For a period not to be measured by days or weeks the air of Ching-fow had been as unrestful as that of the locust plains beyond the Great Wall, for every speech which passed bore two faces, one fair to hear, as a greeting, but the other insidiously speaking behind a screen, of rebellion, violence, and the hope of overturning the fixed order of events. With those whom they did not mistrust of treachery persons spoke in low voices of definite plans, while at all times there might appear in prominent places of the city skilfully composed notices setting forth great wrongs and injustices towards which resignation and a lowly bearing were outwardly counselled, yet with the same words cunningly inflaming the minds, even of the patient, as no pouring out of passionate thoughts and undignified threatenings could have done. Among the people, unknown, unseen, and unsuspected, except to the proved ones to whom they desired to reveal themselves, moved the agents of the Three Societies. While to the many of Ching-fow nothing was desired or even thought of behind the downfall of their own officials, and, chief of all, the execution of the evil-minded and depraved Mandarin Ping Siang, whose cruelties and extortions had made his name an object of wide and deserved loathing, the agents only regarded the city as a bright spot in the line of blood and fire which they were fanning into life from Peking to Canton, and which would presumably burst forth and involve the entire Empire.  
Although it had of late become a plain fact, by reason of the manner of behaving of the people, that events of a sudden and turbulent nature could not long be restrained, yet outwardly there was no exhibition of violence, not even to the length of resisting those whom Ping Siang sent to enforce his unjust demands, chiefly because a well-founded whisper had been sent round that nothing was to be done until Tung Fel should arrive, which would not be until the seventh day in the month of Winged Dragons. To this all persons agreed, for the more aged among them, who, by virtue of their years, were also the formers of opinion in all matters, called up within their memories certain events connected with the two persons in question which appeared to give to Tung Fel the privilege of expressing himself clearly when the matter of finally dealing with the malicious and self-willed Mandarin should be engaged upon.
 
Among the mountains which enclose Ching-fow on the southern side dwelt a jade-seeker, who also kept goats. Although a young man and entirely without relations, he had, by patient industry, contrived to collect together a large flock of the best-formed and most prolific goats to be found in the neighbourhood, all the money which he received in exchange for jade being quickly bartered again for the finest animals which he could obtain. He was dauntless in penetrating to the most inaccessible parts of the mountains in search of the stone, unfailing in his skilful care of the flock, in which he took much honourable pride, and on all occasions discreet and unassumingly restrained in his discourse and manner of life. Knowing this to be his invariable practice, it was with emotions of an agreeable curiosity that on the seventh day of the month of Winged Dragons those persons who were passing from place to place in the city beheld this young man, Yang Hu, descending the mountain path with unmistakable signs of profound agitation, and an entire absence of prudent care. Following him closely to the inner square of the city, on the continually expressed plea that they themselves had business in that quarter, these persons observed Yang Hu take up a position of unendurable dejection as he gazed reproachfully at the figure of the all-knowing Buddha which surmounted the Temple where it was his custom to sacrifice.
 
“Alas!” he exclaimed, lifting up his voice, when it became plain that a large number of people was assembled awaiting his words, “to what end does a person strive in this excessively evilly-regulated district? Or is it that this obscure and ill-destined one alone is marked out as with a deep white cross for humiliation and ruin? Father, and Sacred Temple of Ancestral Virtues, wherein the meanest can repose their trust, he has none; while now, being more destitute than the beggar at the gate, the hope of honourable marriage and a robust family of sons is more remote than the chance of finding the miracle-working Crystal Image which marks the last footstep of the Pure One. Yesterday this person possessed no secret store of silver or gold, nor had he knowledge of any special amount of jade hidden among the mountains, but to his call there responded four score goats, the most select and majestic to be found in all the Province, of which, nevertheless, it was his yearly custom to sacrifice one, as those here can testify, and to offer another as a duty to the Yamen of Ping Siang, in neither case opening his eyes widely when the hour for selecting arrived. Yet in what an unseemly manner is his respectful piety and courteous loyalty rewarded! To-day, before this person went forth on his usual quest, there came those bearing written papers by which they claimed, on the authority of Ping Siang, the whole of this person’s flock, as a punishment and fine for his not contributing without warning to the Celebration of Kissing the Emperor’s Face—the very obligation of such a matter being entirely unknown to him. Nevertheless, those who came drove off this person’s entire wealth, the desperately won increase of a life full of great toil and uncomplainingly endured hardship, leaving him only his cave in the rocks, which even the most grasping of many-handed Mandarins cannot remove, his cloak of skins, which no beggar would gratefully receive, and a bright and increasing light of deep hate scorching within his mind which nothing but the blood of the obdurate extortioner can efficiently quench. No protection of charms or heavily-mailed bowmen shall avail him, for in his craving for just revenge this person will meet witchcraft with a Heaven-sent cause and oppose an unsleeping subtlety against strength. Therefore let not the innocent suffer through an insufficient understanding, O Divine One, but direct the hand of your faithful worshipper towards the heart that is proud in tyranny, and holds as empty words the clearly defined promise of an all-seeing justice.”
 
