San Kuo/Volume 2/Chapter 68

Sun Ch'üan was occupied in ordering his army at Juhsük‘ou when he heard of the coming of Ts‘ao Ts‘ao with forty legions to the relief of Hofei. He told off a fleet of fifty large ships to lie in the port while Ch'ên Wu went up and down the river banks on the look-out.

“It would be well to inflict a defeat upon Ts‘ao’s men before they recover from the long march; it would dishearten them,” said Chang Chao.

Looking around at the officers in his tent, Sun Ch'üan said, “Who is bold enough to go forth and fight this Ts‘ao Ts‘ao and so take the keen edge off the spirit of his army?”

And Ling Tʻung offered.

“I will go,” said he.

“How many men do you require?”

“Three companies will suffice,” replied Ling.

But Kan Ning struck in, saying, “Only a hundred horse would be needed; why send three companies?”

Ling Tung was angry, and he and Kan Ning began to wrangle even in the presence of their chief.

“Ts‘ao Ts‘ao’s army is too strong to be attacked recklessly,” said Sun Ch‘üan.

Finally he gave the commission to Ling Tung with his three companies, bidding him reconnoitre just outside Juhsük‘ou, and fight the enemy if he met him.

Marching out, they very soon saw a great cloud of dust, which marked the approach of an army. As soon as they came near enough, Chang Liao, who led the van, engaged with Ling Tʻung, and they fought half a hundred bouts without sign of victory for either. Then Sun Ch'üan began to fear for his champion, so he sent Lü Mêng to extricate him from the battle and escort him home. When Ling had come back, his rival went to Sun Ch'üan and said, “Now let me have the hundred horsemen and I will raid the enemy’s camp this night. If I lose a man or a mount I will claim no merit.”

Sun Ch'üan commended his courage and chose a hundred of his best veterans, whom he placed under Kan Ning’s command for the raid. He also gave him as a feast for the soldiers fifty flasks of wine and fifty catties of mutton.

Returning to the tents, Kan Ning drew up his little force and made them sit down in rows. Then he filled two silver goblets ​with wine, solemnly drank to them and said, “Comrades, tonight our orders are to raid the camp of the enemy. Wherefore fill your goblets and call up all your strength for the task.”

But the men did not welcome his words; instead they looked one at another uncertain. Seeing them in this mood, Kan Ning adopted a fierce tone, drew his sword and cried, “What are you waiting for? If I, a leader of rank, can risk my life, cannot you?”

Moved by the angry face of the leader, the men rose, bowed their heads and said they would fight to the last.

Then the wine and meat were distributed to them and each one ate his fill. The second watch was chosen as the hour to start, and each man stuck a white goose plume in his cap whereby they could recognise each other in the darkness.

At the time appointed they buckled on their armour, mounted and, galloping away, quickly came to Ts‘ao Ts‘ao’s camp. Hastily throwing aside the “deer-horns,” they burst in with a yell that rose to the very heavens. They made straight for the centre, hoping to slay Ts‘ao himself. But the men of the leader’s brigade had made a rampart of their carts within which they were sheltered as if in an iron tun, so that the raiders failed to find a way in.

However, the leader and his small force dashed hither and thither, cutting and slashing, till Ts‘ao Ts‘ao’s men were quite bewildered and frightened.

They had no notion of the number of their assailants. All their efforts only increased the confusion. Wherefore the hundred men had it all their own way and rushed from point to point slaying whomever they met. But soon the drums beat in every camp and torches were lit and shouts arose, and it was time for the raiders to get away.

Kan Ning led his little body of men out through the south gate with never a man trying to stop him, and rode for his own camp. He met Chou T‘ai, who had been sent to help him in case of need; but the need had not arisen, and the hundred heroes with their leader rode back in triumph. There was no pursuit.

A poem was written praising this exploit:—

On his return, Kan Ning took the tale of his men at the camp gate, not a man nor a horse was missing. He entered to the sound of drum and fife and the shouting of his men.

“Wan Shui! Long Life!” shouted they, as Sun Ch'üan came to welcome them. Kan Ning dismounted and prostrated himself. His lord raised him, and took him by the hand, ​saying, “This expedition of yours must have given those rebels a shaking. I had not yielded to your desire only I wished to give you the opportunity to manifest your valour. I did not wish to let you be sacrificed.”

