“SLEEPING DRAGON” MOURNS AT CHʻAISANG:
“PHOENIX FLEDGELING” INTERVENES AT LEIYANG.
In the last chapter it was said that a sudden rage filled the bosom of
Chou Yü and he fell to the ground. Then he was carried to his boat. It
only added to his rage and mortification to be told that his enemies
and rivals could be seen on the top of one of the hills apparently
feasting and enjoying some music. He lay grinding his teeth with
vexation. “They say I shall never be able to get Ssŭchʻuan! But I will;
I swear I will.”
Soon after Sun Chʻüan’s brother Yü arrived and Chou Yü told him his
vexations. “My brother sent me to assist you,” said Sun Yü.
Sun Yü ordered the army to press forward and they got to Pachʻiu. There
they stopped, for the scouts reported large forces under Liu Fêng and
Kuan Pʻing barring the river route. This failure did not make the
General any calmer.
About this time a letter from Kʻung-ming arrived, which ran like
this:—“Since our parting at Chʻaisang I have thought of you often. Now
comes to me a report that you desire to take The Western Land of
Streams, which I regret to say I consider impossible. The people are
strong and the country is precipitous and defensible. The governor may
be weak within, but he is strong enough to defend himself. Now indeed,
General, you would go far and you would render great services, yet can
any one foretell the final result? No; not even Wu Chʻi the great
General could say for certain, nor could Sun Wu be sure of a successful
issue. Tsʻao Tsʻao suffered severe defeat at Chʻihpi; think you he will
ever cease to hope for revenge? Now if you undertake a long expedition,
will he not seize the occasion to fall upon Chiangnan and grind it to
powder? Such a deed would be more than I could bear and I venture to
warn you of the possible danger if haply you may condescend to regard
it.”
The letter made Chou Yü feel very sorrowful and he sighed deeply. He
called for paper and a pen and wrote to the Marquis Wu and, having done
this, he said to his assembled officers, “I have honestly tried to do
my best for my country but my end is at hand. The number of my days is
accomplished. You must continue to aid our master till his end shall be
achieved——”
He stopped; for he had swooned. Slowly he regained consciousness and as
he looked up to heaven he sighed heavily, “O God, since thou madest me;
why didst thou also create Liang?”
Soon after he passed away; he was only thirty-six.
The battle at Chʻihpi made him famous;
Though young in years he gained a veteran’s reputation.
Deep feeling, his music declared its intensity;
Subtle, with excess hospitality he foiled a plot;
Persuasive, he once obtained a large gift of grain;
Capable, he led an army of millions.
Pachʻiu was his deathbed, there his fate met him.
Sadly indeed they mourned him.
After his death his captains sent his dying memorial to the Marquis of
Wu, who was most deeply affected and wept aloud at the sad tidings of
his death. When he opened the letters he saw that Lu Su was named as
the dead general’s successor. This is the letter:—
“Possessing but ordinary abilities, there was no reason why I should
have been the recipient of your confidence and high office, but I have
not spared myself in the leadership of the great army under my command
that thereby I might prove my gratitude. Yet none can measure life and
the number of our days is ordained by fate. Before I could achieve even
my poor intentions my feeble body has failed me. I regret it without
measure. I die with Tsʻao Tsʻao threatening and our northern borders
disturbed and with Liu Pei in your family as though you were feeding a
fierce tiger. None can foretell the fate of the empire in these weary
days of stress and of peculiar anxiety for you.
“Lu Su is most loyal, careful in all matters and a fitting man to
succeed to my office. When a man is near death his words are wise and
if I may haply retain your regard I may die but I shall not decay.”
“He should have been a king’s counsellor,” cried Sun Chʻüan, amid his
tears. “He has left me, alas! too soon, and whom have I to lean upon?
But he recommends his friend and I can do nothing better than take that
advice.”
Whereupon he appointed Lu Su to the vacant command.
