we thought that would mean grave trouble for us and so we have deserted.”

Chao Yün listened with simulated joy, and he had wine served to the two men, and pressed them to drink so that they were quite overcome. When this was done he had both bound with cords, called up their followers and asked them whether this was real or pretended desertion and they told him the truth. Then he gave the soldiers wine and said, “Those who wanted to harm me are your leaders and not you. If you do as I tell you you shall be well rewarded.”

The soldiers threw themselves to the ground and promised obedience. Thereupon the two leaders were beheaded. The half company were made to lead the way and act as screen for a whole company of horsemen and the party set out at full speed for Kueiyang. When they got there they summoned the gate and said that they had slain Chao Yün and had got back. And they wished to speak with the Prefect.

Those on the wall lighted flares and inspected those at the gate. Surely enough they wore the uniforms of their own people and Chao Fan went out to them. He was immediately seized and made prisoner. Then Chao Yün entered the city, restored order and sent off swift messengers to Yüan-tê who at once, with his adviser, came to Kueiyang.

When they had taken their seats the late Prefect was brought in and placed at the foot of the steps. In response to Kʻung-ming’s questions he related the history of the proposed marriage.

Said Kʻung-ming to Chao Yün, “But this seems a fine project; why did you receive the proposal so roughly?”

“Chao Fan and I had just sworn brotherhood and so marriage with his sister-in-law would have called down on my head universal blame. That is one reason. Another is that I should have made his sister fail to keep her dutiful chastity. And thirdly I did not know whether I might trust such a proposal from one who had just yielded to force. My lord, your position as a recent victor was one of danger and could I risk the failure of your plans for the sake of a woman?”

“But now that the plan has been carried out and we are victors would you care to marry her?”

“There are plenty of women in the world. All my fear is for my reputation. What is a family to me?”

“You are indeed right honourable,” said Yüan-tê.

Chao Fan was released and restored to the prefectorate. Chao Yün was conspicuously rewarded.

But Chang Fei was angry and disappointed. “So Tzŭ-lung gets all the praise and I am worth nothing,” cried he. “Just give me three companies and I will take Wuling and bring you the Prefect.”

This pleased Kʻung-ming, who said, “There is no reason why you should not go, but I will only require one condition of you.”

Wondrous, the plans of the general, so doth he conquer in battle; Soldiers keenly competing gain renown in the fighting.

The condition that Kʻung-ming made will appear in the next chapter.

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Chapter LIII

KUAN YU, FROM A SENSE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS, RELEASES HUANG CHUNG: SUN CHʻÜAN FIGHTS A GREAT BATTLE WITH CHANG LIAO.

What Kʻung-ming required from Chang Fei was a formal recognition of responsibility for success. Said he, “When Chao Yün went on his expedition he gave written guarantee of being responsible for success and you ought to do the same now that you are starting for Wuling. In that case you may have men and start.”

So Chang Fei gave the required document and received joyfully the three companies of soldiers he had demanded. He set out at once and travelled without rest till he reached Wuling.

When the Prefect of Wuling, Chin Hsüan by name, heard that an expedition against him was afoot he mustered his officers and recruited brave soldiers and put his weapons in order ready for the struggle. And his army moved out of the city.

A certain secretary, Kung Chih, remonstrated with his chief for opposing a scion of the imperial house, saying, “Liu Yüan-tê is of the Hans, and recognised as an uncle of the Emperor. All the world knows he is kindly and righteous. Added to that his brother Chang Fei is extraordinarily bold. We cannot face them in battle with hope of success. Our best course is to give in.”

But his master angrily replied, “Do you want to play the traitor and take the side of the rebels and help them?”

He called in the lictors and told them to put Kung to death. The other officers interceded for him, saying, “It augers ill to start an expedition by slaying your own men.”

So the Prefect merely sent Kung Chih away. He himself led the army out of the city. After marching twenty li he met with Chang Fei’s army.

Chang Fei at once rode to the front, spear ready to thrust, and opened with a shout. Chin Hsüan turned to his officers and asked who would go out to fight him, but no one replied; they were too afraid.

So the Prefect himself galloped out, flourishing his sword. Seeing him advance Chang Fei shouted in a voice of thunder. Poor Chin was seized with panic, turned pale and could not go on. He turned his steed and fled. Then Chang Fei and his army went in pursuit and smote the fugitives, chasing them to the city wall.

Here the fugitives were greeted by a flight of arrows from their own wall. Greatly frightened, Chin Hsüan looked up to see what this meant and there was Kung Chih, who had opposed him, standing on the wall.

“You brought defeat upon yourself because you opposed the will of God,” cried the traitor. “I and the people with me are determined to yield to Liu Pei.”

Just as he finished speaking an arrow wounded Chin Hsüan in the face and he fell to the ground. Thereupon his own men cut off his head, which they forthwith presented to Chang Fei. Kung Chih then went out and made formal submission and Chang Fei bade him take his letter and the seal to Kueiyang to Liu Pei, who was pleased to hear of Chang Fei’s success and gave the prefectship to Kung Chih. Soon after Yüan-tê came in person and soothed the people.

This done he wrote to his other brother telling him I-tê and Tzŭ-lung had gained a district each. Kuan at once wrote back and said that Changsha was yet to be taken and if he was not thought too feeble he would like to be sent to attack it. Yüan-tê agreed and sent Chang Fei to relieve his brother, whom he ordered to return and prepare for an expedition to Changsha. Kuan Yü came and went in to see his elder brother and Kʻung-ming.

At this interview Kʻung-ming said that the other two successful warriors had done their work with three companies. The Prefect of Changsha, Han Yüan, was not worth mentioning, but there was a certain general with him, named Huang Chung, who had to be reckoned with.

“Huang Chung,” said Kʻung-ming, “is a native of Nanyang. He used to be in the service of Liu Piao and was a colleague of Liu Pʻan, when he was in command of Changsha. After Liu Piao’s death he joined Han Yüan when he took command of the district. Now, although he is nearly sixty he is a man to be feared and a warrior of a thousand. You ought to take a larger number of men.”

Kuan Yü replied, “General, what makes you damp another man’s ardour to fight and do away with your own dignity? I do not think the old leader need be discussed and I do not think I require three companies of men. Give me my own half company of swordsmen and I will have the heads of both our enemies to sacrifice to our standard.”

Yüan-tê resisted this decision of Kuan Yü, but Kuan would not give way. He just took his half company and set out.

“If he is not careful how he attacks Huang Chung there will be a mishap,” said Kʻung-ming. “You must go to support him.”

Yüan-tê accordingly, at the head of another and larger party, set out toward Changsha.

The Prefect of Changsha was of hasty temperament with small compunction in matters of life and death and was universally hated. When he heard of the army coming against him he called his veteran leader, Huang, to ask advice. The latter said, “Do not be distressed; this sword of mine and my bow are equal to the slaughter of all who may come.”

Huang Chung had been very strong and could bend the two hundred catty bow and was a most perfect archer. When he referred to his one-time prowess a certain man spoke up and said, “Let not the old General go out to battle. Trust to my right arm and you shall have this Kuan a prisoner in your hands.”

The speaker was named Yang Ling. The Prefect accepted his offer and told off a company to go with him and they quickly rode out of the city. About fifty li from the city they observed a great cloud of dust approaching and soon distinguished the invaders. Yang Ling set his spear and rode to the front to abuse and fight. Kuan Yü made no reply to the abuse, but rode forward flourishing his sword. The warriors soon met and in the third encounter Yang Ling was cut down. Kuan Yü’s company dashed forward and pursued the defeated force to the city wall.

When the Prefect heard of this reverse he ordered the veteran Huang Chung to go out while he went up on the city wall to watch the fight.

Huang Chung took his sword and crossed the drawbridge at the head of his men. Kuan Yü, seeing an old leader riding out, knew it must be Huang Chung. He halted his men and placed them in line with their swords at the point. Then sitting there on horseback he said, “He who comes is surely Huang Chung, eh?”

“Since you know me, how dare you come within my boundaries?” replied the veteran.

“I have come expressly to get your head.”

Then the combat began. They fought a hundred and more bouts and neither seemed nearer victory. At this point the Prefect, fearing some mishap to his veteran general, beat the gong to retreat and the battle ceased, one side going into the city and the other camping ten li away to the rear.

Kuan Yü thought in his heart that the fame of the veteran opposed to him was well merited. He had fought a hundred bouts and discovered never a weak spot. He determined that in the next encounter he would use a feint (or “Parthian” stab) and so overcome him.

