When a man touches the thread of Fate, he is like the blind who feel their way in darkness. His wisdom is less than the grain of sand in the Great Desert.

When a warrior ventures into the unknown, he also is like to the blind. If he is foolhardy, his grave is dug before the close of the first day’s journey.

Yet if a warrior is brave, he sees his path clearly. For even in the dark there are stars, some of good omen, some of evil.

Chinese proverb

At the mountain pass above the river Kerulon, Khlit, the Cossack, reined in his horse. It was the early seventeenth century, when the Kerulon marked the boundary between Chinese territory and the land of the Tatars, the scene of many hard-fought battles.

In spite of his sixty-odd years, Khlit, known as the Cossack of the Curved Saber to his enemies, was not accustomed to waste thought upon his past. As he looked back, however, down the dark gorge to the river and the level steppe beyond, still warm under the rays of the setting sun, he rested his scarred hands on the peak of the saddle.

It was his last look at the steppe that had been his home for several years. Such places were few in Khlit’s life. Yet this Tatar steppe, just south of the waters of Lake Baikal, was much like the plains of his Cossack days, and therefore Khlit was meditative.

He had chosen. And, having chosen, he had no regret. Of his own will he had given up the leadership, his place as Kha Khan, of the Jun-gar Tatars, who were the last survivors, except for some bandit tribes of the frontier, of the race of Genghis Khan.

To Khlit’s mind that had been the only way. He was a Christian, and the men of the Jun-gar were followers of Natagai or of

the Dalai Lama. He had made enemies among the priests and the other khans. So long as there was fighting, his shrewdness, born of a dozen campaigns, won him respect.

Now, he mused, the paladins of Tatary waxed fat as well-fed hunting dogs. They had horses and cattle in plenty. He had nothing.

“There will be a kurultai,” Khlit had told the khans one evening, “a council of the chiefs.”

Because they were curious, the khans had come to his kibitka without exception. Khlit, during his rule as Kha Khan, had never called a council unless an important event was forthcoming. So the khans had come, grim fighters of a warlike race, who had found kinship in the Cossack who had in his veins the blood of Genghis Khan and who wore the sword of a dead Tatar hero.

He had done right. Khlit had no doubt about that. Once before this he had been the victim of jealousy in the Cossack encampment, and he had gone forth alone. Wandering, he had obeyed the call of his race—of men born to the saddle, accustomed to roving.

Khlit’s words to the Jun-gar chiefs had been few. He would not be the leader, he said, of men who had it in their heart to choose another. Let them select a younger man for Kha Khan.

He had given back to them the metal ornaments of rank— the gold neckband and silver-chased belt and scabbard. They had taken them. Khlit, they knew, was old. There were deep lines in his lean face, although his back was straight when he sat in the saddle. The flesh was spare on his sloping shoulders.

In Khlit’s thoughts was the memory of those who had been his close companions in the battles with Chinese and Kallmarks. But Berang was the new Kha Khan. And burly Chagan, the sword-bearer, was hereditary attendant of the Kha Khan of the Jun-gar.

Truly, he reasoned, it was well. He had ridden from the encampment that same night. Emotion and talk were for women. Yet Chagan had filled the beakers of the khans with tarasun. They had drunk with him the tarasun.

“He is of our blood,” Berang swore, “and he has shared our meat and kumiss. Let him choose the best of our horses, men of Tatary, and riders to attend him.”

Khlit had accepted no more than the one horse Chagan brought him—a mettled steppe pony. He was accustomed to go his way alone.

It did not escape him that Berang, flushed with his new dignity, had been silent when he left the Tatar yurts. And Chagan had been moodily drunk. Not too drunk to hold his stirrup and touch his knee to his own breast in farewell, after the manner of the Tatars. Then it was that Khlit made the speech that lingered in the mind of the khans.

“I have shared your bread and wine,” he said, “and one tent has sheltered us both. I have become rich in the kinship of brave men. When snow comes to the steppe, you shall have a gift from me. Such a gift as shall honor our friendship.”

Word of Khlit’s promise passed through the encampment. For, thought the khans, how could he send to them a gift after he was gone from the steppe? He had taken neither men nor gold. How was a gift to be gleaned from the bandit tribes of the borderland, or the sands of the Great Desert?

The khans knew that Khlit was not given to idle words. And, with the coming of snow, they remembered what he had said.

Khlit, they supposed, would return to the territory of the Cos-sacks. He turned his horse, however, to the east—to the northern edge of the Great Desert which is called Gobi, beyond which is China. This was a new land, and he entered upon it with a light heart.

Khlit started, as he sat his horse, noting that the sun had left the distant steppe. The cold of night gripped the gorge, and the Cossack dismounted. Tethering his horse in a thicket, he gathered some brush for a fire. Wrapping himself in his sheepskin cloak and saddlecloth, he sat by the fire, munching the dried beef that had been warmed against his horse’s back under the saddle.

This, with a drink of kumiss from the flask in his saddlebags, completed his meal.