He also saw that the coffin of his beloved general was sent to
Chʻaisang ready for the funeral sacrifices.
The night of Chou Yü’s death Kʻung-ming was gazing up at the heavens
when he saw a bright star fall to the earth. “Chou Yü is dead,” said he
with a smile. At dawn he sent to tell Yüan-tê, who sent men to find
out, and they came back to say it was true; he had died.
“Now that this has come to pass what should we do?” said Yüan-tê.
“Lu Su will succeed,” said Kʻung-ming. “And I see in the heavens signs
of an assembly of captains in the east so I shall go. The mourning for
Chou Yü will serve as a pretext. I may find some able scholar there to
be of help to you.”
“I am afraid lest the captains of Wu harm you,” said Liu Pei.
“While Chou Yü lived I did not fear; is there anything to dread now
that he is gone?”
However, he took Chao Yün as commander of his escort when he embarked
for Pachʻiu, and on the road he heard of Lu Su’s succession to the late
general’s post. As the coffin of Chou Yü had been sent to Chʻaisang,
Kʻung-ming continued his journey thither and, on landing, was kindly
received by Lu Su. The officers of Wu did not conceal their enmity but
the sight of the redoubtable Chao Yün, always close at hand, kept them
from trying to hurt Kʻung-ming.
The officers brought by Kʻung-ming were arranged in order before the
bier and he himself poured the libation. Then he knelt and read this
threnody:—
“Alas, Kung-chin! Hapless are you in your early death. Length of days
is in the hands of God, yet do men suffer and my heart is deeply
grieved for you. I pour this libation that your spirit may enjoy its
fragrance.
“I lament you. I lament your younger days passed in the companionship
of Po-fu, when, preferring eternal principles to material wealth, you
abode in a humble cottage.
“I lament your ripe strength when you guarded distant Pachʻiu, putting
fear into the heart of Liu Piao, destroying rebels and ensuring safety.
“I lament the grace of your manhood. Married to a fair maid of the
Chʻiao family, son-in-law of a minister, you were such as would add
lustre to the Han Court.
“I lament your resolute purpose when you opposed the pledge-giving. As
in the beginning your wings drooped not, so in the end your pinions
spread wide.
“I lament your abandon, when your false friend, Chiang, came to you at
Pʻoyang. There you manifested your lofty ideals.
“I lament your magnificent talents, proved in civil administration as
in military science. With fire attacking the fierce enemy you brought
his strength to weakness.
“I recall you as you were but yesterday, bold and successful, and I
weep your untimely death. Prostrate I weep tears of sorrow. Loyal and
upright in heart, noble and spiritual by nature, your life has been but
three decades but your fame will endure for ages.
“I mourn for your affection. My bowels writhe with sorrow and my
deep-seated sadness will never cease. The very heavens are darkened.
The army is sad; your lord sheds tears; your friends weep floods.
“Scanty of ability am I, yet even of me you begged plans and sought
schemes to aid Wu to repulse Tsʻao, to restore the Hans and comfort the
Lius. But with you as the firm corner stone and your perfect
dispositions, could the final result cause any anxiety?
“Alas, my friend! The quick and the dead are ever separate; they mingle
never. If in the deep shades spirits have understanding you now read my
inmost heart, yet hereafter there will be none on earth to comprehend.
“Alas, the pain!
“Deign to accept this my sacrifice.”
The sacrifice finished, Kʻung-ming bowed to the ground and keened while
his tears gushed forth in floods. He was deeply moved.
Those who stood on guard by the bier said one to another, “People lied
when they said these two were enemies; look at the sincerity shown in
sacrifice.” And Lu Su was particularly affected by the display of
feeling and thought, “Plainly Kʻung-ming loved him much, but Kung-chin
was not broadminded enough and would have done him to death.”
Before the Sleeping Dragon emerged from his Nanyang retreat
Many brilliant men had descended upon this earth;
Since, O azure Heaven, ye made Kung-ching
Why needed dusty earth produce a Kʻung-ming?