Scarcely had Yang Hu made an end of speaking before there happened an event which could be regarded in no other light than as a direct answer to his plainly expressed request for a definite sign. Upon the clear air, which had become unnaturally still at Yang Hu’s words, as though to remove any chance of doubt that this indeed was the requested answer, came the loud beating of many very powerful brass gongs, indicating the approach of some person of undoubted importance. In a very brief period the procession reached the square, the gong-beaters being followed by persons carrying banners, bowmen in armour, others bearing various weapons and instruments of torture, slaves displaying innumerable changes of raiment to prove the rank and consequence of their master, umbrella carriers and fan wavers, and finally, preceded by incense burners and surrounded by servants who cleared away all obstructions by means of their formidable and heavily knotted lashes, the unworthy and deceitful Mandarin Ping Siang, who sat in a silk-hung and elaborately wrought chair, looking from side to side with gestures and expressions of contempt and ill-restrained cupidity.
 
At the sign of this powerful but unscrupulous person all those who were present fell upon their faces, leaving a broad space in their midst, except Yang Hu, who stepped back into the shadow of a doorway, being resolved that he would not prostrate himself before one whom Heaven had pointed out as the proper object of his just vengeance.
 
When the chair of Ping Siang could no longer be observed in the distance, and the sound of his many gongs had died away, all the persons who had knelt at his approach rose to their feet, meeting each other’s eyes with glances of assured and profound significance. At length there stepped forth an exceedingly aged man, who was generally believed to have the power of reading omens and forecasting futures, so that at his upraised hand all persons became silent.
 
“Behold!” he exclaimed, “none can turn aside in doubt from the deliberately pointed finger of Buddha. Henceforth, in spite of the well-intentioned suggestions of those who would shield him under the plea of exacting orders from high ones at Peking or extortions practised by slaves under him of which he is ignorant, there can no longer be any two voices concerning the guilty one. Yet what does the knowledge of the cormorant’s cry avail the golden carp in the shallow waters of the Yuen-Kiang? A prickly mormosa is an adequate protection against a naked man armed only with a just cause, and a company of bowmen has been known to quench an entire city’s Heaven-felt desire for retribution. This person, and doubtless others also, would have experienced a more heartfelt enthusiasm in the matter if the sublime and omnipotent Buddha had gone a step further, and pointed out not only the one to be punished, but also the instrument by which the destiny could be prudently and effectively accomplished.”
 
From the mountain path which led to Yang Hu’s cave came a voice, like an expressly devised reply to this speech. It was that of some person uttering the “Chant of Rewards and Penalties”:
 
  “How strong is the mountain sycamore!
  “Its branches reach the Middle Air, and the eye of none can pierce
      its foliage;
  “It draws power and nourishment from all around, so that weeds
      alone may flourish under its shadow.
  “Robbers find safety within the hollow of its trunk; its branches
      hide vampires and all manner of evil things which prey upon
      the innocent;
  “The wild boar of the forest sharpen their tusks against the bark,
      for it is harder than flint, and the axe of the woodsman turns
      back upon the striker.
  “Then cries the sycamore, ‘Hail and rain have no power against me,
      nor can the fiercest sun penetrate beyond my outside fringe;
  “‘The man who impiously raises his hand against me falls by his
      own stroke and weapon.
  “‘Can there be a greater or a more powerful than this one?
      Assuredly, I am Buddha; let all things obey me.’
  “Whereupon the weeds bow their heads, whispering among themselves,
      ‘The voice of the Tall One we hear, but not that of Buddha.
      Indeed, it is doubtless as he says.’
  “In his musk-scented Heaven Buddha laughs, and not deigning to
      raise his head from the lap of the Phoenix Goddess, he thrusts
      forth a stone which lies by his foot.
  “Saying, ‘A god’s present for a god. Take it carefully, O
      presumptuous Little One, for it is hot to the touch.’
  “The thunderbolt falls and the mighty tree is rent in twain. ‘They
      asked for my messenger,’ said the Pure One, turning again to
      repose.
  “Lo, he comes!”
 