Next day, the early meal eaten, Kuan Yü came to the city wall and offered his challenge. The Prefect seated himself on the city wall and bade his veteran warrior go out to accept it and, at the head of a few horsemen, he dashed across the drawbridge. The two champions engaged and at the end of half a hundred bouts neither had the advantage. On both sides the soldiers cheered lustily.

When the drums were beating most furiously, suddenly Kuan Yü wheeled round his horse and fled. Of course Huang Chung followed. Just as the moment for the feint arrived Kuan Yü heard behind him a tremendous crash and turned to see his pursuer lying prone upon the ground. His steed had stumbled and thrown him. Kuan Yü turned, raised his sword in both hands, and cried in a fierce tone, “I spare your life, but quick! get another horse and come again to battle.”

Huang Chung pulled his horse to its feet hastily, leapt upon its back and went into the city at full speed. The prefect was astonished and asked for an account of the accident. “The horse is too old,” replied Huang.

“Why did you not shoot since your arm is so perfect?” asked the Prefect.

“I will try again to-morrow,” said Huang. “Then I will run away as if overcome and so tempt him to the drawbridge and then shoot him.”

The Prefect gave the veteran a grey horse that he usually rode himself; Huang thanked him and retired.

But he could not forget Kuan Yü’s generous conduct, nor could he understand it. He could not make up his mind to shoot the man who had spared his life. Yet if he did not shoot, he betrayed his duty as a soldier. It was very perplexing and the whole night spent in thinking it over found him still undecided.

At daybreak a man came in saying that Kuan Yü was near the wall and challenging them again. So Huang Chung gave orders to go out.

Now Kuan Yü, having fought for two days and not having overcome Huang Chung, was very ill at ease. So he called up all his dignity when he went forth to fight that day. When they had got to the thirtieth bout Huang Chung fled as if he was overcome. Kuan Yü pursued.

As he rode away Huang Chung thought in his heart, “He spared me only yesterday and I cannot bear to shoot him to-day.” Putting up his sword he took his bow and twanged the string only; no arrow flew. Kuan Yü dodged, but seeing no arrow in the air, he re-took the pursuit. Again Huang twanged an arrowless bowstring and again Kuan dodged, but no arrow came. Then he said to himself, “He cannot shoot,” and pressed on in pursuit.

As they neared the city wall, the veteran stopped on the drawbridge, fitted an arrow, pulled the bow and sent an arrow flying that just hit the base of the plume on Kuan’s helmet. The soldiers shouted at the display of marksmanship. Kuan Yü was taken aback and set off for camp with the arrow still sticking. Then he heard that Huang Chung’s skill was said to be equal to piercing a willow leaf at a hundred paces and he understood that he owed this warning in the shape of an arrow in his plume to gratitude for sparing the veteran the preceding day.

Both withdrew. But when the veteran leader went up on the wall to see the Prefect, he was at once seized. “What have I done?” cried Huang Chung.

“I have seen these last three days that you were fooling me; you were slack the day before yesterday, which proved you had some sinister intention. Yesterday, when your horse stumbled and he spared you, it showed that you were in league with him. And to-day you twice twanged a vain bowstring, while at the third shot you only hit your opponent’s helmet. Dare you say there is no secret understanding in all this? If I do not put you to death it will assuredly redound to my own hurt.”

The Prefect ordered him to be executed outside the city gate. The intercession of the officers he met by saying that any one who pleaded for the condemned would be regarded as in the plot.

The executioners had hustled the old man out of the city and the sword was in the air and on the point of descending, when a man suddenly dashed in, cut down the lictor and rescued Huang Chung.

“Huang Chung is our bulwark;” shouted he, “to destroy him is to destroy the Changsha people. This Han is too fierce and cruel, too lightly values good men and is too arrogant toward his officers. We ought rather to kill him, and those who will, let them follow me.”

All eyes turned toward this bold speaker, who was bronzed and had eyes like the Cowherd’s star. Some of them knew him as Wei Yen, a native of Iyang. He had followed Liu Pei from Hsiangyang but, unable to come up with him, had gone into the service of Han Yüan. Han Yüan took exception to his arrogant carriage and lack of polish and neglected him. And so he had come to this place.

After the rescue of Huang Chung he called upon the people to make an end of the Prefect. He waved his arm and shouted to the people. Soon he had a following of several hundreds. Huang Chung could not stop them. In a very short time Wei had dashed up on the wall and the Prefect lay dead. Taking his head, Wei Yen rode off out of the city to lay the blood-stained trophy at the feet of Kuan Yü, who forthwith went into the city to restore confidence.

When the people were all quiet, Kuan sent to request Huang Chung to come to see him, but the old general pleaded illness. Next he sent the good news to his brother and to Kʻung-ming and asked them to come.

Soon after Kuan Yü had left to capture Changsha, Liu Pei and Kʻung-ming had followed him up with supports in case of need. While on the march a black flag was furled backwards and a crow flew over from north to south croaking thrice as it passed.

“What good or evil things do these omens presage?” asked Yüan-tê.

With hands hidden within his long sleeves, Kʻung-ming performed a rapid calculation on his fingers of the auspices and replied, “Changsha is taken and a great leader mastered. We shall know soon after noon.”

Sure enough a simple soldier presently came galloping along with the welcome tidings of the capture of the city and saying that the two city warriors who had aided them were near waiting the arrival of Liu Pei. Soon after they arrived Liu Pei entered the city, where he was escorted to the magistracy and heard the recital of Huang Chung’s deeds.

Yüan-tê went in person to Huang’s house and enquired for him, whereupon he came forth and yielded formally. He requested to be permitted to bury the remains of the late Prefect on the east of the city.

Lofty as is heaven above earth was the spirit of the captain, Who, even in his old age, suffered sorrows in the south; Cheerfully had he approached death, with no thought of resentment, But, bowing before the conquerer, he hung his head and was ashamed. Praise the sword, gleaming snow-white, and the glory of super-human bravery, Consider the mail-clad steed snuffing the wind and rejoicing in the battle, That warrior’s name shall stand high and its brightness be undiminished, While the cold moon sheds her light on the waters of Hsiang and Tʻan.

Yüan-tê was generous toward the veteran leader who had come under his banner. But when Wei Yen was introduced, Kʻung-ming suddenly ordered him to be thrust forth and put to death.

“He has merit; he has committed no fault,” exclaimed Yüan-tê. “Why slay him?”

But Kʻung-ming replied, “Ingratitude; to eat a man’s bread and slay him is most disloyal; to live on his land and offer his territory to another is most wrong. I see the bone of treachery at the back of his head and he will certainly turn against his master. Wherefore it is well to put him to death and prevent him from doing harm.”

“If we slay this man others who may wish to surrender will be deterred by the danger. I pray you forgive him.”

Kʻung-ming pointed his finger at Wei Yen and said, “You are pardoned. You would do well to be perfectly faithful to your lord as well as grateful. Do not let a single thought stray elsewhere or I will have your head by fair means or foul.”

Wei Yen went away muttering to himself.

Having given in with good grace, Huang Chung introduced a nephew of Liu Piao, named Pʻan, then living in Yuhsien near by. Yüan-tê employed him in the administration of Changsha.

All being tranquil at Changsha, Yüan-tê and his army returned to Chingchou. The name Yuchiangkʻou was changed to Kungan and soon all was prosperous. Taxes were freely paid and able men from all sides came to assist in the administration. Guards were placed at strategic points.

It is time to return to Chou Yü. When he went to Chʻaisang to recover from his wound he left Kan Ning in command at Lingchün and Ling Tʻung at Hanyang. The fleet was shared between these two places to be ready to move when required. The remainder of the force was under Chʻêng Pʻu and he went to Hofei, where Sun Chʻüan had been since the fight at Red Wall. He was still fighting the northern army and in half a score encounters, small and great, neither had gained a decided advantage. He could not approach the city but entrenched himself about fifty li away.

When he heard of the coming of reinforcements he was very pleased and went in person to meet and welcome the leaders. Lu Su was in advance of the main body and Sun Chʻüan dismounted and stood by the roadside to greet him. As soon as he saw this, Lu Su slid out of the saddle and made his obeisance.

But the officers were amazed at the attitude of Sun Chʻüan, and still more so when Sun Chʻüan asked Lu Su to remount and ride by his side. Presently he said secretly to Lu Su, “I, the Lone One, dismounted to greet you as you saw; was that manifestation enough for you?”