Lu Su gave a banquet for Kʻung-ming after which the guest left. Just as
he was embarking his arm was clutched by a person in Taoist dress who
said with a smile, “You exasperated literally to death the man whose
body lies up there; to come here as a mourner is an open insult to Wu.
It is as good as to say they have no other left.”
At first Kʻung-ming did not recognise the speaker but very soon he saw
it was no other than Pʻan Tung, or the “Phoenix Fledgeling.” Then he
laughed in his turn, and they two hand in hand went down into the ship,
where they talked heart to heart for a long time. Before leaving,
Kʻung-ming gave his friend a letter and said, “I do not think that Sun
will use you as you merit. If you find life here distasteful, then you
may come to Chingchou and help to support my master. He is liberal and
virtuous and will not disdain what you have spent your life in
learning.”
Then they parted and Kʻung-ming went alone to Chingchou.
Lu Su had the coffin of Chou Yü taken to Wuhu, where Sun Chʻüan
received it with sacrifices and lamentations. The dead leader was
buried in his native place.
His family consisted of two sons and a daughter, the sons being named
Hsün and Yin. Sun Chʻüan treated them with tenderness.
Lu Su was not satisfied that he was the fittest successor to his late
chief and said, “Chou Kung-chin was not right in recommending me, for I
have not the requisite ability and am unfitted for this post. But I can
commend to you a certain able man, conversant with all knowledge, and a
most capable strategist, not inferior to Kuan Chung or Yo I, one whose
plans are as good as those of Sun Wu and Wu Chʻi, the most famous
masters of the Art of War. Chou Yü often took his advice and Kʻung-ming
believes in him. And he is at hand.”
This was good news for Sun, who asked the man’s name, and when he heard
it was Pʻang Tung, he replied, “Yes; I know him by reputation; let him
come.”
Whereupon Pʻang Tʻung was invited to the Palace and introduced. The
formal salutations over, Sun Chʻüan was disappointed with the man’s
appearance, which was indeed extraordinary. He had bushy eyebrows, a
turned-up nose, a dark skin and a stubby beard. So he was prejudiced
against him.
“What have you studied,” asked he, “and what are you master of?”
Pʻang Tʻung replied, “One must not be narrow and obstinate; one must
change with circumstances.”
“How does your learning compare with that of Chou Yü?” asked Sun.
“My learning is not to be compared with his in the least; mine is far
greater.”
Now Sun Chʻüan had always loved his late general and he could not bear
to hear him disparaged. This speech of Pʻang’s only increased his
dislike. So he said, “You may retire, Sir; I will send for you when I
can employ you.”
Pʻang Tʻung uttered one long sigh and went away. When he had gone Lu Su
said, “My lord, why not employ him?”
“What good would result; he is just one of those mad fellows.”
“He did good service at the Red Wall fight, however, for it was he who
got Tsʻao Tsʻao to chain his ships together.”
“It was simply that Tsʻao wished to chain his ships together. No credit
was due to this fellow. In any case I give you my word that I will not
employ him. That much is certain.”
Lu Su went out and explained to Pʻang Tʻung that the failure was not
due to lack of recommendation, but simply a whim of Sun Chʻüan’s and he
must put up with it. The disappointed suitor hung his head and sighed
many times without speaking.
“I fear you are doomed to constant disappointment here,” said Lu Su.
“There is nothing you can hope for, eh?”
But still Pʻang Tʻung was silent.
“With your wonderful gifts of course you will be successful
whithersoever you may go. You may take my word for that. But to whom
will you go?”
“I think I will join Tsʻao Tsʻao,” said Pʻang Tʻung suddenly.
“That would be flinging a gleaming pearl into darkness. Rather go to
Liu Pei, who would appreciate you and employ you fittingly.”