Kan Ning’s exploit was rewarded with gifts, a thousand rolls of silk and a hundred good swords, all of which he distributed among his soldiers. Sun Ch'üan was very proud of his subordinate’s doughty deed, and said, “Mêng-tê may have his Chang Liao, but I can match him with my friend Kan Ning.”

Soon Chang Liao came to proffer another challenge, and Ling T‘ung, impatient at being excelled by his rival and enemy, begged that he might go out to fight. His request was granted, and he marched out a short distance from Juhsü with half a legion. Sun Ch'üan, with Kan Ning in his train, went out to look on at the encounter.

When both armies had come out on the plain and were arrayed, Chang Liao, with Li Tien and Yüeh Chin, one on either side, advanced to the front. Ling T‘ung, sword in hand, galloped out towards him and, at his chief’s command, Yüeh Chin took the challenge and went to open the combat. They fought half a hundred bouts and neither seemed to have the better of the other. Then Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, hearing of the great contest going on, rode up to the battlefield and took position under the great standard, whence he could see the fighting. Seeing both combatants were waxing desperate, he thought to decide the struggle by an unfair blow. He bade Ts‘ao Hsiu let fly a secret arrow, which he did by creeping up under cover of Chang Liao. It struck Ling T‘ung’s steed, which reared and threw its rider. Yüeh Chin dashed forward to thrust at the fallen warrior with his spear, but before the blow could be given the twang of another bow was heard and an arrow speeding by hit Yüeh Chin full in the face. He fell from his horse.

Then both sides rushed forward to rescue their champions; the gongs clanged, and the combat ceased. Ling T‘ung returned to his camp and reported himself to his master.

“The arrow that saved you was shot by Kan Ning,” said Sun Ch'üan.

Ling T‘ung turned to his rival and bowed low.

“I could not have supposed you would have rendered me such a service, Sir,” said he to Kan Ning.

This episode ended the strife and enmity between the two men, who thereafter swore perpetual friendship.

On the other side Ts‘ao saw to it that his captain’s wound was dressed, and next day he launched an attack against Juhsü along five different lines. He himself led one army; the other armies were led by Chang Liao, Li Tien, Hsü Huang and P‘ang Tê. Each army was one legion strong, and they marched to give battle on the river bank. The crews and fighting men ​of the Wu naval squadron were greatly frightened by the approach of these armies.

“You have eaten of the bread of your prince and you must give loyal service; why fear?” said Hsü Huang.

Thereupon he put some hundreds of his best men into small boats, went along the bank and broke into the legion under Li Tien. Meanwhile their comrades on the ships beat drums and cheered them on. But a great storm came on, lashing the river to fury, and the waves rolled mountains high. The larger ships rolled as if they would overturn, and the men were frightened. They started to get down into the bulkier cargo-boats to save their lives. But Tung Hsi threatened them with his sword, cutting down some half score of the mutineers.

“My orders are to hold this point against the enemy;” shouted he, “we dare not abandon the ships.”

However, the wind increased, and presently the bold Tung Hsi was thrown into the river by the rolling of his ship and was drowned.

Hsü Huang dashed hither and thither among Li Tien’s men, slaying right and left. Ch'ên Wu, hearing the noise of battle, set out for the river bank. On his way he met P‘ang Tê and the legion under him. A mêlée ensued. Then Sun Ch'üan with Chou T‘ai and his men joined in.

The small force from the ships that had attacked Li Tien was now surrounded. So Sun Ch'üan gave the signal for an onslaught that should rescue them. This failed, and Sun Ch'üan was himself surrounded in turn and soon in desperate straits. From a height, Ts‘ao saw his difficulties and sent in Hsu Ch‘u to cut Sun Ch'üan’s column in halves so that neither half could aid the other.

When Chou T‘ai had cut his way out of the press and reached the river-side he looked for his master. But he was nowhere visible, so he dashed once again into the battle. Coming to his own men, he asked where Sun Ch'üan was. They pointed to where the press was most dense. Chou T‘ai stiffened and dashed in. Presently he reached his lord’s side and cried out, “My lord, follow me and I will hack a way out.”

Chou T‘ai fought his way out to the river bank. Then he turned to look, and Sun Ch'üan was not behind him. So he turned back, forced his way in and once again found his way to his master’s side.

“I cannot get out; the arrows are too thick,” said Sun Ch‘üan.

“Then go first, my lord, and I will follow.”