“No,” replied Lu Su.

“Then what further can I do?”

“I want to see your authority and virtue spread over the four seas and enfold the nine provinces and you yourself playing your part as Emperor. Then will my name be inscribed in the annals and I shall indeed be known.”

Sun Chʻüan clapped his hands and laughed gleefully.

When they reached the camp a banquet was prepared and the services of the new arrivals were praised and glorified.

The destruction of Hofei was one day under discussion when one came in to say that Chang Liao had sent a written challenge to battle. Sun Chʻüan tore open the cover and what he read therein made him very wrath. “This Chang has insulted me grossly,” said he, “he hears that Chʻêng Pʻu has arrived and sends a challenge. To-morrow, O newly-come warriors, you shall see me fight with him. You shall have no share in the battle.”

Orders were given that next morning the army would move out of camp and advance on Hofei. Early in the morning, when they had advanced about halfway, they met the army of Tsʻao and prepared for battle. Sun Chʻüan, with helmet and breastplate of silver, rode to the front with Sung Chʻien and Chia Hua, each armed with a chʻi halberd to support him and guard him one on each side.

When the third roll of the drum ceased, the centre of the Tsʻao array opened to allow the exit of three warriors, all fully armed. They were Chang Liao, supported by Li Tien and Yo Chin. Chang Liao, the central figure, especially designated Sun Chʻüan as the object of his challenge. Sun Chʻüan took his spear and was about to accept the challenge, when the ranks behind him were broken by Tʻaishih Tzŭ, who galloped forth with his spear ready to thrust. Chang Liao whirled up his sword to strike the newcomer and the two fought near a hundred bouts without a decisive blow.

Then said Li Tien to Yo Chin, “He there opposite us with the silver helm is Sun Chʻüan; could I but capture him the loss of our four score legions would be amply avenged.”

So speaking he rode out, alone, just one man and one sword, and went sidelong toward the two combatants. Then suddenly, swift as a flash of lightning, he ran forward and slashed at Sun. But Sun Chʻüan’s two guards were too quick for him. Up went the two chʻi guarding their lord’s head. The blow fell, but on the crossed chʻi which were shorn through near the head, and in another moment they were hammering away on the head of Yo Chin’s steed with the shafts of their broken weapons and forcing him back.

Sung Chʻien snatched a spear from a soldier near and went in pursuit of Yo Chin, but Li Tien, on the other side, fitted an arrow to his bow and aimed at Sung’s heart from behind. And he fell as the bowstring twanged.

Then Tʻaishih Tzŭ, seeing a squadron of horse in motion toward him, left off the fight with Chang Liao and returned to his own line. At this Chang Liao fell on in a swift attack and the army of Wu, thrown into confusion, scattered and fled.

Chang Liao, having distinguished Sun Chʻüan in the distance, galloped in pursuit and had nearly come up with him, when Chʻêng Pʻu happily rushed in from one side of the line of fight, stayed the pursuit and saved his master. Chang Liao withdrew to Hofei. Sun Chʻüan was escorted back to his main camp, where his beaten soldiers gradually rejoined him and their ranks were reformed.

When Sun knew of the death of Sung Chʻien he was greatly pained and wept aloud.

But Chang Hung, the recorder, reproached him saying, “My lord, you relied too much upon your martial prowess and lightly engaged in battle with a formidable enemy. Every man in the army was chilled with fear and you lost a general and some of your banners. It is not for you to exhibit prowess on the actual battlefield and encroach upon the duties of a captain. Rather curb and repress such physical feats as those of Mêng Pên and Hsia Yu and contemplate schemes of exercising princely virtues with the hegemony of all the feudal states. It is because of your ill-regulated action in engaging in battle that Sung Chʻien perished at the hands of your enemies. Hereafter you should regard as most important your personal safety.”

“Yes; it is indeed a fault,” said Sun Chʻüan. “I will reform.”

Soon after Tʻaishih Tzŭ entered the tent and said, “In my command there is a certain Ko Ting, brother of a groom named Hou Tsʻao in the army of Chang Liao. This Hou Tsʻao is deeply resentful on account of a punishment inflicted upon him and is anxious to be revenged. He has sent over to say that he will show a signal to-night when he has assassinated Chang Liao in revenge for the death of your late leader Sung Chʻien. I wish to take some men over to await this signal to attack.”

“Where is this Ko Ting?” asked Sun Chʻüan.

“He has mingled with the enemy and gone into the city. Let me have five companies.”

Chuko Ching said, “Chang Liao is full of guile, I think you will find him prepared for your coming. Be careful.”

As Tʻaishih Tzŭ urged his chief to let him go, and Sun Chʻüan was deeply hurt by the death of his captain, the permission was given and the force started.

Now here it must be said that Tʻaishih Tzŭ and this Ko Ting were natives of the same place. Ko had made his way into the city without detection, found his brother and the two had arranged their plot. Ko also told him that Tʻaishih Tzŭ would come over that night to help them and asked what they should do.

His brother, the groom, said, “As the men of Wu are far away I fear they cannot be here to-night, so we will make a huge bonfire of straw and then you can rush out and cry treachery. That will throw all into confusion and will give a chance to kill Chang Liao.”

“This is an excellent plan,” said Ko Ting.

Now after the victory Chang Liao returned to the city and rewarded his men but he issued orders that no one was to doff his armour or sleep. His attendants said, “You have gained a great victory to-day and the enemy are far away. You might doff your armour and get some repose.”

But Chang Liao replied, “That is not the way of a leader. A victory is no reason for rejoicing, nor should a defeat cause sadness. If the men of Wu suspect that I am unprepared, they will attack and we must be ready to repel them. Be ready to-night and be doubly careful.”

Scarcely had he said this than a fire started and cries of “Treachery!” arose. Many rushed to tell the leader, who went out and called together his guard of about half a score. They took up a commanding position in the way.

Those about him said, “The shouts are insistent; you ought to go and see what it means.”

“A whole city cannot be traitors,” said he. “Some discontented person has frightened the soldiers. If I see any one doing so I will slay him.”

Soon after this Li Tien dragged up Ko Ting and his fellow-traitor. After a few brief questions they were beheaded. Then arose a great noise, shouting and the rolling of drums was heard outside the gate.

“That means the men of Wu are there to help,” said Chang Liao. “But we will destroy them by a simple ruse.”

He bade them light torches and yell “Treachery! Rebellion!” and throw open the city gates and let down the drawbridge.

When Tʻaishih Tzŭ saw the gates swing open he thought his scheme was going well and in full confidence rode in at the gate. But just at the entrance a signal bomb suddenly exploded and the enemy arrows came down on him like pelting rain. Then he knew he had fallen into a snare and turned to ride out. But he was wounded in many places. And in the pursuit that followed more than half the men of Wu were cut off. As he drew near his own lines a rescue force came to his aid and the Tsʻao soldiers ceased from pursuit.

Sun Chʻüan was exceedingly sad when he learned that his faithful captain had been grievously wounded and when Chang Chao prayed him to cease from war he was content. They gathered in their men to their ships and sailed to Nanhsü and Junchou where they camped.

Meanwhile Tʻaishih Tzŭ was dying. When his lord sent to ask how he fared, he cried, “When a worthy man is born into a turbulent world, he has to be a soldier and gird on a three feet sword. I have not rendered great service. Why must I die before I have attained my desire?”

These were his last words; he was forty-one years of age.

Single minded and perfectly loyal, Such was Tʻaishih, in Tunglai born, Far distant frontiers rang with his exploits, Riding or archery, all men he excelled, One in Pohai who admired his valour Cared for his mother while he was fighting, How he joyed in the battle at Shêntʻing! Dying, he spake as a hero; All through the ages men sigh for his fate.

Sun Chʻüan was exceedingly grieved when this second of his leaders died. He gave orders to bury his remains most honourably outside the north wall on Ku Hill and took his son, Tʻaishih Hsiang, into his own palace to be brought up.

When Yüan-tê heard of the series of misfortunes that had befallen Wu and of their retirement to Nanhsü, he and Kʻung-ming discussed their plans. Said Kʻung-ming, “I was studying the sky and saw a falling star in the north-west. The Imperial family is to suffer a loss.”

He had scarcely said this when they brought news of the death of Liu Chʻi, son of Liu Piao.

Yüan-tê at once began to wail bitterly. But his adviser said to him, “Life and death are beyond our control, wherefore weep not, my lord, for grief harms the body. Rather consider what is necessary to be done. Send some one to assume control and make arrangements for the interment.”