 
With the last spoken word there came into the sight of those who were collected together a person of stern yet engaging appearance. His hands and face were the colour of mulberry stain by long exposure to the sun, while his eyes looked forth like two watch-fires outside a wolf-haunted camp. His long pigtail was tangled with the binding tendrils of the forest, and damp with the dew of an open couch. His apparel was in no way striking or brilliant, yet he strode with the dignity and air of a high official, pushing before him a covered box upon wheels.
 
“It is Tung Fel!” cried many who stood there watching his approach, in tones which showed those who spoke to be inspired by a variety of impressive emotions. “Undoubtedly this is the seventh day of the month of Winged Dragons, and, as he specifically stated would be the case, lo! he has come.”
 
Few were the words of greeting which Tung Fel accorded even to the most venerable of those who awaited him.
 
“This person has slept, partaken of fruit and herbs, and devoted an allotted time to inward contemplation,” he said briefly. “Other and more weighty matters than the exchange of dignified compliments and the admiration of each other’s profiles remain to be accomplished. What, for example, is the significance of the written parchment which is displayed in so obtrusive a manner before our eyes? Bring it to this person without delay.”
 
At these words all those present followed Tung Fel’s gaze with astonishment, for conspicuously displayed upon the wall of the Temple was a written notice which all joined in asserting had not been there the moment before, though no man had approached the spot. Nevertheless it was quickly brought to Tung Fel, who took it without any fear or hesitation and read aloud the words which it contained.
 
           “TO THE CUSTOM-RESPECTING PERSONS OF CHING-FOW.
 
  “Truly the span of existence of any upon this earth is brief and
  not to be considered; therefore, O unfortunate dwellers of
  Ching-fow, let it not affect your digestion that your bodies are
  in peril of sudden and most excruciating tortures and your Family
  Temples in danger of humiliating disregard.
 
  “Why do your thoughts follow the actions of the noble Mandarin
  Ping Siang so insidiously, and why after each unjust exaction do
  your eyes look redly towards the Yamen?
 
  “Is he not the little finger of those at Peking, obeying their
  commands and only carrying out the taxation which others have
  devised? Indeed, he himself has stated such to be the fact. If,
  therefore, a terrible and unforeseen fate overtook the usually
  cautious and well-armed Ping Siang, doubtless—perhaps after the
  lapse of some considerable time—another would be sent from Peking
  for a like purpose, and in this way, after a too-brief period of
  heaven-sent rest and prosperity, affairs would regulate themselves
  into almost as unendurable a condition as before.
 
  “Therefore ponder these things well, O passer-by. Yesterday the
  only man-child of Huang the wood-carver was taken away to be sold
  into slavery by the emissaries of the most just Ping Siang (who
  would not have acted thus, we are assured, were it not for the
  insatiable ones at Peking), as it had become plain that the very
  necessitous Huang had no other possession to contribute to the
  amount to be expended in coloured lights as a mark of public
  rejoicing on the occasion of the moonday of the sublime Emperor.
  The illiterate and prosaic-minded Huang, having in a most unseemly
  manner reviled and even assailed those who acted in the matter,
  has been effectively disposed of, and his wife now alternately
  laughs and shrieks in the Establishment of Irregular Intellects.
 
  “For this reason, gazer, and because the matter touches you more
  closely than, in your self-imagined security, you are prone to
  think, deal expediently with the time at your disposal. Look twice
  and lingeringly to-night upon the face of your first-born, and
  clasp the form of your favourite one in a closer embrace, for he
  by whose hand the blow is directed may already have cast devouring
  eyes upon their fairness, and to-morrow he may say to his armed
  men: ‘The time is come; bring her to me.’”
 
 
“From the last sentence of the well-intentioned and undoubtedly moderately-framed notice this person will take two phrases,” remarked Tung Fel, folding the written paper and placing it among his garments, “which shall serve him as the title of the lifelike and accurately-represented play which it is his self-conceited intention now to disclose to this select and unprejudiced gathering. The scene represents an enlightened and well-merited justice overtaking an arrogant and intolerable being who—need this person add?—existed many dynasties ago, and the title is:
 
                         “THE TIME IS COME!
                           BY WHOSE HAND?”
 
