CHAPTER NINEJUDGMENT
While the penal laws of China are the old codes of the ancient world, their antiquity is not significant of their decay, and though some of them were in force on those days when the Rameses held their High Courts; when Moses judged from Sinai and Solon revised the Laws of Draco, they still deal out justice to mankind. While Egypt’s Empire is buried under a waste of ages and the marbles of Athens are the sarcophagus of its laws and their makers. The Children of God, no longer dwelling under their splintered Mont, are lawless and scattered abroad as small dust. Yet the old Code of China remains vigorous and pristine, exercising in the same lands their power over one-third the human race.
This Code, begun at that period the Occident regards almost as civilisation’s break of day, is not less than a Promethean performance, regardless of the fact as to whether it was proclaimed in the beginning of human institutions or at the present time. No example of man’s intellect is more remarkable. It not only has all the principles ofmodern legislature, but it has them tempered and strengthened by the experience of the fullest ages of man; it gives the right of pardon, the right of appeal, respect for individual liberty, and holds responsible magistrates charged with repression of crime. It is majestic in its plainness, its reasonableness, its consistency and moderation. Without incoherence, it calmly, concisely lays down laws for man’s conduct, and no European Code is at once so copious and consistent or is so free from intricacy, bigotry, and fiction as are these old laws of China.
Yet few penal codes portray so many apparently paradoxical principles of judicature; the unaccountable mixture of cruelty to prisoners, mingled with a paternal solicitude for the welfare and happiness of the people; with a constant fatherly effort to coax them into obedience and yet with the hand of cold rage punishing the guilty. But in this strange attitude is exhibited one of the basic principles of Chinese criminal law; by the rigour of its punishments it is intended that the law shall operatein terrorem, and the penalties laid down in the Code are almost always higher than the punishments intended to be inflicted. This is done, not only that the sovereign may exercise his mercy beyond the bonds of the law,—the commonness of which proving its beneficial effects,—but also that those tempted to commit crime are bythe very terror of relentless punishment restrained in pathways of uprightness.
Let it be said, however, that in all its phases the Code of China—notwithstanding the terror of its punishments—shows a paternal solicitude for those over whom it lifts its terrible but not unkindly hand. Like a father it threatens and coaxes; like a mother it punishes and caresses. Thus the common name by which the people address magistrates is “Our Father and Mother.” With parental care this heavy Code endeavours to legislate for every possible contingency and exercise its power justly in all of the infinite shades of difference that grow out of human contention. It is minute yet concise, redundant but direct; it is restrictive, making the responsibility of officials such that they can be put to death for not enforcing the laws; and yet it permits magistrates many liberties provided they do not interfere with the ultimate execution of justice. Under this Code there are no juries to panel, there are no lawyers to delay the course of justice nor pervert it. The magistrate is judge, jury, and lawyer. He summons, questions, decides. Trials are open to the public and there is heard the testimony of witnesses; there it is considered and judgment rendered.
So the time came when this ancient Code was to render judgment upon the wife of Tai Lin; thissame old code that had for almost innumerable generations punished and protected a vast portion of mankind; a code that they looked up to and reverenced, a code possessing for them awe and fear and gratitude, for they were the laws their fathers made untold ages ago, and as dutiful children they loved as they dreaded and shunned them. So the hour came when a lone magistrate empowered by the solemn authority of laws by time sanctioned was to render judgment upon her. There was to be no one to defend her, no one to prosecute her. It was simple; was she innocent or guilty? If guilty, were there extenuating circumstances? If the testimony showed that she was in most part innocent she should go free; if guilty, since her husband demanded it, she must die. If she denied her guilt she should be recommended to the sovereign for mercy. If she confessed, then must she be cut into a thousand pieces naked before the eyes of the multitude.
Under the first cold pallor of day, down before the Tablets of his forefathers in the Great Ancestral Hall, sat Tai Lin. All night and part of the day before had he been seated there with his face buried in his hands. Long and still had he waited for the breaking of this day and now when the pale, inevitable hour had come, mingling its wane light with the radiance of the tapers, he did not move.
Toward the second hour after sunrise the magistrate of Namhoi arrived, followed by the bishop and French Consul together with their retinues. They entered the Ancestral Hall. Tai Lin lifted his head heavily from the table and returned their salutations as they slowly crossed the hall and took their seats beside him. Along the left side sat the officials of the magistrate’s court; on the right the French Consul and priests of the Mission; all of which Tai Lin saw dully, then his head sank again upon the table.
The magistrate raised his hand; there was a movement among those stationed in the lower part of the hall, but the prisoner did not respond to this silent command. And this court so strangely convened in the sanctuary of Tai Lin’s fathers, waited, frowned, and grew restless.
Suddenly in the midst of this increasing impatience a low involuntary ejaculation burst from the lips of the priests.
On the left side of the hall through an oval aperture, half hid by a silken curtain and illumined by a shaft of morning sunlight, stood the wife, so radiant, so beautiful, that those priests who had seen her only as dead in the red glaring dusk of their torches gaped incredulously. For a moment she fluttered in the sunlight, then stepped lightly, daintily into the Hall of the Dead. But on finding herself in the midst of men staring at her in silence,she stopped, her lustrous eyes widening in frightened wonder and clasping her hand upon her bosom she pressed back against the curved lintel.