“The truth is that I have been thinking of this for a long time,” said
Pʻang Tʻung. “I was only joking just now.”
“I will give you a letter to Liu Pei, and if you go to him you must try
to maintain peace between him and my lord and get them to act together
against Tsʻao Tsʻao.”
“That has been the one desire of my life.”
He took the letter offered by Lu Su and soon made his way to Chingchou.
He arrived at a moment that Kʻung-ming was absent on an inspection
journey, but the doorkeeper announced him and said he had come to throw
in his lot with Liu Pei. He was received, for he was no stranger in
name.
When Pʻang Tung was admitted he made the ordinary salutation but did
not make an obeisance and this, coupled with his ugly face, did not
please his host.
“You have come a long and arduous journey,” said Liu Pei.
At this point the suitor should have produced his letters from
Kʻung-ming and Lu Su, but did not. Instead he replied, “I hear, O
Imperial Uncle, that you are welcoming the wise and receiving scholars,
wherefore I have come to join your service.”
“The country is decently peaceful now and unfortunately there is no
office vacant. But away to the northeast there is a small magistracy,
Leiyanghsien, which needs a chief. I can offer you that post until
there should be something more fitting.”
Pʻang Tʻung thought this rather poor welcome for a man of his talent.
But his friend was absent, so he could do nothing but control his
annoyance and accept. He took his leave and started.
But when he arrived at his post he paid no attention to business at
all; he gave himself up entirely to dissipation. The taxes were not
collected nor were lawsuits decided. News of this reaching Liu Pei, he
was angry and said, “Here is this stiff-necked pedant throwing my
administration into disorder.”
So he sent Chang Fei to the district with orders to make a general
inspection of the whole district and look into any irregularities and
disorders. But as he thought there might be some tact needed Sun Chʻien
was also sent as coadjutor.
In due course the inquisitors arrived at Leiyanghsien, where they were
received by the officials and welcomed by the people at the boundary.
But the magistrate did not appear.
“Where is the magistrate?” asked Chang Fei.
“Ever since his arrival, a hundred days ago and more, he has attended
to no business, but spends his days from morn to night in wine-bibbing
and is always intoxicated. Just now he is sleeping off a debauch and is
not yet risen.”
This raised Chang Fei’s choler and he would have dismissed the offender
forthwith had not his colleague said, “Pʻang Tʻung is a man of great
ability and it would be wrong to deal with him thus summarily. Let us
enquire into it. If he is really so guilty we will punish his offence.”
So they went to the magistracy, took their seats in the hall of justice
and summoned the magistrate before them. He came with dress all
disordered and still under the influence of wine.
“My brother took you for a decent man,” said Chang Fei, angrily, “and
sent you here as magistrate. How dare you throw the affairs of the
district into disorder?”
“Do you think I have done as you say, General?” said Pʻang Tʻung. “What
affairs have I disordered?”
“You have been here over a hundred days and spent the whole time in
dissipation. Is not that disorderly?”
“Where would be the difficulty in dealing with the business of a
trifling district like this? I pray you, General, to sit down for a
while till I have settled the cases.”
Thereupon he bade the clerks bring in all the arrears and he would
settle them at once. So they brought in the piles of papers and ordered
the suitors to appear. They came and knelt in the hall while the
magistrate, pencil in hand, noted this and minuted that, all the while
listening to the pleadings. Soon all the difficulties and disputes were
adjusted, and never a mistake was made, as the satisfied bows of the
people proved. By midday the whole of the cases were disposed of and
the arrears of the hundred days settled and decided. This done the
magistrate threw aside his pencil and turned to the inquisitors saying,
“Where is the disorder? When I can take on Tsʻao Tsʻao and Sun Chʻüan
as easily as I can read this paper, what attention from me is needed
for the business of this paltry place?”
Chang Fei was astonished at the man’s ability, rose from his seat and
crossed over saying, “You are indeed a marvel, Master. I have not
treated you respectfully enough but now I shall commend you to my
brother with all my might.”