Sun Ch'üan then urged his steed as fast as he could go and Chou T‘ai kept off all pursuit. He sustained many wounds and the arrows rattled on his helmet, but he got clear at last and Sun Ch'üan was safe. As they neared the river bank, Lü Mêng came up with some of the naval force and escorted Sun Ch'üan down to the ships.

​“I owe my safety to Chou T‘ai, who thrice came to my aid,” said Sun Ch'üan. “But Hsü Shêng is still in the thick of the fight, and how can we save him?”

“I will go to his rescue,” cried Chou.

Whirling his spear, Chou again plunged into the battle and presently brought his colleague safely out of the press. Both were severely wounded.

Lü Mêng ordered his men to keep up a rapid flight of arrows so as to command the bank, and in this way the two leaders were enabled to get on board the ships.

Now Ch'ên Wu had engaged the legion under P‘ang Tê. Being inferior in force and no aid being forthcoming, Ch‘ên Wu was forced into a valley where the trees and undergrowth were very dense. He tried to turn, but was caught by the branches and while so entangled he was killed.

When Ts‘ao saw that Sun had escaped from the battle to the river bank he urged his steed forward in pursuit. He sent flights of arrows toward the fugitives. By this time Lü Mêng’s men had emptied their quivers, and he began to be very anxious. But just then a fleet of ships sailed up led by Lu Hsün, the son-in-law of Sun Ts'ê, who came with ten legions and drove back Ts‘ao’s men. Then he landed to pursue. He captured many thousands of horses and slew many men, so that Ts‘ao Ts‘ao was quite defeated and retired.

Then they sought and found the body of Ch'ên Wu among the slain. Sun Ch'üan was much grieved when he came to know that Ch'ên Wu had been slain and Tung Hsi drowned, and wept sore. Men were sent to seek for Tung Hsi’s body, which at last was found. Both captains were buried with great honours.

As a recompense for Chou T‘ai’s services in his rescue, Sun Ch'üan prepared in his honour a great banquet, where he himself offered Chou a goblet of wine and complimented and embraced him while the tears coursed down his cheeks.

“Twice you saved my life, careless of your own,” cried he, “and you have received many wounds. It is as if your skin had been engraved and painted. What sort of a man should I be if I did not treat you as one of my own flesh and blood? Can I regard you, noble Sir, merely as a unit in my army? You are my meritorious minister. I share the glory you have won and mine are your joys and sorrows.”

Then he bade Chou T‘ai open his dress and exhibit his wounds for all the assembly to see. The skin was gashed all over as if his body had been scored with a knife. Sun Ch'üan pointed to the wounds one after another and asked how each one had been received. And, as Chou told him, for every wound Sun Ch'üan made him drink off a goblet of wine till he became thoroughly intoxicated. Sun Ch'üan then presented him with ​a black silk parasol and bade him use it on all occasions as a sign of the glory that was his.

But Sun Ch'üan found his opponents too much for him; at the end of a month the two armies were both at Juhsü and neither had won a victory.

Then said Chang Chao and Ku Yung, “Ts‘ao Ts‘ao is too strong and we cannot overcome him by mere force. If the struggle continue longer you will only lose more men. You had better seek to make peace.”

Sun Ch'üan followed this advice and despatched Pu Chih on a peace mission to Ts‘ao Ts‘ao’s camp. He was ordered to offer a yearly tribute. Ts‘ao also saw that Chiangnan was too strong to be overcome, and consented. He insisted that Sun Ch'üan should first send away his army and then he would retire. The messenger returned with this message and Sun Ch'üan sent away the greater part, leaving only Chou T‘ai and Chiang Ch‘in to hold Juhsü. The army returned to Moling. Ts‘ao left Ts‘ao Jên and Chang Liao in charge of Hofei and marched to Hsüch‘ang.

On arrival, all Ts‘ao Ts‘ao’s officers persuaded him to become Prince of Wei. Only the president of a Board, Ts‘ui Yen, spoke strongly against the scheme.

“You are, then, the only man who knows not the fate of Hsün Wên-yo,” said his colleagues.

“Such times! Such deeds!” cried Ts‘ui Yen. “You are guilty of rebellion, but you may commit it yourselves. I will bear no part in it.”