The magistrate hesitated, frowned, then made the sign for her to come forward and kneel down before him, but she drew back, her great imploring eyes looking dumbly about her. Finally he raised his hand and the first clerk on the left rose and read the charges; namely, that she, the wife of the great man, Tai Lin, had, on the night of the Propitiation of the Gods of the Waters, stolen away with a foreign priest and had lived alone with him in the Grotto of the Sleepless Dragon. As the clerk read the charge and its details she cast a hurried, appealing look around her and trembling, clutched the curtain for support.
The bishop raised his hand, at which sign a priest rose and testified how they had gone into the Great Cavern and in one of its darkened chambers came upon this woman and a priest. She was lying upon the floor with her head resting upon his breast. Tai Lin lifted his head and fastening his dull gaze on his wife devoured each detail of the priest’s recital, and as priest after priest testified how they came upon the guilty pair alone in that cavern’s most solitary chamber his face began to twitch and darken, while a glow came into his eyes.
Suddenly in the midst of a priest’s testimony hecried out, a choking strangled cry, a cry inarticulate and yet so vivid in its anguish that it sent a tremor through all those in that great room.
The wife straightened up, for a moment she wavered, then going swiftly over to him she fell on her knees before the table and resting her little fingers upon the edge looked up into his face.
“My husband, do not do that. You do not know how it hurt. No, no, you must not—I have done wrong. Do not be angry and cry out as you did. It was terrible for you to do that, because it is all over and I have suffered more than all these Yamen-men can lay upon me. Forgive me, my husband, send these men away. You do not know how they frighten me. Won’t you forgive me? You must not let these two wee moons of fault outweigh my years of love. Don’t you remember how I used to sit on the stool at your feet; and you let me pull your ears. Won’t you forgive me, my husband?
“No, no, you must not! He just came each day and went away. I do not know how it happened. At first I did not understand, then I tried to harden my heart, but each day when he returned my frozen resolution melted as the sun of the fourth moon melts the earth’s bosom and brings forth again the verdure of spring. I do not know how it all happened. But as a swimmer in the sea was my little heart in the blue deep ofhis eyes, and each day their tides overwhelmed my strength and bore me away on their flood.
“No, no, he did no wrong—his love was not other than the will-less tide that some light from heaven——”
Tai Lin brought his fist feebly down upon the table. He tried to speak. For a moment the tiny tips of the wife’s fingers clung to the table’s edge. Frightened, she looked up into his face convulsed with rage, then her fingers slipped and she fell sobbing beside the table.
The bishop leaned over and spoke to the magistrate.
“Do you confess your guilt?” he demanded.
There came no answer but her sobs.
“Did you not live with the priest in the Sleepless Dragon Cavern?” interrupted the magistrate.
Paying no attention to his question, she again lifted her hands to Tai Lin. For some time there was silence, then the bishop began to speak in a low, firm voice that would have been chilling had it not been tempered by a purring gentleness.
“This is very sad,” he commenced in tones full of pity, “but it is necessary that justice be done. This wife insists that she is innocent—someone must be guilty. If she is without sin the priest must have by force stolen her away and upon him punishment must fall. Since he is guilty, he shall die.”
As the bishop leaned back in his chair an approving murmur rose from all parts of the hall.
The wife’s sobs suddenly ceased. She no longer held her hands to Tai Lin. And forgetful of all those silent men around her she dumbly, beseechingly looked up into the bishop’s face.
“The guilty alone must die,” he repeated in the same gentle, decisive tones.
“No! No!”
“Yes; we must have justice,” he interrupted firmly, “for the knowledge of our uprightness is spread over all countries and the people look up to us for it.”
“Oh, why do you say that?” she cried, holding out her hands to him. “Is it not better to give mercy than to demand justice? I know you men of greatness love justice, but it is so deep, while mercy is like the heavens where every little act shines out as the light of a star and tinges the depths of whole regions! Oh, Great Sir, don’t be just and your fame will spread over all lands. Nothing is so wide as mercy. Wherever the skies cast their shadows, wherever stars shine, wherever dews fall from heaven, men will love you. Oh, do not hurt him—if you only knew——”
Tai Lin, listening to her sobbing appeal, again brought his fist down upon the table.
The bishop leaned forward and said gently:
“If he is guilty, he must die.”
She made no reply.
The loud ticking of the Consul’s watch reverberated through the silent hall.
The bishop watched her keenly and a frown came upon his pallid brow as her head sank lower and lower upon her bosom.
The ticking of the Consul’s watch was now drowned in the deep breathing of those about her.
Presently the wife raised her head and searched long and questioningly the eyes of the bishop; then slowly she rose to her feet and looked over the head of her judges, somewhere beyond the Great Golden Altar of the race of Tai. A calm and contented expression came into her face; the colour flowed back into her cheeks and a happy light filled her eyes.
“I am guilty,” she said demurely.
The thin lips of the bishop twitched, and he looked over at Tai Lin, who sat grasping the table’s edge with both hands, his mouth half open, his eyes dull.
“What! Do you confess?” demanded the magistrate.
“Yes,” she replied in low tones, still looking over their heads beyond the altar.
“You confess to all charges?”
“Yes.”