Then Pʻang Tʻung drew forth Lu Su’s letter and showed it to Chang Fei.
“Why did you not show this to my brother when you first saw him?” asked
Chang Fei.
“If I had had a chance I would have done so. But is it likely that one
would just take advantage of a letter of commendation to make a visit?”
Chang Fei turned to his colleague and said, “You just saved a wise man
for us.”
They left the magistracy and returned to Liu Pei to whom they related
what had happened. Liu Pei then seemed to be conscious of his error and
said, “I have been wrong; I have behaved unjustly to a sage.”
Chang Fei then gave his brother the letter in which Lu Su had
recommended Pʻang Tʻung. Opening it he read:—“Pʻang Shih-yüan is not
the sort of man to be met with in any day’s march. Employ him in some
capacity where extraordinary talent is required and his powers will
declare themselves. Beware of judging him by his looks or you may lose
the advantage of his abilities and some other will gain him. This would
be a misfortune.”
While he was feeling cast down at the mistake he had made, as shown by
the letter, they announced the return of Kʻung-ming. Soon he entered
the hall and the first question he put after the formal salutations was
“Is Instructor-General Pʻang quite well?”
“He is in charge of Leiyang,” replied Yüan-tê, “where he is given to
wine and neglects his business.”
Kʻung-ming laughed. “My friend Pʻang has extraordinary abilities and
ten times my knowledge. I gave him a letter for you, my lord. Did he
present it?”
“This very day I have received a letter, but from Lu Su. I have had no
letter written by you.”
“When a man of transcendent abilities is sent to a paltry post he
always turns to wine out of simple ennui,” said Kʻung-ming.
“If it had not been for what my brother said, I should have lost a
great man,” said Yüan-tê. Then he lost no time, but sent Chang Fei off
to the north to request Pʻang Tʻung to come to Chingchou. When he
arrived Liu Pei went out to meet him and at the foot of the steps asked
pardon for his mistake. Then Pʻang Tʻung produced the letter that
Kʻung-ming had given him. What Yüan-tê read therein was this:—“As soon
as the “Phoenix Fledgeling” shall arrive he should be given an
important post.” Liu Pei rejoiced indeed as he read it, for had not
Ssŭma Hui said of the two men, Sleeping Dragon and Phoenix Fledgeling,
that any man who obtained the help of either of them could restore the
empire when he would? As he now had them both surely the Hans would
rise again.
Then he appointed Pʻang Tʻung as Chuko Liang’s assistant and gave him
general’s rank, and the two famous strategists began training the army
for its work of subjugation.
News of these doings came to the capital and Tsʻao Tsʻao was told of
Liu Pei’s two strategists and of the army in training and the stores he
was accumulating and the league between his two chief enemies. And he
knew that he had to expect an attack sooner or later. So he summoned
his strategists to a council.
Said Hsün Yu, “Sun Chʻüan should be first attacked, because of the
recent death of their ablest general Chou Yü. Liu Pei will follow.”
Tsʻao Tsʻao replied, “If I go on such a distant expedition. Ma Tʻêng
will fall upon the capital. While I was at Chʻihpi there were sinister
rumours of this and I must guard against it.”
Hsün Yu said, “The best thing that occurs to stupid me is to obtain for
Ma the title of ‘Subduer of the South’ and send him against Wu. Thus he
can be enticed to the capital and got rid of. Then you can have no fear
of marching southward.”
Tsʻao Tsʻao approved and soon Ma Tʻêng was summoned from Hsiliang, in
the west.