Certain enemies told Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, and Ts‘ui Yen was thrown into prison. At his trial he glared like a tiger and his very beard curled with contempt; he raged and cursed at Ts‘ao Ts‘ao for a betrayer of his prince, and a rebel. The interrogating magistrate reported his conduct to Ts‘ao, who ordered Ts‘ui to be beaten to death in prison.

In the twenty-first year of the period “Established Tranquillity,” in the fifth month of that year, a great memorial signed by many officers went up to the Emperor Hsien, praying that Ts‘ao Ts‘ao be granted the title of prince for his manifest merits and signal services to the state, exceeding those rendered by any minister before him. The memorial was approved, and a draft Edict was prepared by the famous Chung Yu. Thrice Ts‘ao Ts‘ao with seeming modesty pretended to decline the honour, but thrice was his refusal rejected. Finally he ​made his obeisance and was enrolled as “Prince of Wei” with the usual insignia and privileges, a head-dress (or coronet) with twelve strings of beads and a chariot with gilt shafts, drawn by six steeds. But he arrogantly used an imperial chariot with bells and had the roads cleared when he passed along. He built himself a palace at Yehchün.

Then he began to discuss the appointment of an heir-apparent. His real wife, of the Ting family, was without issue, but a concubine had borne him a son, Ts‘ao Ang, who had been killed in battle at the siege of Wanch'êng. A second concubine, of the P‘ien family, had borne him four sons, P‘ei, Chang, Chih and Hsiung. Wherefore he elevated her to the rank of princess-consort in place of the Lady Ting. The third son, Chih, also known as Tzu-chien, was very clever and a ready master of composition. Ts‘ao Ts‘ao wished him to be named the heir. Then the eldest son sought from the high officer Chia Hsü a plan to secure his rights of primogeniture, and Hsü told him to do so-and-so. Thereafter, whenever the father went out on any military expedition, Ts‘ao Chih wrote fulsome panegyrics, but Ts‘ao Chih wept so copiously at bidding his father farewell that the courtiers were deeply affected and remarked that though the one son was crafty and clever he was not so sincerely filial as the other. Ts‘ao P‘ei also bought over his father’s immediate attendants, who then rang the praises of his virtues so loud that Ts‘ao Ts‘ao was strongly disposed to name him as the heir after all.

After hesitating a long time, the matter was referred to Chia Hsü.

“I wish to name my heir; who shall it be?”

Chia Hsü would not say, and Ts‘ao Ts‘ao asked why.

“I was just recalling the past in my mind and could not reply at once,” said Chia.

“What were you recalling?”

“I was thinking of two fathers: Yüan Pên-ch‘u (Yüan Shao) and Liu Chinghsing (Liu Piao) and their sons.”

Ts‘ao Ts‘ao smiled. Soon after this he declared his eldest son his heir.

In the tenth month the building of the palace of the new Prince of Wei was completed and the furnishing begun. From all parts were collected rare flowers and uncommon trees to beautify the gardens. One agent went into Wu and saw Sun Ch'üan, to whom he presented a letter from Ts‘ao Ts‘ao asking that he might be allowed to proceed to Wênchow to get some oranges. At that period Sun Ch'üan was in a most complaisant mood toward Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, so from the orange trees in his own city he picked forty very fine fruits and sent them immediately to Yehchün.

On the way, one of the bearers of the oranges fell ill and they had to stop at the foot of a certain hill. There came along an ​elderly man, blind of one eye and lame of one leg, who wore a white rattan head-dress and a black loose robe. He saluted the bearers and stayed to talk.

Presently he said, “Your burdens are heavy, O porters; may this old Taoist lend you a shoulder? What do you say?”

Naturally they were pleased enough, and the amiable wayfarer bore each load for five li. When they resumed their burdens they noticed that they seemed lighter than before, and they felt rather suspicious. When the Taoist was taking his leave of the officer in charge of the party, he said, “I am an old friend from the same village as Prince Wei. My name is Tso Tz'ŭ, my commoner name being Yüan-fang. Among Taoists I bear the appellation of ‘Blackhorn.' When you get to the end of your journey you may say that I was enquiring after your lord.”

He shook down his sleeves and left. In due course the orange bearers reached the new palace and the oranges were presented. But when Ts‘ao cut one open it was but an empty shell of a thing; there was no pulp beneath the rind. Ts‘ao Ts‘ao was rather puzzled and called in the porters, who told him of their falling in with the mysterious Taoist on the way. But Ts‘ao scouted the idea of that being the reason.