“Who can go?” asked Yüan-tê.

“No other than Kuan Yü.”

So they sent him to guard the city of Hsiangyang.

Liu Pei at once began to feel troubled about his promise to surrender Chingchou on the death of Liu Chʻi, but Kʻung-ming did not consider this a matter of moment. He said he would have somewhat to say to any one who came to ask fulfilment of the promise. In half a month it was announced that Lu Su would come to mourn at the funeral.

To claim the promise one will come, But they will send him empty home.

What reply Kʻung-ming made may be read in the next chapter.

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Chapter LIV

THE DOWAGER MARCHIONESS SEES HER SON-IN-LAW AT A TEMPLE: LIU, THE IMPERIAL UNCLE, TAKES A WORTHY CONSORT.

Yüan-tê and Kʻung-ming went out of the city to welcome the envoy of Wu and led him to the guest-house. After the usual greetings, Lu Su said, “Hearing of the death of your nephew, my lord has prepared some gifts and sent me to take his place at the funeral sacrifices. General Chou Yü also sends greetings to the Imperial Uncle and to you, Master Chuko.”

Both rose at once and thanked him for the courtesy. Then the gifts were handed over and a banquet prepared, and while it was in progress, the guest brought up the real object of his visit.

“You said, Sir, that Chingchou should be returned to us after the death of Liu Chʻi. Now that that event has happened rendition becomes due and I should be glad to know when the transfer can take place.”

“We will discuss that later; in the meantime let us go on with our wine,” said Yüan-tê.

So the feasting continued. Some time later Lu Su returned to the subject, but this time his host remained silent. However, Kʻung-ming, changing colour, said, “Tzŭ-ching, you are unreasonable. You should have waited till some other spoke of this matter. From the very foundation of the empire by our illustrious ancestor the great heritage has descended in due course till to-day when, unhappily, evil-doers have risen among the powerful and they have seized upon such portions as they could. But with God’s favour and help unity is nearly restored. My lord is a scion of the Imperial house, a great great grandson of the Emperor Hsiao-Ching. Now, as the Emperor’s Uncle, should he not have a share of the Empire? Moreover, Liu Ching-hsing (Liu Piao) was my lord’s elder brother and there is certainly nothing extraordinary in one brother’s succession to another’s estate. What is your master? The son of a petty official on the banks of the Chʻientʻang River, absolutely without merit so far as the State is concerned. Just because he is powerful he holds actual possession of a certain amount of territory, which has whetted his insatiable appetite till he now desires to swallow the whole country. The land is the estate of the Liu family and my lord, who is of that name, has no share thereof, while your master, whose name is Sun, would dispute with, and even fight him. Beside, at the battle at Chʻihpi (Red Wall) my lord did good service and acquired great merit while his captains risked their lives. Was it solely the strength of your men of Wu that won that fight? Had I not brought that south-east wind that meant so much for Chou Yü, could he have done anything? Had Chiangnan been conquered, it is needless to say that two beauties you wot of would now be gracing the Bronze Bird Palace, and as for yourself, insignificant though your family be, could you have been sure to survive? Just now my lord did not reply because he was willing to believe rather that a scholar of your abilities would understand without a detailed explanation, and I trust now that you will.”

This speech absolutely shut the guest’s mouth for a time and he said no word in reply. But after an interval he said, “What you say, Kʻung-ming, I think is devoid of reason, and means much unpleasantness for me.”

“What unpleasantness?” asked Kʻung-ming.

The guest replied, “When Liu Pei was in serious straits at Tangyang I conducted you across the river and introduced you to my lord. I opposed Chou Yü when he was going to capture Chingchou, and then it came about that the place was to be ours when the young man died. And I pledged myself to that. Now how can I go back and say you break your promise? Both my lord and Chou Yü will hold me guilty. I would not mind death so much, but I fear that my master will be very wrathful and make war on the Imperial Uncle, who will have no place of refuge and he will look ridiculous in the eyes of the world for no reason.”

Replied Kʻung-ming, “I care not for Tsʻao Tsʻao with his hundred legions and the Emperor in name at his back, and do you think I fear such a youngster as your Chou Yü? However, as it may cause you some loss of consideration I will try to persuade my master to put the matter in writing and give you a paper to the effect that he is temporarily occupying Chingchou as a base and when he can obtain possession of some other city this shall be returned to you. What think you Wu would say to this?”

“Wait till what other place was obtained?” said Lu Su.

“My master can scarcely think of attacking the capital yet, but Liu Chang in Ssŭchʻuan is ignorant and weak and my master will attack him. If he get the western province then this place will be given up to you.”

Lu Su had no alternative and accepted the offer. Yüan-tê with his own hand wrote the pledge and sealed it. Chuko Kʻung-ming being named as guarantor also signed the document.

“Since I belong to this side of the compact and one can hardly have a guarantor of the same party I would trouble you, Tzŭ-ching, also to sign. It will look better when you reach Wu again,” said Kʻung-ming.

Lu Su said, “I know that your master is perfectly honourable and will adhere to the bargain.”

And so he signed. Then he received the document in formal style and took his departure. He was sent off with every mark of great respect, both Yüan-tê and Kʻung-ming attending him to his boat. There the adviser delivered him a last exhortation, “When you see your master, speak discreetly and explain fully so as not to create a bad impression. If he reject our document we may get angry and we will take his whole country. The one thing now is for our two houses to live in harmony and not give our common enemy an opportunity against us.”

Lu Su went down into his ship. He reached Chʻaisang and there saw Chou Yü, who said, “Well, how did you speed with your demand for Chingchou?”

“Here is the document,” said Lu Su, giving it to Chou Yü to read.

“You have been victimised by Chuko,” said Chou, stamping his foot with irritation. “In name it may be temporary occupation but in fact it is humbug. They say the place is to be returned when they get the west. Who knows when that will be? Suppose ten years; then it will be ten years before they give us Chingchou. What is the use of such a document as this? And you are a guarantor of its due performance! If they do not give us the city, you get into trouble. Suppose our lord finds you in the wrong, what then?”

Lu Su was dumbfounded. When he had somewhat recovered his self-possession, he said, “I think Yüan-tê will be true to me.”

“You, my friend, are simple and sincere; Liu Pei is a scoundrelly adventurer; and Chuko Liang is a slippery customer. They and you are utterly different.”

“What then is to be done?” cried Lu Su distressfully.

“You are my dear friend and your kindness in freely offering your store of grain to relieve my necessity is still fresh in my memory. Of course I will save you. Do not be anxious, but wait a few days till we get news of what is doing on the north of the river and then we can decide upon a plan.”

Lu Su passed some very uneasy days. Then the scouts came back saying that in Chingchou everything seemed in excellent order and the flags were flying everywhere, while outside the city they were building a magnificent mausoleum for the Lady Kan, wife of Liu Pei. All the soldiers were in mourning.

When Chou Yü knew who was dead, he said to his friend, “My scheme is made. You will see Liu Pei just stand still to be bound and we shall get Chingchou like turning a hand.”

“What is the main-spring of your plan?” said Lu Su.

“Liu Pei will want to re-marry and our lord has a sister. She is a veritable amazon, whose women guards number many hundreds, all armed with weapons of war. Her apartments also are full of such things. I will write to our lord to send an intermediary to arrange that the lady shall wed Liu Pei at her family home and thus we shall entice him to Nanhsü. But instead of marrying a wife, he will find himself a prisoner, and then we will demand Chingchou as ransom. When they have handed over the city I shall find something else to say and nothing will fall on your head.”

Lu Su was very grateful. Then Chou Yü wrote letters to his master and a swift boat was chosen to take Lu Su to see the Marquis of Wu.

After the lending of Chingchou had been discussed, Lu Su presented the document given him by Liu Pei. “What is the use of such nonsense as this?” said Sun Chʻüan, when he had read it.

“There is another letter from General Chou and he says that if you will employ his scheme you can recover Chingchou,” replied Lu.

Having read that letter the Marquis was more pleased and began to consider who was the best man to send. Suddenly he cried, “I have it; Lü Fan is the man to send.”

He called Lü Fan and said to him, “I have just heard that Liu Yüan-tê has lost his wife. I have a sister whom I should like to marry to him and so make a bond of union between our two houses. Thus we should be united against Tsʻao and in support of the House of Han. You are the one man to be intermediary and I hope you will go to Chingchou and see to this.”

Under these orders Lü Fan at once began to prepare his ships for the voyage and soon started.