Ma Tʻêng, called also Ma Shou-chʻêng, was a descendant of the famous
leader Ma Yüan, styled General, “Queller of the Waves.” His father’s
name was Ma Su. He had held a minor magistracy in the reign of Emperor
Huan, but had lost it and drifted west into Shênsi where he got amongst
the Chʻiang, one of whose women he took to wife. She bore him a son, Ma
Tʻêng. Ma Tʻêng was rather over the common height, and bold-looking. He
was of a mild disposition and very popular. But in the reign of Emperor
Ling these Chʻiangs made trouble and then Ma Tʻêng raised a force and
put it down. For his services he received the title of General,
“Corrector of the West.” He and Han Sui, who was known as “Guardian of
the West,” were pledged brothers.
On receipt of the summons to the capital he took his eldest son, Ma
Chʻao, into his confidence and told him some of his former life. “When
Tung Chʻêng got the Girdle Edict from the Emperor, we formed a society,
of which Liu Pei was one, pledged to put down rebellion. However, we
accomplished nothing, for Tung was put to death and Liu was
unfortunate, while I escaped to the west. However, I hear that Liu Pei
now holds Chingchou and I am inclined to carry out the plan we made so
long ago. But here I am summoned by Tsʻao Tsʻao and what is to be
done?”
Ma Chʻao replied, “Tsʻao Tsʻao has the command of the Emperor to call
you and if you do not go that will mean disobeying an imperial command
and you will be punished. Obey the summons in so far as to go to the
capital, where you may be able to arrange to carry out your original
intention.”
But his nephew, Ma Tai, held other opinions and opposed this. Said he,
“Tsʻao’s designs are unfathomable and if you go, Uncle, I fear you will
suffer.”
“Let me lead the army against the capital,” said Ma Chʻao. “Can we not
purge the empire of evil?”
But his father said, “You must take command of the Chʻiang troops for
the defence of our territory here. I will take with me your two
brothers and your cousin. When Tsʻao knows that you have the Chʻiang at
your call and that Han Sui is prepared to assist, he will hardly dare
to work any harm to me.”
“Father, if you must go be careful not to enter the city till you know
exactly what plots and machinations are afoot.”
“I will certainly take great care, so do not be too anxious,” said the
father.
The order of march was prepared. The governor took five companies, with
his two sons as leaders of the van and his nephew bringing up the rear.
These set out along the tortuous road to the capital. At twenty li
distance they camped.
When Tsʻao heard of Ma Tʻêng’s arrival he called to him Huang Kʻuei,
one of his officers, and said to him, “Ma Tʻêng is to be sent against
the south and I shall send you as adviser. You are first to go to his
camp and express my congratulations on his arrival and say that as
Hsiliang is so distant and transport very difficult, he is not to take
too large an army of his own. I will send a large force. Also tell him
to come in soon for audience of the Emperor. I will send him supplies.”
With these instructions Huang Kʻuei went to Ma Tʻêng, who brought out
wine and entertained him well. In his cups the messenger grew
confidential and said, “My father perished at the hands of Li and Kuo
and I have always nourished resentment. Now there is another rebel in
power wronging our prince.”
“Who is that?” asked Ma.
“The wrong doer is that rebel Tsʻao, of course. Do you mean to say you
do not know?”
However, Ma was careful. He thought it very likely that these words
were but a trap for him so he pretended to be greatly shocked and
begged his guest to be careful lest he be overheard.
But he cared not. “Then you have quite forgotten the ‘Girdle Edict,’
eh?” shouted he.
Ma Tʻêng began to see he was sincere and presently became confidential
in turn and told his guest all his schemes.
“He wants you to go in to audience; there is no good intention there.
Do not go,” said Huang Kʻuei. “You lead your men up close to the city
and get Tsʻao Tsʻao to come and review them and when he comes,
assassinate him.”
They two settled how this plan could be worked out and the messenger,
still hot with anger and excitement, returned to his home.
Seeing him so disturbed in mind his wife asked him what was wrong. But
he would tell her nothing. However, he had a concubine, born of the Li
family, called “Fragrance of the Spring.” And it happened that she had
an intrigue with the wife’s younger brother, Miao-tsê, who much desired
to marry her. The concubine who also saw her lord’s displeasure, spoke
of it to her paramour, and he told her she could probably draw from him
what was wrong by a leading question. “Ask him what is the truth about
two men, Liu Pei and Tsʻao Tsʻao? Who is the wicked one.”