But just then the warden of the gate sent to say that a certain Taoist was at the gate and wished to see the prince.

“Send him in,” said Ts‘ao Ts‘ao.

“He is the man we met on the way,” said the porters when he appeared.

Ts‘ao Ts‘ao said curtly, “What sorcery have you been exercising on my beautiful fruit?”

“How could such a thing happen?” said the Taoist.

Thereupon he cut open an orange and showed it full of pulp, most delicious to the taste. But when Ts‘ao cut open another that again was empty, nothing but rind.

Ts‘ao Ts‘ao was more than ever perplexed. He bade his visitor be seated, and, as Tso Tz'ŭ asked for refreshment, wine and food were brought in. The Taoist ate ravenously, consuming a whole sheep, and drank in proportion. Yet he showed no sign of intoxication or repletion.

“By what magic are you here?” said Ts‘ao Ts‘ao.

“I am but a poor Taoist. I went into Hsich‘uan (Ssuch‘uan) and on Mount Omi I studied the Way for thirty long years. One day I heard my name called from out the rocky wall of my cell. I looked, but could see nothing. The same thing happened next day, and so on for many days. Then suddenly, with a roar like thunder, the rock split asunder and I saw a sacred book in three volumes called “The Supreme Book of Magic.” From the first volume I learned to ascend to the clouds astride the wind, to sail up into the great void itself; from the second to pass through mountains and penetrate ​rocks; from the third, to float light as vapour, over the seas, to become invisible at will or change my shape, to fling swords and project daggers so as to decapitate a man from a distance. You, O Prince, have reached the acme of glory; why not now withdraw and, like me, become a disciple of the Taoists? Why not travel to Mount Omi and there mend your ways so that I may bequeath my three volumes to you?”

“Oft have I reflected upon this course and struggled against my fate, but what can I do? There is no one to maintain the government,” replied Ts‘ao.

“There is Liu Yüan-tê, a scion of the dynastic family; could you not make way for him? If you do not, I may have to send one of my flying swords after your head one day.”

“You are one of his secret agents,” said Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, suddenly enraged. “Seize him!” cried he to his lictors.

They did so, while the Taoist laughed. And he continued to laugh as they dragged him down to the dungeons, where they beat him cruelly. And when they had finished, the Taoist lay there gently respiring in a sound sleep, just as if he felt nothing whatever.

This enraged Ts‘ao Ts‘ao still more, and he bade them put the priest into the large wooden collar and nail it securely and then chain him in a cell. And he set guards over him, and the guards saw the collar and chains just fall off while the victim lay fast asleep not injured in the least.

The Taoist lay in prison seven days without food or water, and when they went to look at him he was sitting upright on the ground, quite well and rosy looking.

The gaolers reported these things to Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, who had the prisoner brought in.

“I do not mind going without food for years,” said the victim, when Ts‘ao Ts‘ao questioned him, “yet I could eat a thousand sheep in a day.”

Ts‘ao Ts‘ao was at the end of his resources, he could prevail nothing against such a man.

That day there was to be a great banquet at the new palace, and guests came in crowds. When the banquet was in progress and the wine cup passing freely, suddenly the same Taoist appeared. He had wooden clogs on his feet. All faces turned in his direction and not a few were afraid; others wondered. Standing there in front of the great assembly, the Taoist said, “O powerful Prince, here to-day you have every delicacy on the table and a glorious company of guests. You have rare and beautiful objects from all parts of the world. Is there anything lacking? If there be anything you would like, name it and I will get it for you.”

Ts‘ao replied, “Then I want a dragon’s liver to make soup: can you get that?”

“Where’s the difficulty?” replied Tso Tz‘ŭ.

​With a pencil the Taoist immediately sketched a dragon on the whitewashed wall of the banquet hall. Then he flicked his sleeve over it, the dragon’s belly opened of itself and therefrom Tso took the liver all fresh and bloody.

“You had the liver hidden in your sleeve,” said Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, incredulous.

“Then there shall be another test,” said the Taoist. “It is winter and every plant outside is dead. What flower would you like, O Prince. Name any one you will.”

“I want a peony,” said Ts‘ao Ts‘ao.

“Easy,” said the Taoist.

At this request they brought out a flower-pot, which was placed in full view of the guests. Then he spurted some water over it, and in a very short time up came a peony with two fully expanded flowers.

The guests were astonished, and they asked the Taoist to be seated and gave him wine and food. The cook sent in some minced fish.