“Did you persuade the priest?” inquired the bishop mildly.
She looked at him in startled wonder, then again her head sank upon her bosom and only the bishop, her husband, and magistrate heard the scarcely audible answer.
“Yes.”
The hand of the bishop trembled as he held it before his lips; again he looked over at Tai Lin, who momentarily sat as one strangling, then rising, overturned the table before him and passed half down the hall. Suddenly he stopped, clutched at his throat, and would have fallen had not those near took hold of him and half carrying, dragged him from the hall of his fathers.
The magistrate turned to the bishop.
“Does he mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Then she shall be given the silken scarf that she may die in the seclusion of——”
“Is that according to his complaint? Is that in accordance with the law?”
“What! You would not——”
“Yes,” interrupted the bishop decisively.
“I cannot,” feebly muttered the magistrate.
“It is his demand—the law of the Empire! Dare you fail to enforce it?”
The quiet tone of this last question was ominous and the magistrate moved uneasily; he pondered the marble floor; sometimes he glanced sideways at the bishop and once, lifting his eye tothe wife, shuddered. Then the bishop touched him firmly on the arm and, turning to the first secretary on his left, he lifted his hand and the clerk brought him the Vermilion Pencil.
“It is done.”
Again the lips of the bishop twitched.
“Remember,” he said, leaning over and whispering in the magistrate’s ear, “I hold you responsible for the carrying out of the law. Beware she does not die beforehand.”
The magistrate rose without replying and, followed by all of his retinue other than the first clerk, passed out of the hall. The bishop leaned back in his chair, pulled and cracked his long bony fingers until one of the priests came and spoke to him. A frown passed across his face, but he rose hastily, and, as he passed the wife she looked up, moving close to him.
“Will he be free?” she asked timidly.
The bishop lowered his head and, as he whispered, her eyes sparkled with joy. She clapped her little hands together and uttered a happy cry.
Then the bishop followed by his priests passed out of the hall.
The first clerk still continued writing, apparently oblivious to the beautiful woman, who, smiling to herself, still gazed over, somewhere beyond the Golden Tablets of Tai.
“Foolish woman, why did you confess?” he demanded brusquely.
“Oh, I did not know what else to do,” she answered lightly, turning her head to one side.
“No doubt,” he replied gruffly; “but it is not the first time a woman’s tongue has been the knife to lyngchee her body.”
“Indeed?” she inquired mockingly.
“Woman, why did you lie?” he continued harshly.
She turned away.
“Why did you lie?” he demanded again.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she interrupted with gay raillery. “Don’t you see that I but follow the ways of Nature, wherein the straightest trees are felled the soonest, and the cleanest wells are first drunk up; wherein the most innocent bird is quickest netted, and the tenderest flower is first plucked, that it for one fleeting instant might pleasure man’s nostril? Thus in such fashion, Mr. Clerk, must my uprightness be cut down; my good name and virtue drunk up; my innocence conquered and confined while the little flower of my life—plucked and cast aside—— Oh, well, I do not grieve,” she continued carelessly. “They can take me away from earth, but not from him. The silken scarf is for the neck. Whoever heard of it strangling the heart?”
“Unfortunate woman! Unfortunate woman!”interrupted the clerk, rising. “There is to be no silken scarf for you.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, startled.
“Woman, do you not know the law? You are to die naked before the multitude.”
Lifting her little hands to her temples she swayed and fell down before him.
“No, no,” she cried, clutching his robe. “They have all gone and left me but you, won’t you save me? No, no, don’t go,” she pleaded, holding on to his robe as he started to move away. “Talk with me. How can you leave? Listen! Why can I not have, in all this wide house of the world, just one little corner to die in?”
“I can do nothing,” he replied, his rough voice trembling. “You are to die by the lyngchee.”
Her eyes opened wide as she looked up at him, then she sank down, pallid on the floor in the Hall of the Dead.
CHAPTER TENA FRIEND
The law does not procrastinate in China; and the execution of the wife was fixed on the following afternoon. When the sun rose that day out of a fogless sea it proved to be one of those gentle winter mornings of the semi-tropics. In northern latitudes such mornings are often called the smile of spring, but in this land they are more than the birth from winter’s womb—they are an awakening on the bosom of summer and there pervades abroad an inexpressible atmosphere of compassion. On such mornings it is said that the tiger comes forth from his lair and in the sunned jungle glade lounges heedless of his quarry, so that neither men nor the most timid of jungle deer have fear of him, for the peace of the day has gone into his terrible heart and he purrs and purrs and purrs like a kitten on a woman’s lap.
In other lands, upon this same twenty-fourth day of winter, whole nations were meeting together around their Christmas hearths; their spirits also gentled by those feelings of domestic love and attachment, which they regard as hallowed;songs and laughter burst from their lips and happy with remembrance of months past, joyous with anticipation of those future, their carols were rising upon all sides, while with kindnesses and benevolence they sought to lift their hearts above earth and with the shepherds from their sheepfold, cry peace and good will unto all.