Yüan-tê was greatly distressed at the death of the Lady Kan, fretting for her day and night. One day when he was talking with his adviser they announced the arrival of Lü Fan. He had come on a mission from Wu.

“One of Chou Yü’s devices,” said the adviser smiling, “and it is all on account of this city. I will just retire behind the screen and listen. But you, my lord, agree to whatever the messenger proposes. Then let the messenger be taken to the guest-house while we arrange what is to be done.”

So the envoy was introduced. Bows having been exchanged, host and guest being seated in due order and the tea drunk, Yüan-tê opened the interview.

“You must have some commands for me, Sir, since you come thus.”

“News has just been received that you, O Imperial Uncle, have just been bereaved of your consort. I venture to hope you would not object to an advantageous match and I have come to propose one. Are you disposed to listen?”

“To lose one’s wife in middle age is truly a great misfortune,” said Liu Pei. “While her body is still warm I cannot listen to proposals for another marriage.”

Lü Fan said, “A man without a wife is like a house without a ridge pole. At your age one should not live an incomplete life. I am come on the part of the Marquis of Wu, who has a sister, beautiful as she is accomplished and well fitted to be a mate for you. Should the two families become allied as formerly were Tsʻin and Chin, then that ruffian Tsʻao would never dare so much as look this way. Such an alliance would be to the benefit of both our houses and of the State. I hope, O Imperial Uncle, that you will fairly consider the proposal. However, since the young girl’s mother is dotingly fond of her she does not wish her to go far away, and so I must ask you to come into our country for the wedding.”

“Does the Marquis know of your coming?”

“How dare I come without his knowledge?”

“I am no longer young,” said Liu Pei. “I am fifty and grizzled. This fair damsel, the sister of the Marquis, is now in the flower of her youth and no mate for me.”

“Although the damsel is a woman yet in mind she surpasses many a man, and she has said she will never wed any one who is unknown to fame. Now, Sir, you are renowned throughout the four seas. Marriage with you would be the chaste maiden mating with the born gentleman. Of what consequence is the difference in age?”

“Sir, stay here awhile and I will give you a reply to-morrow,” said Liu Pei.

So that day the envoy was entertained at a banquet and then conducted to the guest house to repose, while, late as it was, Yüan-tê and Kʻung-ming discussed their plans.

“I knew what he had come about,” said the adviser. “While he was talking I consulted the oracle and obtained an excellent sortilege. Wherefore you may accept the proposal and send Sun Chʻien back with this envoy to arrange the details. When the promise has been ratified we will choose a day and you shall go to complete the ceremony.”

“How can I thus go into enemy territory? Chou Yü has wanted to slay me for a long time.”

“Let Chou Yü employ all his ruses; think you he can get beyond me? Let me act for you and his calculations will always fail halfway. Once Sun Chʻüan’s sister is in your power there will be no fear for Chingchou.”

Still Yüan-tê doubted in his mind. However, the messenger was sent to Wu, with definite instructions, and travelled thither with Lü Fan. At the interview Sun Chʻüan said, “I wish my sister could induce Yüan-tê to live here with us. He would come to no harm.”

Sun Chʻien took his leave, and returning to Chingchou he told the bridegroom elect that Sun Chʻüan’s sole desire was for him to go over and complete the marriage.

However, Yüan-tê feared and would not go. Kʻung-ming said he had prepared three plans but they needed Chao Tzŭ-lung to carry them out. Wherefore he must go as guard. So he called in Chao Yün, gave him three silken bags and whispered in his ear saying, “Here are three schemes enclosed in three bags. When you escort our lord to Wu you will take these with you and act as they direct.”

Chao Yün hid the three silken bags in his breast so that they should be at hand when required.

Kʻung-ming next sent the wedding gifts, and when these had been received the preliminaries were settled.

It was then the early winter of the fourteenth year of “Established Tranquillity” (209 A.D.) and the bridegroom elect, his escort and the intermediary, left Chingchou with a fleet of ten fast ships to sail down the river to Nanhsü. Kʻung-ming remained to guard and rule the city.

But Liu Pei was far from feeling comfortable. They arrived and the ships were made fast. This done the time had come for the first of the silken bags to be opened. And so it was; and thereupon Chao Yün gave each of the soldiers of his half company his instructions and they went their several ways. Next he told Liu Pei what he was to do; that he was to pay his visit first to Chʻiao “Kuo-lao,” who was the father-in-law of Sun Tsʻê and of Chou Yü. He resided in Nanhsü and to his house, “leading sheep and bearing wine jars,” went the bridegroom elect. Having made his obeisance he explained that as Lü Fan had arranged he had come to marry a wife.

In the meantime the half company of the escort, all in gala dress, had scattered over the town buying all sorts of things, as they said, for the wedding of Liu Pei with the daughter of the House of Wu. They spread the news far and wide and the whole town talked about it.

When Sun Chʻüan heard of Yüan-tê’s arrival he bade Lü Fan wait upon him and take him to the guest-house. Meanwhile Chʻiao Kuo-lao went to the Dowager of Wu, mother of Sun Chʻüan, to congratulate her on the happy event.

“What happy event?” ejaculated the old lady.

“The betrothal of your beloved daughter to Yüan-tê. And he has arrived too, as surely you know.”

“My poor old self does not know,” said the Dowager, “I have heard nothing of all this.”

She at once summoned her son and also sent her servants out into the town to see what was going about. They quickly returned to say that the whole town knew of the coming wedding, and the bridegroom was then at the guest-house. Moreover, he had come with a large escort and the men were spending freely, buying pork and mutton and fruits, all in readiness for the wedding feasting. They also told her the names of the intermediaries on each side, and said they were in the guest-house too.

The Dowager was terribly taken aback and upset so that, when Sun Chʻüan arrived, he found his mother beating her breast and weeping bitterly.

“What has disturbed you, mother,” asked he.

“What you have just done,” said she. “You have treated me as a nonentity. When my elder sister lay dying, what did she tell you?”

Sun Chʻüan began to be frightened, but he said boldly, “Please speak out plainly, mother; what is this great sorrow?”

“When a son is grown he takes a wife, and when a girl is old enough she goes to her husband. And that is right and proper. But I am the mother and you ought to have told me that your sister was to become the wife of Liu Pei. Why did you keep me in the dark? It was my place to promise her in marriage.”

“Whence comes this story?” said the Marquis, really much frightened.

“Do you pretend ignorance? There is not a soul in the city who does not know! But you have succeeded in keeping me in the dark.”

“I heard it several days ago,” said Chʻiao. “And I came just now to offer my felicitations.”

“There is no such thing,” said Sun. “It is just one of the ruses of Chou Yü to get hold of Chingchou. He has used this means to inveigle Liu Pei here and hold him captive till Chingchou is restored to us. And if they will not give it back, then Liu Pei will be put to death. That is the plot. There is no real marriage.”

But the Dowager was in a rage and vented her wrath in abusing Chou Yü. “He is a pretty sort of a governor over the eighty-one districts if he cannot find any means of recovering one city except making use of my child as a decoy. Truly this is a fine deed, to spoil the whole of my child’s life and condemn her to perpetual widowhood because he wants to use the fair damsel ruse to slay a man! Who will ever come to talk of marriage with her after this?”

Said Chʻiao Kuo-lao, “By this means you may indeed recover Chingchou but you will be a shameful laughing stock to all the world. What can be done?”

Sun Chʻüan had nothing to say; he could only hang his head, while the Dowager abused his general.

Chʻiao tried to soothe her. “After all Liu, the Imperial Uncle, is a scion of the reigning family. You can do nothing better now than to welcome him as a son-in-law and not let this ugly story get abroad.”

“I am afraid their ages do not match,” interposed Sun Chʻüan.

“Liu is a very famous man,” said Chʻiao. “There can be no shame in having such a son-in-law.”

“I have never seen him,” said the Dowager. “Arrange that I may get a look at him to-morrow at the Gentle Dew Temple. If he displeases me, you may work your will on him. But if I am satisfied with him then I shall simply let the girl marry him.”

Now Sun Chʻüan was above all things filial and at once agreed to what his mother said. He went out, called in Lü Fan and told him to arrange a banquet for the morrow at the temple so that the Dowager might see the bridegroom.

“Why not order Chia Hua to station some men in the wings of the temple? Then if the Dowager be not pleased we can call them out and fall upon him,” said Lü Fan.

Accordingly the ambush was prepared and ruffians posted to act as the Dowager’s attitude might determine.