“The best mince is made from the perch of the Sung River,” said the Taoist.

“How can you get fish a thousand li away?” said Ts‘ao Ts‘ao.

“Not at all difficult. Tell someone to get a rod and hook, and fish in the pond just below this banquet hall.”

They did so, and very soon several beautiful perch lay on the steps.

“I have always kept some of these in my ponds, of course,” said Ts‘ao Ts‘ao.

“O Prince, do you think to deceive me? All perch have two gills except the Sung perch, which has two pairs. That is the distinguishing feature.' ”

The guests crowded round to look, and, surely enough, the fish had four gills.

“To cook this perch one needs purple sprout ginger though,” said the Taoist.

“Can you also produce that?” asked Ts‘ao Ts‘ao.

“Easily.”

He told them to bring in a silver bowl, which the magician filled with water. Very soon the ginger filled the bowl, and he presented it to the host. Ts‘ao put out his hand to pick some, when suddenly a book appeared in the bowl and the title was “Mêngtê's New Treatise (on the Art of War).” He took it out and read it over. Not a word of his treatise was missing.

Ts‘ao Ts‘ao became more and mystified. Tso Tz‘u took up a jade cup that stood on the table, filled it with fine wine and presented it to Ts‘ao Ts‘ao.

“Drink this, O Prince, and you will live a thousand years.”

“Drink of it first yourself,” said Ts‘ao Ts‘ao.

The Taoist took the jade pin from his head-dress and drew it across the cup as if dividing the wine into two portions. ​Then he drank one half and handed the cup with the other half to Ts‘ao Ts‘ao. But he angrily refused it. The Taoist then threw the cup into the air, where it was transformed into a white dove which circled round the banquet hall and then flew away.

All faces were turned upward following the flight of the dove, and so no one had noticed the going of the Taoist. But he was gone; and soon the gate warden reported that he had left the palace.

Said Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, “A magician like this ought to be put to death or he will do some mischief.”

The redoubtable Hsü Ch‘u and a company of armed men were sent to arrest the Taoist. They saw the Taoist, still wearing his wooden clogs, not far ahead but striding along quickly. Hsü Ch‘u rode after him, but in spite of all his horse could do, he could not come up with him. He kept up the chase right to the hills, when he met a shepherd lad with a flock of sheep. And there walked the Taoist among the sheep. The Taoist disappeared. The angry warrior slew the whole flock of sheep, while the shepherd lad looked on weeping.

Suddenly the boy heard a voice from one of the severed heads, telling him to replace the heads on the bodies of his sheep. Instead of doing so, he fled in terror, covering his face. Then he heard a voice calling to him, “Do not run away; you shall have your sheep again.”

He turned, and lo! the sheep were all alive again and Tso Tz‘u was driving them along. The boy began to question him, but the Taoist made no reply. With a flick of his sleeves he was gone.

The shepherd lad went home and told all these marvels to his master. He could not conceal such a story, and it reached Ts‘ao Ts‘ao. Then sketches of the Taoist were sent everywhere with orders to arrest him. Within three days were arrested in the city and outside three or four hundred persons all blind of one eye, lame of one leg, and wearing a rattan head-dress, a black loose robe and wooden clogs. They were all alike and all answered to the description of the missing Taoist.

There was a great hubbub in the street. Ts‘ao Ts‘ao ordered his officer to sprinkle the crowd of Taoists with the blood of pigs and dogs in order to exorcise the witchcraft and take them away to the drill ground on the south of the city. Thither he followed them with his guards, who surrounded the crowd of arrested persons and slew every one. But from the neck of each one, after the head was severed, there floated up into the air a wreath of black vapour, and all these wreaths drifted toward a centre where they joined up into the image of another Tso Tz'ŭ, who presently beckoned to him a white crane out of the sky, mounted it and sat as on a horse.

​Clapping his hands, the Taoist cried merrily, “The rats of the earth follow the golden tiger, and one morning the doer of evil shall be no more.”

The soldiers shot arrows at both bird and man. At this a tremendous storm burst over the city. Stones were driven along, sand was whirled about and all the corpses arose from the ground, each holding his own head in his hands. They rushed toward Ts‘ao Ts‘ao as if to strike him. The officials covered their eyes, and none dared to look another in the face.

Read the next chapter and you will know the fate of Ts‘ao Ts‘ao.