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Page 67
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/!"
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