 
Delivering himself in this manner, Tung Fel drew back the hanging drapery which concealed the front of his large box, and disclosed to those who were gathered round, not, as they had expected, a passage from the Record of the Three Kingdoms, or some other dramatic work of undoubted merit, but an ingeniously constructed representation of a scene outside the walls of their own Ching-fow. On one side was a small but minutely accurate copy of a wood-burner’s hut, which was known to all present, while behind stood out the distant but nevertheless unmistakable walls of the city. But it was nearest part of the spectacle that first held the attention of the entranced beholders, for there disported themselves, in every variety of guileless and attractive attitude, a number of young and entirely unconcerned doves. Scarcely had the delighted onlookers fully observed the pleasing and effective scene, or uttered their expressions of polished satisfaction at the graceful and unassuming behaviour of the pretty creatures before them, than the view entirely changed, and, as if by magic, the massive and inelegant building of Ping Siang’s Yamen was presented before them. As all gazed, astonished, the great door of the Yamen opened stealthily, and without a moment’s pause a lean and ill-conditioned rat, of unnatural size and rapacity, dashed out and seized the most select and engaging of the unsuspecting prey in its hungry jaws. With the expiring cry of the innocent victim the entire box was immediately, and in the most unexpected manner, involved in a profound darkness, which cleared away as suddenly and revealed the forms of the despoiler and the victim lying dead by each other’s side.
 
Tung Fel came forward to receive the well-selected compliments of all who had witnessed the entertainment.
 
“It may be objected,” he remarked, “that the play is, in a manner of expressing one’s self, incomplete; for it is unrevealed by whose hand the act of justice was accomplished. Yet in this detail is the accuracy of the representation justified, for though the time has come, the hand by which retribution is accorded shall never be observed.”
 
In such a manner did Tung Fel come to Ching-fow on the seventh day of the month of Winged Dragons, throwing aside all restraint, and no longer urging prudence or delay. Of all the throng which stood before him scarcely one was without a deep offence against Ping Siang, while those who had not as yet suffered feared what the morrow might display.
 
A wandering monk from the Island of Irredeemable Plagues was the first to step forth in response to Tung Fel’s plainly understood suggestion.
 
“There is no necessity for this person to undertake further acts of benevolence,” he remarked, dropping the cloak from his shoulder and displaying the hundred and eight scars of extreme virtue; “nor,” he continued, holding up his left hand, from which three fingers were burnt away, “have greater endurances been neglected. Yet the matter before this distinguished gathering is one which merits the favourable consideration of all persons, and this one will in no manner turn away, recounting former actions, while he allows others to press forward towards the accomplishment of the just and divinely-inspired act.”
 
With these words the devout and unassuming person in question inscribed his name upon a square piece of rice-paper, attesting his sincerity to the fixed purpose for which it was designed by dipping his thumb into the mixed blood of the slain animals and impressing this unalterable seal upon the paper also. He was followed by a seller of drugs and subtle medicines, whose entire stock had been seized and destroyed by order of Ping Siang, so that no one in Ching-fow might obtain poison for his destruction. Then came an overwhelming stream of persons, all of whom had received some severe and well-remembered injury at the hands of the malicious and vindictive Mandarin. All these followed a similar observance, inscribing their names and binding themselves by the Blood Oath. Last of all Yang Hu stepped up, partly from a natural modesty which restrained him from offering himself when so many more versatile persons of proved excellence were willing to engage in the matter, and partly because an ill-advised conflict was taking place within his mind as to whether the extreme course which was contemplated was the most expedient to pursue. At last, however, he plainly perceived that he could not honourably withhold himself from an affair that was in a measure the direct outcome of his own unendurable loss, so that without further hesitation he added his obscure name to the many illustrious ones already in Tung Fel’s keeping.
 
When at length dark fell upon the city and the cries of the watchmen, warning all prudent ones to bar well their doors against robbers, as they themselves were withdrawing until the morrow, no longer rang through the narrow ways of Ching-fow, all those persons who had pledged themselves by name and seal went forth silently, and came together at the place whereof Tung Fel had secretly conveyed them knowledge. There Tung Fel, standing somewhat apart, placed all the folded papers in the form of a circle, and having performed over them certain observances designed to insure a just decision and to keep away evil influences, submitted the selection to the discriminating choice of the Sacred Flat and Round Sticks. Having in this manner secured the name of the appointed person who should carry out the act of justice and retribution, Tung Fel unfolded the paper, inscribed certain words upon it, and replaced it among the others.
 
“The moment before great deeds,” began Tung Fel, stepping forward and addressing himself to the expectant ones who were gathered round, “is not the time for light speech, nor, indeed, for sentences of dignified length, no matter how pleasantly turned to the ear they may be. Before this person stand many who are undoubtedly illustrious in various arts and virtues, yet one among them is pre-eminently marked out for distinction in that his name shall be handed down in imperishable history as that of a patriot of a pure-minded and uncompromising degree. With him there is no need of further speech, and to this end I have inscribed certain words upon his namepaper. To everyone this person will now return the paper which has been entrusted to him, folded so that the nature of its contents shall be an unwritten leaf t............