But the sunlight of this day as well as its spirit seemed to have shunned the Catholic Mission of Yingching. Within its Compound were neither songs nor laughter—only a brooding silence, while around the stern Visigothic Chapel ranged patrols of soldiers. Whether it had been a matter of policy with the bishop or whether it had been included in the agreement between Tai Lin and himself, is not known, but from the time the Breton was brought from the Grotto of the Sleepless Dragon he had been confined in this gloomy chapel and surrounded by a battalion of Chinese troops.
About the fourth hour after the sun had passed the zenith and light rifts of fog were beginning to drift in from the sea, a man passed hastily through the south gate of the Mission Compound and emerged from the cloisters of the bishop’s dwelling. After searching with quick but penetrative glances the court surrounding the Chapel, he let his chin rest upon his bosom and, putting hishands behind his back walked slowly, thoughtfully, toward the Chapel.
At the circle of troops he was stopped.
“What!” he cried indignantly, with piping sternness.
The soldiers did not move and an officer came up.
“Command these men to stand aside. I am the bishop.”
The soldiers drew to one side and the officers bowed. In front of the Chapel door a sentry barred his passage, but at the command of the officer who had followed, the door was unbolted and the stranger passed within.
“Ha, ha, diplomacy! diplomacy!” he chuckled to himself as he stood blinking in the gloom of the low, vaulted vestibule. “Ha, ha,” and he pattered down the aisle toward the altar, crying in a shrill, gleeful voice:
“Well, well, let me coax you when they asked me to get off the bund; they never knew what I would do. To obey is to conquer; to smile is to be supreme as Mrs. Hook——”
The Breton rose from his seat on the altar steps, and resting his two hands on the shoulder of his visitor, looked down into his eyes.
The Reverend Hook wriggled, smiled furtively, and squirmed from under the Breton’s gaze.
“Well, here I am; diplomacy, mind you, diplomacy. Made up my mind to see you; see you I would—knew it would not be for long. I suppose you are next? But you know all about those caves and your knowledge must not be lost. That would never do. Heard you were more than a mile inside—my—my—— Now the first thing I want you to tell me——”
The Breton turned wearily away and sat down again on the steps of the altar.
“Am I hurting his feelings? Poor diplomacy, poor diplomacy,” muttered the Reverend Hook to himself.
“Well, I went down on the bund this morning,” he resumed cheerily, keeping his eye on the Breton. “It is all fenced except the waterside, and in the very spot—neither a foot more nor less—exactly where you used to stand—the very place where I gave you the maps to the Grotto—they have put up the crucifix. At the bottom are two black stones and a tub, but not a very big one. On the left, under a red silk canopy, are three chairs—don’t understand why there should be three. Just then a priest came along and said I had not been invited—think of that! French soldiers strutting up and down—French gunboats anchored along the waterfront. Now, I want to know who is doing this execution—Frenchmen or Chinese? You know I am a good friend of yours—or I would neverhave given you those secrets of the Dragon Grotto,—but I want to say that these Catholic priests are trying to run this country. I went over to our Consul. He just swore. He said if he were God—he is a blasphemous wretch—he would invent something new in hell for these priests. Kept getting madder and madder, then he grabbed me by the collar and threw me out of the door. That crazy Consul has the Mission-phobia—but he won’t last. He can’t mistreat an American Methodist missionary with impunity; let me coax you. What have I got to do with this business on the bund? I gave you the secrets of the Grotto, but how did I know that all this was going to happen?”
For some moments the Reverend Hook became contemplative, then he began to shake his head.
“Terrible, terrible, so young, so beautiful, so beautiful, so beautiful—and I will never see her, and all those others will. And they will take off her clothes. Oh, oh, oh.”
His breath and words failed him. He pattered back and forth before the altar in little restless strides.
The Breton sat bowed upon the altar steps.
“Why don’t those countries with gunboats stop it! Why don’t they stop it!” he cried shrilly, never ceasing his nervous patter, and casting hurried glances at the priest as he repassed the altar steps.
Suddenly he stopped.
“Why don’t you do something?”
The Breton raised his head.
“Why don’t you do something?” repeated the Reverend Hook in shriller tones.
“Do what?” asked the Breton wearily.
“Do what? Stop it! Stop it!”
The Breton looked at him.
“The execution!”
“I have nothing to do with it,” replied the Breton.
“What?” screeched the Reverend Hook, jumping back and throwing up his hands. “You have nothing to do with it?”
The Breton with a sigh bowed his head, while his visitor stood looking at him appalled.
Presently he began to walk back and forth, muttering aloud.
“I did not think it—how can he do it? Gave up everything for him—so beautiful, so beautiful. Thus they throw themselves away; always have done it, always will, all except Mrs. Hook. Now they are going to take off her clothes—before those Frenchmen—cut the skin of her beautiful brow and let it hang down over her eyes—eyes that made men tremble. Then they will cut off her little ears and pieces from her cheeks. Then her lips—and to think he has kissed them. Then her white arms—then her beautiful—beautiful—Oh!oh! oh! And he sleeps here, doubled up like a ground-hog!”
The Reverend Hook’s excitement overcame him, and weeping copiously he pattered over and stood in front of the priest. After several efforts he mumbled lugubriously.
“I am going, but I want to say that I didn’t think it.”
The Breton looked up.
“You are going?”
“And I want to say that I didn’t think it,” he sobbed.
“What?” asked the Breton drearily.
“That you would let them kill her.”