That evening Huang Kʻuei went to the apartments of his concubine and
she presently put the question proposed by her lover. Her lord, still
rather intoxicated, said, “You are only a woman; still you know right
from wrong as well as I. My enemy and the man I would slay if I could,
is Tsʻao Tsʻao.”
“But why? And if you wish to slay him, why do you not do something?”
said she.
“I have done something. I have settled with General Ma to assassinate
Tsʻao at the review.”
“Fragrance of the Spring” of course told her paramour, who told Tsʻao
Tsʻao, and he made his arrangements to defeat the scheme. He called up
certain trusty captains and gave them orders for the morrow and, this
done, he arrested Huang Kʻuei and all his household.
Next day, as arranged, Ma and his western men came close up to the wall
and among the flags and banners he discerned that of the Minister
himself, whereby he knew that he would hold the review in person.
So he rode forward. Suddenly a bomb exploded and at this signal there
appeared bodies of armed men right and left and in front, so that the
western men were quite hemmed in. Ma Tʻêng then saw the mistake he had
made and he and his two sons fought valiantly to free themselves from
the trap. The youngest son soon fell. Father and son rode this way and
that, seeking a way out, but failed on every side. Both were sorely
wounded and when their steeds fell from their many arrow wounds, both
were captured.
Ma Tʻêng and his son, and the miserable wretch who could not keep his
counsel, were brought before Tsʻao. Huang loudly protested his
innocence. Tsʻao then called in the witness Miao-tsê.
“That worthless scoundrel has spoiled all my plans!” cried Ma Tʻêng.
“Now I cannot slay the rebel and purge my country. But it is the will
of God.”
Father and son were dragged forth, the father uttering volleys of abuse
all the time. And so three men came to harm in this adventure.
The son and father share one niche of fame,
For purest loyalty their praise the same.
To their own hurt the rebels they withstood,
Content to die to make their pledges good.
In blood the solemn oath they did indite
To slay the wicked and preserve the right.
A worthy father’s worthy son by western bride.
Old Fu-po’s name his grandson glorified.
“I desire no other reward than the lady, ‘Fragrance of the Spring’ as
wife,” said the betrayer.
Tsʻao smiled and said, “For the sake of a woman then you have brought a
whole household to death. What advantage would there be in preserving
such a miscreant?”
So he bade the executioners put both the traitor and the woman to
death, with the Huang household. Those who saw the fearful vengeance
sighed at its cruelty.
Through passion base a loyal man was slain,
And she who shared his passion shared his fate;
The man they served was pitiless in hate,
And thus a mean man’s treachery was vain.
Tsʻao Tsʻao did not desire to rouse the rancour of the men of Hsiliang,
wherefore he proclaimed to them, “The intended treachery of your
leaders was theirs alone.” However, he sent to secure the passes so
that Ma Tai should not escape.
As has been said, Ma Tai led the rearguard. Before long the fugitives
from the main army came and told him what had occurred at the capital.
This frightened him so much that he abandoned his army and escaped
disguised as a trader.
Having slain Ma Tʻêng, Tsʻao Tsʻao decided to set out on his expedition
to the south. But then came the disquieting news of the military
preparations of Liu Pei, whose objective was said to be Ssŭchʻuan. This
caused him alarm, for, as he said, the bird’s wings would be fully
grown if he obtained possession of the west. He recognised the
difficulty, but from among his counsellors there arose one who said, “I
know how to prevent Liu Pei and Sun Chʻüan from helping each other and
both Chiangnan and Hsichʻuan will be yours.”
Chill death struck down the heroes of the west,
Calamity approached the bold men of the south.
The next chapter will unfold the scheme.