When Chʻiao took his leave and had reached his house, he sent to tell Yüan-tê that on the morrow the Dowager wished to see him and she was well disposed.

Yüan-tê and his faithful henchman discussed their plans. Chao Yün said, “The morrow bodes rather ill than well. However, the escort shall be there.”

Next day the Dowager and Chʻiao went to the Temple of Gentle Dew as had been arranged. Sun Chʻüan came with a number of his strategists, and when all were assembled Lü Fan was sent to the guest house to request Yüan-tê to come. He obeyed the summons, but as a precaution he put on a light coat of mail under his brocaded robe. His followers too took their swords upon their backs and followed close. He mounted his steed and the cavalcade set out for the temple. At the door of the temple he met Sun Chʻüan on whom the visitor’s brave demeanour was not lost. After they had exchanged salutations, Sun led Liu Pei into the presence of his mother.

“Just the son-in-law for me!” said the Dowager delighted with the appearance of Liu Pei.

“He has the air of an emperor and a look like the sun,” remarked Chʻiao. “When one remembers also that his fair fame has spread over the whole earth, you may well be congratulated on getting such a noble son-in-law.”

Liu Pei bowed, in acknowledgment of his reception. Soon after they were all seated at the banquet in the temple, Chao Yün entered and took his place beside Yüan-tê.

“Who is this?” asked the Dowager.

“This is Chao Yün of Chʻangshan.”

“Then he must be the hero of Tangyang Slope, who saved the little O-tou.”

“Yes; this is he,” replied Yüan-tê.

“A fine captain!” said the Dowager, and she gave him wine.

Presently Chao Yün said to his master, “I have seen a lot of armed ruffians hidden away in the purlieus of the temple. They can be there for no good and you should ask the Dowager to get them sent away.”

Thereupon Liu Pei knelt at the feet of the Dowager and, weeping, said, “If you would slay me, let it be here.”

“Why do you say this?” asked she.

“Because there are assassins in hiding in the wings of the temple; what are they there for if not to kill me?”

The Dowager wrathfully turned on Sun Chʻüan. “What are armed men doing there to-day when Yüan-tê is to become my son-in-law and the pair are my son and daughter?”

Sun Chʻüan said he did not know and sent Lü Fan to enquire. Lü Fan put the blame on Chia Hua. The Dowager summoned him and upbraided him severely. He had nothing to say and she told them to put him to death. But Yüan-tê interceded saying that it would do him harm and make it hard for him to stay at her side.

Chʻiao Kuo-lao also interceded and she only ordered the captain out of her presence. His men also scattered and ran like frightened rats.

By and bye, strolling out of the banquet room into the temple grounds, Yüan-tê came to a boulder. Drawing his sword he looked up to heaven and prayed saying, “If I am to return to Chingchou and achieve my intent to become a chief ruler, then may I cleave this boulder asunder with my sword, but if I am to meet my doom in this place then may the sword fail to cut this stone.”

Raising his sword he smote the boulder. Sparks flew in all directions; and the boulder lay cleft in twain.

It happened that Sun Chʻüan had seen the blow and he said, “Why do you thus hate that stone?”

Yüan-tê replied, “I am near my fifth decade and have so far failed to rid the State of evil; I greatly regret my failure. Now I have been accepted by the Dowager as her son-in-law, and this is a critical moment in my life. So I implored of Heaven a portent that I might destroy Tsʻao as I would that boulder and restore the dynasty. You saw what happened.”

“That is only to blind me,” thought Sun. Drawing his own sword he said, “And I also ask of Heaven an omen, that if I am to destroy Tsʻao I may also cut this rock.”

So he spoke. But in his secret heart he prayed “If I am to recover Chingchou and extend my borders, may the stone be cut in twain.”

He smote the stone and it split in twain. And to this day there are cross cuts in the stone, which is still preserved.

One who saw this relic wrote a poem:—

The shining blades fell and the rock was shorn through, The metal rang clear and the sparks widely flew. Thus fate then declared for the dynasties two And the tripartite rule there began.

Both put up their swords and returned hand in hand to the banquet hall. After some more courses Sun Chʻüan gave his master a warning look and Liu Pei said, “I pray you to excuse me as my drinking powers are very small.” Wherefore Sun Chʻüan escorted him to the gate. As they walked down looking at high land and rolling river spreading in glorious panorama before their eyes, Yüan-tê exclaimed, “Really this is the finest scene in the whole world!”

These words are recorded on a tablet in the Temple of the Gentle Dew and one who read them wrote a poem:—

From the river-side hills the rain clears off, And the black clouds roll away, And this is the place of joy and mirth And never can sorrow stay. And here two heroes of ages past Decided their parts to play, And the lofty heights flung back wind and wave Then, as they do to-day.

Yes, they stood both entranced by the beautiful scene. And gradually along the vast river the wind whipped the waves into snowy foam and raised them high toward heaven. And in the midst of the waves appeared a tiny leaf of a boat riding over the waves as if all was perfect calm.

“The southern people are sailors and the northern men riders; it is quite true,” sighed Liu Pei.

Sun Chʻüan hearing this remark took it as a reproach to his horsemanship. Bidding his servants lead up his steed he leaped into the saddle and set off, full gallop, down the hill. Then wheeling he came up again at the same speed.

“So the southerners cannot ride, eh?” said he laughing.

Not to be outdone Liu Pei lifted the skirts of his robe, jumped upon his horse and repeated the feat.

The two steeds stood side by side on the declivity, the riders flourishing their whips and laughing.

Thence forward that hillside was known as the “Slope where the Horses Stood” and a poem was written about it.

Their galloping steeds were of noble breed, And both of spirit high. And the riders twain from the hill-crest gazed At the river rolling by. One of them mastered the far off west. One ruled by the eastern sea; And the name of the hill to this very day Brings back their memory.

When they rode side by side into Nanhsü the people met them with acclamations. Yüan-tê made his way to the guesthouse and there sought advice from Sun Chʻien as to the date of the wedding. Sun Chʻien advised that it be fixed as early as possible so that no further complications could arise. So next day Yüan-tê went to Chʻiao “Kuo-lao” and told him in plain words that it was clear the people of the place meant harm to him and he could not stay there long. He must return soon.

“Do not be anxious,” said Chʻiao. “I will tell the Dowager and she will protect you.”

He saw the Dowager and she was very angry when she heard the reason for Liu Pei’s desire to leave.

“Who would dare harm my son-in-law?” cried she.

But she made him move into the library of the Palace as a precaution and she chose a day for the celebration of the wedding. But his soldiers could not keep guard at the library. Yüan-tê explained to his hostess and when she understood this she gave her son-in-law rooms in her own Palace so that he might be quite safe.

Yüan-tê was very happy and there were fine banquets and the bride and bridegroom duly plighted their troth. And when it grew late and the guests had gone the newly wedded pair walked through the two lines of red torches to the nuptial apartment.

To his extreme surprise Yüan-tê found the chambers furnished with spears and swords and banners and flags, while every waiting-maid had girded on a sword.

Walls hung with spears the bridegroom saw, And armed waiting-maids; His heart fell back on all its fears Of well-laid ambuscades.

What happened will be related in the next chapter.

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Chapter LV

YÜAN-TÊ ROUSES THE SPIRIT OF HIS BRIDE: KʻUNG-MING A SECOND TIME ANGERS HIS RIVAL.

The bridegroom turned pale; bridal apartments lined with weapons of war and waiting maids armed! But the housekeeper said, “Do not be frightened, O honourable one. My lady has always had a taste for warlike things and her maids have all been taught fencing as a pastime. That is all it is.”

“Not the sort of thing a wife should ever look at,” said Liu Pei. “It makes me feel cold and you may have them removed for a time.”

The housekeeper went to her mistress and said, “The weapons in your chamber displease the handsome one; may we remove them?”

The Lady Sun laughed, saying, “Afraid of a few weapons after half a life time spent in slaughter!”

But she ordered their removal and bade the maids take off their swords while they were at work. And the night passed happily enough.

Next day Yüan-tê distributed gifts among the maids to secure their good will. He also sent Sun Chʻien to Chingchou with news of the wedding, while he gave himself up to feasting and enjoyment. The Dowager loved him more every day.

The results of the plot to destroy Liu Pei were thus very different from the originators’ intention. Sun Chʻüan sent to his general to say that his mother had insisted upon marrying her daughter to their proposed victim and so by juggling with the fictitious they had made it real. What was to be done?