The Breton sat erect, his eyes searching. Then springing to his feet he seized his visitor and thrust him back to where the last glimmer of narrow sunlight fell upon his face.
“Don’t, don’t—at sunset they lyngchee——”
Sometimes there comes from the lips of men a cry that no one can describe, unless it be compared to that abandoned cry that is said to have come from a Crucifix some centuries ago, but which echoes yet at times from hearts of other men; so now there came such a cry from the lips of the Breton. He staggered back, and his hands clutching at his throat, tore open the bosom of his long black robe; he tottered against the altar and bent over it. Then it was that the Great Symbol of theTien Tu Hin fell from his bared bosom and lay gleaming upon the outer folds of his robes, its terrible green jewel glistering in the dun shadows of the Chapel as the tiger’s eye glitters in the jungle’s dusk.
Suddenly the Breton drew himself up, and shaking his head and shoulders as a wounded animal, threw open the Chapel door; for a moment he stood under the vaulted entrance and the slanting rays of the sun fell on the Great Symbol.
The sentry looked up, hesitated, looked again at the glittering Eye, and dropped upon his knees. A patrol of soldiers started to rush forward, then stopped; awe and reverence overcast their features, for there, under the gloomy vestibule, in the red sunlight, calm and yet awful, stood their prisoner—upon his bosom the Eye of the Age’s Wrath.
As the Breton advanced toward them many fell upon their knees and struck their foreheads thrice upon the ground. An officer from one of the buildings in the rear shouted for the soldiers to seize him, but this command was no sooner heard than those kneeling rose, and marshalled themselves behind him. Other soldiers came with their guns and formed another line, and those that did not follow saw upon the faces of this guard, which constituted more than half of the battalion, the sternness of death. As the Breton moved towardthe north gate, apparently oblivious to those that followed him, the soldiers dropped their queues over their right shoulders in a loop, then bringing the end around the neck, tied it in two loose slipknots to the loop—all of which is called the Sign of Shou. Carrying their guns in the left hand they held their right hands over their heads with the thumb pointing upward, and as they went out of the Mission gate there went up that terrible cry:
“Hung Shun Tien!”
CHAPTER ELEVENELOI, ELOI, LAMA SABACTHANI
Early upon the day of the execution four French gunboats and a cruiser got up steam and moved slowly down the river toward the bund. The cruiser anchored opposite the place of execution with the gunboats on either side of it but nearer to the bund, so that the five vessels formed a cordon in shape of a semi-circle. From within this space all river craft were driven out and the guns of the warships trained across the empty waters upon the bund, where early in the morning guards of marines landed. On these warships the day wore slowly, tiresomely along, and it was not until lengthening shadows began to creep reluctantly across the river that they became enlivened with men clustering over their rigging and sides, laughing with jests.
The Viceroy, to prevent the execution from precipitating a riot or collision with foreigners, had previously posted proclamations that no one should come forth from their homes or traverse the Street of the Sombre Heavens for seven blocks back from the bund; neither were they to be seen upon the waterfront for seven blocks east and west of the Street of the Sombre Heavens. Sothat, when the soft, mellow sunlight of this eventful day streamed down upon the deserted streets, bathing their unaccustomed solitude in a serene, peaceful warmth, it made these turbulent thoroughfares appear like village streets basking in spring sunshine.
About the third hour in the afternoon sedan chairs, soldiers, officers on horseback, and pedestrians began to come into the vacant Street of the Sombre Heavens, and soon the enclosed space on the bund became a scene not less brilliant than it was ominous. The crowd assembled there stood about in the form of a crescent blunted on the left horn and facing the river; petty mandarins in official gold-brocaded robes, red-coated soldiers, and French marines in white and blue, Manchus clothed in rich stuffs, and French officers, goldlaced and brilliant, formed in parts this bizarre horn, in whose centre stood a crucifix with black stones and tub beside it.
Over all brooded a silence.
About an hour before sunset a salute was fired from the cruiser, and two boats crossed the open waters. In their stems were the Bishop of Yingching and officers of the Fleet. As the boats approached the bund the marines were drawn up in double ranks, extending from the landing stage to the three ebony chairs under the silken canopy.
The bishop was first to ascend the ladder, andas he stepped upon the bund he drew himself up to his fullest stature, scrutinising those assembled before him; then with slow steps, with haughtiness, solitary and full of unmeasured pride, walked down the files of marines to the elevated platform beneath the canopy. For a fleeting moment he hesitated, then sat down in the middle chair. A group of French officers, glittering in gold lace, followed and took up their station to the right, while part of the marines drew off to one side of the gate, part on the other.
The sun was sinking.
The French officers gaily carried on their animated conversation. The bishop was silent. And the Chinese, in spite of their brilliant robes, were grave, uneasy; anxiously they cast their eyes at the sun slanting through the rigging of the warships, but not until it had sunk below the gun-platforms on the masts did the rolling boom of kettle-drum break the oppressive stillness. This was echoed from without by clash of cymbals and blare of trumpet; the marines presented arms and the Chinese troops drew up in order.
The magistrate approached.
When the flag-bearers and musicians came on the bund the spectators rose upon their tiptoes to see enter three stolid men dressed in flowing garments of the Ming dynasty, and from whose caps waved the golden pheasant’s long, slender plume.The first carried a huge beheading sword upright before him, glinting in the red rays of the sun. One of the others carried a small basket of knives—the cutting up knives, while about the neck of the third were suspended ropes and chains. These men went over and stood beside the crucifix. Behind the executioners had followed a half-dozen men carrying red, oblong boards attached to long handles and inscribed in golden characters; some denoting the magistrate’s honours and rank, others commanding the people to keep out of the way and be quiet. Two officers on horseback rode behind them, followed by three men, one bearing an official fan, another a crimson table to place before the magistrate, while the third bore a gold-embroidered umbrella of state. After these came men dressed in long red robes and black, conical hats, who were the “wolves and tigers” of the Yamen, and their passage was of crackling whips, the rattle and grind of chains; the clanking crunch of implements of torture. After them came men swinging censers, which left streams of fragrant smoke along the pathway, and half hid in these clouds of incense pattered two old men, receiving petitions from the people. The sedan of the magistrate now entered, followed by officers on horses and soldiers carrying arms and flags.
When the magistrate stepped out of his sedan under the canopy he started in unrestrained astonishment.The bishop, without rising, nodded his head in salutation. Slowly the magistrate went and sat down on the bishop’s left, and before him was placed the crimson-covered table; upon it the Vermilion Pencil.
The sun had sunk below the house tops of Honan.
The bishop frowned and glanced impatiently toward the gate.
Flecks of night fog scurrying along the sky were being tinged with the last rays of the sun, when a solitary sedan was borne swiftly, silently through the gate to the vacant chair under the red canopy.
Those that had known Tai Lin looked in horror at the shrunken, quavering old man, who now sat down on the bishop’s right—a shuddering of shrivelled skin.
“Is he alive?” whispered one man to another.
“Yes.”
“I doubt it.”
“Look at his eyes.”
They were like coals. The spectators were fascinated by them, and the terror of what was to happen crept upon all. Many furtively looked toward the gate; others turned away to the river; some watched the three executioners beside the crucifix; others looked at the bishop.
Suddenly there was a movement among thetroops at the gateway as a sedan, mournful in blue and white and thickly surrounded by soldiers, was carried across the bund and silently put down in front of the magistrate. The soldiers filed to one side, the curtain was drawn and the wife stepped daintily out.
When her eyes rested upon the magistrate who had judged her she drew up to her full height, tossed back her head, while a flush darkened the delicate pallor of her cheeks.
The spectators surged forward, and as they looked upon her there went over them something like a great sigh.
The wife, turning away from the magistrate, perceived the bishop leaning forward in his chair. Instantly, as a shaft of sunlight, a rare, sweet smile dimpled her features, and in the joy of her gratitude she moved closer, spontaneously holding out her hands. But as she stepped toward him smiling so happily, so gratefully, the bishop became immovable, as one paralysed by fear. His thin, tight lips opened, his cavernous eyes grew dull, his face became chalky, then, with an effort, he shrunk back in his chair.
Tai Lin had never moved nor uttered a sound since he had taken his seat, but when the bishop recoiled from the tiny thankful hands of the wife, he was no longer hid from her, and she looked up into his burning eyes, into his face, where overthe loose-hanging skin a myriad deep-crossed wrinkles charactered the pain and wrack of a strong man’s heart. For a moment her slender form swayed, she pressed her little hands together, then held them up to him; her lips parted, and falling before him she clasped his legs in her arms.
The straining ears of the spectators could hear no sound as they watched her body tremble with sobs; nor could they see any leniency creep into the face of Tai Lin as he leaned over and peered down at her.
Blindly she reached up her hand, and the crowd saw him shrink back, a sweat breaking out upon his face when, in her blind fumbling, she found one of his nerveless hands and drew it down to her cheek. Breathlessly, fearfully the spectators watched the flames in his eyes flicker and then—go out: they saw him reach down his other hand and rest it upon her head; his lips moved, but no one heard what he said unless——
The bishop straightened up in his chair, a scowl swept across his face, and touching the magistrate on the arm, spoke to him, with an imperious gesture toward the wife sobbing at the feet of Tai Lin.
The magistrate hesitated, then picked up the Vermilion Pencil. Slowly, weighingly, he lifted it, and two of the executioners sprang forward and, seizing the wife, dragged her over to the crucifix.
Tai Lin sat for a moment stupefied then, half-rising and uttering a cry, he held out his hands. Again a frown swept across the bishop’s face and leaning over he spoke to him in low, rapid tones. As he talked, now and then snapping his fingers, an uneasy movement began to ebb in the crowd. Presently Tai Lin’s head sank upon his bosom and the bishop, turning away, nodded to the magistrate. The Vermilion Pencil was again lifted from the crimson table. The executioners that had dragged the wife to the crucifix tore in twain her long outer robe and threw it aside. At this her tears and supplications ceased. Two spots burned redly in her cheeks.
Tai Lin bent forward, grasping the arms of his chair. Those spectators that once looked at him did not turn away nor look at the wife. The fascination of her beauty was less than that of his terror. They watched his eyes glow and burn in their sunken sockets until a dull film came over them. Yet no one in all that great crowd saw him breathe nor show any twitching signs of life. He looked to many like the carven image that is found in the Temple of Death.