The news troubled Chou Yü, but eventually he thought out another scheme which he embodied in a letter sent to his master. Here is the outline of the missive:—“Contrary to expectation the plot that I, Chou Yü, contrived has turned the wrong way. However, since by juggling with deceit we have ended in a solid truth our future plans must start from the actual present facts. To the boldness of the adventurer is added the aid of such great captains as Kuan, Chang and Chao Yün, not to mention that Liu Pei has a strategist like Chuko. He is not the man to remain long in a lowly position. Wherefore I can think of no better plan than to enervate him by surrounding him with softness and keeping him in Wu, a prisoner of luxury. Therefore build for him a fine Palace to blunt the edge of his determination and surround him with sensuous luxury. In this way the affection of his brothers will be alienated and Chuko will be driven away. When this result has been attained we can smite him and so end a great matter. If we be at all careless I fear the recumbent dragon may fly to the skies; it is no beast to be kept in a pond.

“My lord, I pray you to consider this thoroughly.”

The letter was shown to Chang Chao who said, “My idea is identical with his. Liu Pei began life in a humble position and for years has been a wanderer. He has never tasted the delights of wealth. Give him the means of luxury, a beautiful dwelling, fair women, gold and silken attire, and as he enjoys them the thoughts of Kʻung-ming and his brothers will fade away and they, on their side, will be filled with rancour. Thus can we lay our plans for recovering Chingchou. I recommend action as Chou Yü says and quickly.”

Sun Chʻüan then set about re-decorating the eastern Palace and laying out the grounds. He filled the rooms with beautiful furniture for his sister and her husband. He also sent fair damsels and musicians by the score, and many and beautiful vessels in gold and silver, and silken stuffs. And his mother was delighted at his kindness to her son-in-law.

Indeed Liu Pei was soon so immersed in sensuous pleasure that he gave no thought to return. Chao Yün and the company under him led an idle life in the front portion of the eastern Palace, save that at times they went outside the city for archery and horse-racing. And thus passed the year.

Suddenly Chao Yün remembered the orders he had received and the three bags with the plans in them. It was time to open the second one for the end of the year was nigh. His orders were only to open the third when danger was very near and there appeared no way out.

As already remarked, the year was drawing to a close and Chao Yün saw his lord daily becoming more and more the slave of pleasure. Liu Pei never appeared among his guards now. So the bag was opened and in pursuance of the wonderful scheme thereby discovered, Chao Yün went to the hall of the Palace and asked to see his master. The maid in attendance went within and said, “Chao Yün has some important matter on which to see the master.”

Yüan-tê called him in and asked what the business was. Chao Yün assumed an attitude of great concern and said, “My lord, you are living happily secluded in these beautiful apartments; do you never think of Chingchou?”

“But what is the matter that you seem so disturbed?” asked Liu.

“To-day early Kʻung-ming sent a messenger to say that Tsʻao Tsʻao was trying to avenge his last defeat and was leading fifty legions to attack Chingchou, which was in great danger. And he wished you to return.”

“I must speak to my wife,” said Yüan-tê.

“If you consult her she will be unwilling for you to return. It would be better to say nothing but to start this evening. Delay may do great damage.”

“Retire for a time; I must act discreetly,” said Liu Pei.

Chao Yün urged the need to return several times more, but finally went away.

Yüan-tê went into his wife’s rooms and began to weep silently. Seeing his tears the Lady Sun said, “Why are you so sad, my husband?”

Yüan-tê replied, “I have been driven hither and thither all my life. I was never able to do my duty to my parents nor have I been able to sacrifice to my ancestors. I have been very unfilial. The new year is at hand and its approach disquiets me greatly.”

“Do not try to deceive me,” said the Lady Sun. “I heard and I know all. Just now Chao Yün came to tell you Chingchou was threatened and you wish to return home. That is why you put forward this excuse.”

Then Yüan-tê fell on his knees and said, “Why should I dissemble, O wife, since you know? I do not wish to go, but if Chingchou be lost I shall be an object of ridicule to every one. I do desire to go, but I cannot leave you. Now you know why I am grieved.”

She replied, “I am your handmaid and whithersoever you go it is my duty to follow.”

“Yes; your heart is right, but the difficulty is your mother and the Marquis; they will be unwilling. If you would have pity on me and let me go for a time——.”

And again the tears gushed forth.

“Do not be so sad, my husband,” said the Lady Sun. “I will implore my mother to let us go and she will surely allow it.”

“Even supposing the Dowager permits I am sure the Marquis will hinder.”

The Lady Sun said nothing for a long time while she weighed the matter thoroughly. Presently she spoke, “On New Year’s Day you and I will go to court and present our congratulations. Then we will give the excuse of a sacrifice on the river bank and go away without formal leave. Will that suit you?”

Yüan-tê knelt at her feet and expressed his gratitude. “I should be never so grateful,” said he. “Dead or alive I would remember your love. But this must be a perfect secret.”

This having been decided and the arrangements made, Chao Yün received secret orders to lead out his company and be on the road on New Year’s morn. He was told they were going away.

Sun Chʻüan held a grand court on the New Year’s Day of the fifteenth year of “Established Tranquillity.” Liu Pei and his bride went into the Dowager’s presence and the Lady Sun said, “My husband has been thinking of his ancestors, who lie in Cho, and grieves that he cannot do his duty by them. To-day we wish to go to the river side and offer sacrifices toward the north. It is our duty to inform you.”

“A very filial proceeding,” said the Dowager. “I should not think of stopping you. Although you have never known your husband’s parents yet you may go with him to sacrifice as it is proper for a wife to do.”

Both thanked the Dowager and went out, rejoicing at having so far hoodwinked Sun Chʻüan. The Lady Sun got into her carriage taking only a little clothing with her, while Yüan-tê followed with a small escort. They went out of the city and met Chao Yün at the place arranged. Then with a guard in front and rear they left the precincts of the city, travelling as quickly as they could.

That day, at the new year banquet, Sun Chʻüan drank freely so that he had to be helped to his chamber, and the guests left. Before very long the escape of the fugitives became known, but it was then dark and when they tried to tell Sun Chʻüan they could not rouse him. He slept heavily until the fifth watch.

The next morning, when Sun Chʻüan heard the story he asked advice of his counsellors. Chang Shao said, “They have got away to-day but trouble will surely come of it; therefore pursue after them without loss of time.”

So Chʻên Wu and Pʻan Chang, with a half-company of veterans, were sent out with orders to use all speed both by day and by night and bring back the fugitives.

They left. Sun Chʻüan’s anger burned hot against Yüan-tê. In his wrath he seized his jade inkstone and dashed it to the ground where it shivered to pieces.

Said Chʻêng Pʻu, “My lord, your wrath is in vain, for I do not think your men will catch the runaways.”

“Will they dare to disobey my order?” said Sun Chʻüan.

“Our young lady had always delighted to look upon war and is very fierce and determined. All the officers fear her. Now she has gone with her husband of her own free will and those sent in pursuit, if once they look upon her countenance, will not dare to lay hands on her.”

Sun Chʻüan’s wrath burned the more fiercely at these words. He drew the sword girded at his side and called up Chiang Chʻin and Chou Tʻai saying, “You two take this sword and bring back the heads of my sister and Liu Pei. And if you do not I will put you to death.”

With this order they set out in pursuit, leading a whole company. Meanwhile Yüan-tê and his wife were pressing forward with all speed. When night fell they rested for a time by the roadside, but not for long. Just as they reached the confines of Chʻaisang they turned and saw a great cloud of dust and the soldiers said that a force was coming in pursuit.

“What shall we do if they come up with us?” said Yüan-tê excitedly to Chao Yün.

“My lord, you go on in front and I will prevent pursuit.”

As they turned the foot of a hill they saw a troop of soldiers blocking their road in front. Two captains were there and they bellowed, “Liu Pei, dismount and yield yourself captive. We are here by order of General Chou and you have kept us waiting long.”

Now the thought had come to Chou Yü that Yüan-tê would try to flee, and so he had sent Hsü Shêng and Ting Fêng, with three companies, to intercept him at this critical spot. They had made a camp there and kept a lookout from the hill-tops, for Chou had calculated that he would certainly pass that way. So when Liu Pei and his cavalcade appeared they all buckled on their arms and barred the way.

Greatly fearing, Yüan-tê rode back to consult Chao Yün, to whom he said, “In front a force barring the road; in rear pursuers. There is no escape. What can we do?”