The executioners ranged the black stones side by side so that there was a space of about three inches between them. They stood the wife against the crucifix, but in stretching out her arms found that the cross piece was low and in their hastethey were a long time altering it. During these painful moments not a sound nor movement came from those crowded there.
Finally they tied her to the cross with thongs about her wrists and ankles and one that pressed into the soft delicate contour of her neck. Thus she stood looking somewhere over and beyond those assembled around, her great, mournful eyes filled with the light and shadows of other thoughts, but wholly oblivious to the terror about her and to the fear that brooded there.
The executioner stepped up to her and rested his hand upon the bosom of her silken jacket. But as he moved his hand to tear it off there came a choking cry.
Tai Lin had risen to his feet; heavily he lifted his hands and the spectators could see he was trying in vain to speak as one gasps in a nightmare. He shook his quavering head and a foam oozed out of the corners of his mouth. Then as the executioner again raised his hand, Tai Lin with stupendous effort held out his heavy arms to her. His face became purple, his lips black, and a bloody ooze seeped out of them. A tremor passed through his gaunt form. For a moment he stood still and erect, then his arms fell to his side and he sank down lifeless in his chair. A convulsive movement shot through the multitude, followed by breathless silence.
The wife waited with closed eyes for the brutal hand. She did not see Tai Lin rise from his chair; she did not hear his choked cry, nor know that he had fallen dead. Now and then a tear struggled out and lingered momentarily on her long lashes. These little salt globules were the only signs of life in her, and the eyes of some watched them trickle away drop by drop.
Presently men turned to look at one another, then a wave of consternation swept over the bund. They began to whisper. And it was in the midst of this terrified hum that the magistrate raised his hand in command of silence.
“The Great Man, Tai Lin, has saluted the World. He alone was the accuser. The prisoner is free.”
As the executioner cut the deep-sunk thongs away and the wife sank down unconscious at the foot of the crucifix, there rose a noise half a sigh, half a strange murmur, the voice of this multitude, a crowd of men that shrank, shivered, then surged forward to look at the dead man still in the chair and a slender body lying limp at the foot of the cross, beautiful even in the guise of death; necklaced with a ribbon of bruised flesh, braceletted with wristlets of angry red.
It was over this swaying, murmuring mob that the bishop rose and lifted his hand imperiously.
“How is it,” he cried in clear, ringing tones,“that a magistrate of the Middle Kingdom dares hush up a public crime? This guilty woman was taken in the midst of her sin. In trial she confessed her guilt and was condemned by the law and her husband’s command. Dare a magistrate act contrary to this? Dare he act contrary to the three hundred and eighty-first section of the Code? Let him beware!”
The bishop turned, and with his thin lips curling looked sternly down upon the astonished magistrate. Over the bund fell a stillness—the silence of suspense. The eyes of the spectators, propped widely open, did not look away from the pallid man towering above them—with his relentless gaze rivetted upon his fellow judge.
The magistrate moved uneasily in his chair. He looked at the warships riding sombrely at their anchorage, he contemplated the marines drawn up at the gateway and the chained, watchful cannon. He studied thoughtfully his Vermilion Pencil. Presently he raised his hand.
“Does the Eldest Son of the Great Man Tai Lin demand death?”
There came no answer.
“Does any member of the Tai family demand her death?”
Not a sound replied but the crowd’s deep breathing and a faint wavering hum from the city.
“Does any man of the Middle Kingdom demand the cutting into pieces of this woman?”
The multitude held its breath, straining to catch the slightest sound that might be the noise of a human voice. But they heard only the running waters sobbing below their feet and the last distant echo of the day’s work.
The magistrate lay down his Vermilion Pencil and looked triumphantly at the bishop, but his implacable gaze did not alter and the smile of the magistrate was lost.
“She is free.”
“Ah!” The bishop uttered this exclamation so softly that the magistrate alone heard and he looked furtively away.
“It is in accordance with the law,” he replied.
“Ah!”
“No one demands it.”
“Ah!”
“You are not a man of the Middle Kingdom.”
A slight smile curled the bishop’s thin lips as he drew a package from his robe and threw it down upon the table.
The magistrate carelessly, even with hauteur, opened it. As he read, a pallor came into his yellow face and his hand shook as though with palsy when he refolded the document. Again he turned his eyes toward the grim warships in the river;again to the calm, stern array of marines and their cannon unchained and alert.
He leaned over his table as one in a stupor.
Immovable the bishop towered over him, his lips tight drawn, his eye fixed.
The magistrate lifted the Vermilion Pencil.
The spectators had watched this conversation between the bishop and the magistrate without comprehending what had passed between them, but when they again saw the Vermilion Pencil rise slowly, when they saw the executioners lift up the still unconscious woman from the foot of the cross and revive her, a shudder passed through them. They swayed backward as from a sudden yawning of an abyss. They were shoved backward one over another until the bund around the crucifix was again clear.
The executioner, having revived the wife, bound her once more to the crucifix; again the thongs hid the red rings around her wrists and neck. Her eyes, still moist with tears, cast one fleeting, reproving look around her, full of injured, startled wonder.
Then the executioner with the beheading sword came and stood on the right of the crucifix; the one with the reviving sponge stood on the left, while in front of her was the other, his sleeves rolled up and by his side a small basket of knives. These men did not take their eyes away from thepencil of death, which again lay on the crimson cloth.
The Pencil moved.
Involuntarily the spectators turned away as they heard a cry of gentle protestation.
The executioner cut the left shoulder of her jacket, laying bare her arm and part of her bosom, which was not unlike ivory sheened with the pink of silk. She looked up into the face of her slayer, and those spectators that dared to raise their eyes saw his hand waver. Then the ascending Pencil stopped. The first stroke was now to be given.
When the Breton went out of the Mission gate followed by the Children of the Deluge, he turned east upon Old River Street and as he went along there rose at certain intervals that terrible cry, “Hung Shun Tien!” Men stopped in their labour at the sound of this, and when they saw the tall black-robed Breton with the Great Symbol gleaming on his bosom, when they saw the stern, armed array behind him holding overhead their right hands with thumbs pointing upward, they either drew back in consternation or put aside the implements of their labour and joined themselves to this body of sombre men. They asked no questions; they looked neither to the right nor to the left, but simply dropped their queues over their right shoulders in a loop and brought the endaround the neck, tying it in the Sign of Shou. Then they held their right hands overhead and when the others cried out: “Hung Shun Tien!” so cried they.
In this manner beggars peeped out of their holes and joined them. Merchants came from their gilded shops and rolling up their silken robes took their places beside the beggars. Thieves crept out from their hidings and sentries left their stations. Hucksters put down their trays and scholars their brushes. Itinerant barbers, physicians, cooks, fortune-tellers, robbers, clerks, silk robes, and tatters; youths and tottering old men; from mansions and cellars and hovels and holes came the Children of the Deluge to follow the black-robed man upon whose bosom the Symbol rested.
As the Deluge burst through the labyrinthine windings of the suburbs in their race with death, the old men and those that were feeble, panting, and wheezing, dropped out, but new recruits took their places and the flood was swollen as it rushed along, so that before the head debouched into the Street of the Sombre Heavens, the rear could no longer hear the battle-cry of the van falling sonorous and terrible upon the silence of twilight.
The wife had closed her eyes, waiting for the stroke that would cause the drooping brow toclose them forever. The executioner had raised his knife when there fell upon the silence of the bund a rumble, a roar, and then that cry of terror:
“Hung Shun Tien!”
While the marines endeavoured to get their cannon in position, the Chinese troops ran thither and thither, uttering cries of terror. The spectators separated into two parts, one panic-stricken while the other threw their queues over their right shoulders in the sign of Shou and echoed that terrible cry.
A deluge of men overflowed the whole bund, and marines, spectators, and soldiers were lost in it.
As though unconscious of this great flood of mankind aroused by him the Breton went through the way which the Eye gleaming sullenly on his bosom opened for him. And as he stepped out into the open space toward the crucifix, this now vast multitude became silent. Those that were near saw him draw his hand across his eyes; shaggily shake his head and shoulders, then go slowly over to the crucifix.
The executioners drew away as he approached, and two fell upon their knees obedient to the mandate of the Eye aglitter in the gathering gloom.
The Breton stood for a moment silently beside the crucifix.
“I have come,” he said softly.
A smile passed over the lips of the wife, but she did not open her eyes.
“I have come,” he repeated in the same soft, questioning tones.
Uncertain, fearful, her eyes opened. She looked at him and smiled. She looked at him again, and out over the bund echoed a cry so full of joy that the falling night seemed turned into the break of day, and the lark’s note quivered in the air. Some men in the multitude smiled foolishly and wiped away a tear, others laughed to choke a sob.
The Breton picked up the beheading sword at his feet, handling it as lightly as a knife. Without haste, seemingly oblivious to all about him, he cut the cords from her wrists. No one moved. They watched, fascinated, the great sword play delicately about her; cutting the cords of her ankles, severing the thongs about her wrists and neck.
The wife was free. Holding out her hands, she clasped them around his neck. He drew his black robe around her so that only her head was seen nestling beside the Great Symbol.
For some moments thus they stood—motionless beside the crucifix, while the army of the Deluge, gigantic and terrible, awaited his command.
The Breton hesitated.
Presently he began to move backwards toward the bund’s edge, carrying the wife in his left arm and still grasping in his right the executioner’ssword. Behind and below him called the old voice of the river—before him the old silence of man.
The Deluge pondered.
The crucifix held out its arms in the gloom; one to man and one to the river. The husband dead was unseen; the bishop crouching in his chair became a part of the approaching void of night and the bond of blood on the bund at his feet fluttered and in the night wind vanished.
The day was done.
Thoughtfully and for some time the Breton gazed at those before him, without anger or wonder or pain. Then he looked down in the face upturned to his, where eyes were full of laughter and delight, where lips smiled and murmured and caressed.
Her little hands tightened around his neck and drew his head down until their lips met.
Darkness was falling. The fog coming in from the sea scudded low down on the river and its veil was being drawn over multitude and water. All distant were hid in it other than upon the bund’s edge, where still stood a darkened figure.
Suddenly the Deluge began to move.
Night had fallen: from its shadows came only the crunch of that remorseless flood as it moved onward—back into those abysses whence it had come forth—the Night of Time, the Heart of Man.