“Do not be alarmed, my lord. The great strategist gave me three plans enclosed in three silken bags. Two have been used and have answered admirably. There is yet the third and my orders were to open the bag in such a strait as this. This is a day of great danger such as calls me to open the bag.”

Thereupon he opened the bag and handed it to Yüan-tê. As soon as Yüan-tê had seen the contents he hastened to the Lady Sun’s carriage and began to weep, saying, “I have something private to say, and I must tell you.”

“What have you to tell me, my husband? Tell me the whole truth,” replied she.

“Your brother and Chou Yü formerly made a plot for you to marry me, not for your sake, but to get me into their power and hold me so that they might recover Chingchou. They were set on my murder, and you were the bait with which to hook me. Careless of consequences I came, for I knew that the spirit of a man dwelt in your bosom and you would pity me. Lately I heard that harm was intended me and so I made danger to Chingchou the excuse to escape. Happily for me you have remained true and come with me. But now the Marquis is pursuing us and Chou Yü’s men are in front. Only you, my wife, can extricate us from this danger and if you refuse, then slay me where I stand that I may thus show my gratitude for your kindness.”

The Lady Sun grew angry and said, “Then does my brother forget that I am his sister? How will he ever look me in the face? I can extricate us from this danger.”

Thereupon she bade her people push the carriage to the front. She rolled up the blind and herself called out, “Hsü Shêng, Ting Fêng, are you turned traitors then?”

The two captains slid out of their saddles, dropped their arms and stood meekly in front of the carriage.

“We are no traitors,” said they. “We have the General’s orders to camp here and await Liu Pei.”

“Chou Yü is an interfering scoundrel,” cried she. “We of the land of Wu have never harmed you, and Yüan-tê, the Uncle of the Great Family, is my husband. I have already told my mother and my brother of our journey and now I find you with an army at the foot of these hills preventing our passage. Is it that you would plunder us of our valuables?”

The two captains mumbled dissent; they would not dare such a thing. “We pray you, O Lady, to stay your anger. This is no plan of ours; we do but obey our General’s orders.”

“So you fear Chou Yü and not me!” cried she scornfully. “Think you that if he slay you I will not slay him?”

She broke into a torrent of abuse of Chou Yü. Then she bade them push her carriage forward.

The two leaders thought within themselves, “We are but men of lowly rank, we dare not dispute with the Lady Sun.” Beside they saw Chao Yün was bursting with wrath. So they ordered their men to stand aside and leave the road clear.

The cavalcade had only gone a little distance when up came the pursuers. The two captains told the new-comers what had happened. “You were wrong to let them pass,” said Chʻên and Pʻan. “We have orders from the Marquis himself to arrest them.”

Thereupon all four went in pursuit. When the noise of the approaching force reached the ears of Yüan-tê he said to his wife, “They are again pursuing us; what now?”

“Husband, go on in front. I and Chao Yün will keep them off.”

So Yüan-tê and a small company went on toward the river bank, while Chao Yün reined up beside the lady’s carriage and set out his men ready for battle. And when the four men came up they dismounted and stood with folded arms.

“What are you doing here, Captains?” asked the Lady Sun.

“We have orders from our lord to request you and Yüan-tê to return.”

Calmly but bitterly she said, “So this is the sort of fools you are! You would make dissension between brother and sister. But I am a wife on my way to my husband’s home. Nor am I leaving clandestinely, for I had my mother’s gracious permission. Now we, husband and wife, are going to Chingchou and if even my brother were here himself he would let us pass in all politeness. But you, because you have weapons in your hands, would slay us!”

She abused the four men to their faces so that they looked from one to another in shame. And each in his heart thought, “Say what one will, after all they two are brother and sister and the Dowager is the controlling power. Sun Chʻüan is most obedient and would never dare oppose his mother’s decision. When the reaction comes, then indeed we shall certainly be found in the wrong. We had better be kind.” Another thing was that one of the two they sought, Yüan-tê, was not there and Chao Yün looked angry and dangerous. Finally, muttering to themselves, they gave way and with one accord retired and left the road open. The Lady Sun passed through.

“We four will go to see the General and report,” said Hsü Shêng.

But that did not please them all and they stood irresolute. Presently they saw a column of men sweeping down on them like a hurricane. These were Chiang and Chou with their company.

“Have you fellows seen Liu Pei?” they cried as they rushed up.

“He has just passed along.”

“Why did you not arrest him?”

“Because of what the Lady Sun said.”

“That is just as the Marquis feared and so he gave us this sword and told us first to slay his sister and then Liu Pei. And if we disobey he will put us to death.”

“What can be done? They are far away by now.”

Chiang Chʻin said, “After all they are but a few and on foot; they cannot travel very fast. Let Hsü and Ting go to Chou Yü to tell him, and he can send fast boats to pursue them on the river while we follow up on the bank. We must get them either on water or land and we must not listen to what they say.”

Whereupon two went back to report and two to the river bank. Meanwhile Liu Pei had got a long way from Chʻaisang and reached Liulangpu. He now felt calmer. He went along the bank of the river seeking a boat, but there was no craft on the broad bosom of the stream. He bowed his head in deep sorrow. Chao Yün bade him be of good courage seeing that he had just escaped from the tiger’s jaws and had not far to go.

“I suspect Kʻung-ming has something prepared for us,” said he.

But his master was despondent. His thoughts were back to the pleasures he had enjoyed but a few hours since in the house of his wife, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. A poem has been written on this episode.

By the bank of the deep flowing Yangtse Once was a wedding, And the ruling houses of two states yet to be Were allied by marriage. See the beautiful maiden stepping slowly To the golden bridal chamber! Yet was the marriage but a ruse. Its author vainly imagined that a hero, Sinking in amorous toils, Would forget his high intent and great resolve.

Yüan-tê bade the captain of his guard go along the bank to seek some boats. Then the soldiers told him there was a huge cloud of dust on the road. Ascending one of the hills he looked back whence they had come and saw the whole earth as it were covered with an advancing host. He sighed and said, “We have fled before them now for days, worn out our men and jaded our horses, and all to die in a strange place.”

He watched them coming nearer and nearer. Then as things began to look most desperate he saw a line of some twenty boats all in the act of setting their sails.

“By good luck here are some ships,” said Chao Yün. “Let us get on board, row to the further bank and see what can be done.”

Yüan-tê and his bride hastened down the bank and went into a ship. The soldiers were embarked. Then they saw in the hold of the ship some one in Taoist dress, who came up with a smile, saying, “My lord, again you see Chuko Liang. He has waited a long time.”

All the men on board were from Chingchou, and Yüan-tê rejoiced at the sudden happy turn of affairs.

Before long the pursuers reached the bank. Kʻung-ming pointed to them and laughed, saying, “I foresaw this a long time ago. You may return and tell your General not to use the fair damsel trick again.”

Those on the bank sent a flight of arrows at the ships but they were already too far away. The four officers on the bank looked very foolish.

As the boats were sailing along a great noise was heard on the river behind them and there appeared a huge fleet of war ships, sailing under the flag of Chou Yü. He also was there in command of the fleet and he was supported by Huang Kai and Han Tang. They seemed like a drove of horses and came along swift as a falling star. They gained on the fugitives rapidly.

Kʻung-ming ordered the boats to row over to the north bank, and the party landed. They had started off away from the shore before Chou Yü could land. Chou Yü’s men, naturally, were all afoot but they kept up the pursuit, following as quickly as they could. When they reached the borders of Huangchou, Liu Pei and his party were not far away, and so they pressed the pursuit. But there were only horses for a few in front and suddenly the rolling of drums struck Chou Yü’s ears and from out a gully dashed a troop of swordsmen led by Kuan Yü. Chou Yü was too surprised and unprepared to do anything but flee.

Chou Yü fled for his life and Kuan Yü pursued. At different points other captains came out and attacked, so that the men of Wu suffered a great defeat and Chou Yü barely escaped. As he came to the river and was going down into his ship the soldiers on the bank jeered at him on account of the miscarriage of his scheme for the restoration of tranquillity. All he had done was to give his enemy a wife and lose his soldiers. He was so annoyed that he would have gone up the bank to fight again, but his captains restrained him. He was very despondent and felt ashamed to face his master and confess utter defeat and failure.

All at once he cried aloud and fell back in a swoon. His wound had re-opened. The captains came to his help but it was long before he recovered consciousness.

Twice had he played his trick And twice had he lost the game; His heart was full of resentment, He was overwhelmed with shame.

The fate of Chou Yü will appear in the next chapter.

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