Truly, thought the Cossack dreamily, it was well to be afoot again. What other life was fit for a man than that with a horse’s barrel between his knees, a pipe in his mouth, and open plains before him! Slaves sat by the hearths in the yurts. Swine lay in their wallow. To be at large was best. In this manner he had gone from the steppe to the mountains and to another steppe.

Aye, it was good to feel the night wind in the face!

China, he mused drowsily, was the land of treasure. He had heard there were khans who numbered followers by the thou-sand. Here there would be fighting, the sharp clash of swords, the taking of rich spoil. Here were men of wisdom who played high stakes—life and fortune. Soon he would see, with his own eyes, the Dragon Emperor that travelers had described—the land of the hat and girdle. Of the Yellow Banners, where even the gongs were gold and warriors traced their blood a thousand years.

The way from Tatary to China lay along the hinterland of the desert of Gobi—a space peopled by wandering tribes of both races. Through this Khlit pushed as rapidly as possible, avoiding the caravan routes and keeping to the open steppe.

Thus it was that he came abreast of the Togra Nor and its ravines. The Togra Nor, a mist-shrouded lake, lay among the de-files overlooking the northern caravan route. From the defiles a convenient point was offered for the barrancas—raids—of the steppe clans. Khlit, guiding his horse straight to the east, found himself among the rocks of the Togra.

These were no ordinary rocks. Veiled in the customary blue haze of the Mongolian plains, they formed a waste of defiles, barren of the tufts of steppe grass, with occasional lakes in which were mirrored cold white mountain peaks. Unwilling to turn back, Khlit kept to his course, wending deeper in the purple ridges in spite of the uneasiness of his horse.

It was the second day of his entrance into the Togra defiles that he saw the first human occupant of the place. On a rock peak a horseman stood outlined against the sky. A glance identified him to Khlit as one of the outlaw riders of the steppe. Khlit took no further notice of the man, who appeared not to have seen him, but reined in his horse at sight of smoke rising in a gorge near at hand.

It was Summer, but the Mongolian steppe is never warm, and the Togra was chilled by its rock heights. No game was to be seen, and the Cossack had had no opportunity to replenish his stock of smoke-dried meat by use of his pistols. His horse had sensed the presence of an encampment, indicated to Khlit by the smoke, and, where an encampment was, forage might be obtained.

Hence it was that Khlit trotted up the defile and came upon a yurt of rather more than the usual size. It was cleverly located in a bend in the ravine—some two dozen felt tents ranged in a clump of stunted larch. A woman, laying milk curds to dry upon a flat stone, ran to the tents at his approach.

Khlit noted that a large number of horses were grazing in a grassy stretch further along the defile—a number too large for the size of the yurt. The fact that they were watched by an armed rider tended to confirm his suspicion that the beasts had come to their present position not altogether lawfully. This, however, was a common matter on the steppe, where horses were wealth.

It was the appearance of the khan who stepped from the tent into which the woman had run that excited his interest. The man was of medium height but so broad that he seemed of unusual size. His heavy hands hung well to his booted knees. A black silk cap trimmed with fur and a red shawl around the waist of his horsehide coat indicated that he was a plainsman of Khirghiz descent. His broad head had a lopsided air, owing to a missing ear, probably carved off by an unlucky sword stroke.

The khan’s slant eyes were set wide apart, and his heavy features indicated mingled good nature and dangerous temper. All this Khlit, who was wise in the ways of men, noted as the other

came forward and took his stirrup. When he dismounted, the khan touched him courteously on the chest.

“Greeting, brother rider of the steppe,” his voice rumbled forth in enormous volume. “Why have you come to the yurt of Dokadur Khan? Ha! May I feed the devil’s swine, but you have a good horse. How came you past my sentries?”

His glance, good-natured and shrewd, swept Khlit. The Cos-sack had discarded his Tatar clothes for sheepskin coat, leather belt, and horsehide boots. Even the owl’s feather denoting his descent from Genghis Khan he no longer wore. In the eyes of Dokadur Khan he might be a well-to-do horseman of Tatar speech but unknown descent. Wherefore the Khirghiz was curious. Khlit had heard of his companion, a bandit of the Togra.

“The sentries were drunk if they saw me not,” he responded carelessly. “I wish to see the noted khan whom men call Dokadur. Hence I am here.”

Other men had gathered around the two, with some women in the background that Khlit guessed to be captives. The burly khan surveyed him agape.

“Ho!” he muttered loudly. “That is a good jest. For the fools of the caravans will travel a day’s detour to keep from my yurt. Your name?”

“Matters not.”

The khan’s black eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“You came from Tatary, eh?” he hazarded clumsily. “Per-chance you can find ripe picking in the caravans. Camels can be cut out by one rider, and the Manchu guards are fools.”

“It may be. The Togra is not far from the China frontier?”

“Two days fast riding is the Liao River, and a hunting pavilion of the emperor. When the World Honored One—may his arrival in purgatory be speedy—hunts, there is rare spoil for the plucking.”

Dokadur Khan ushered Khlit into his tent and seated his guest by the side of the fire, sunk in the center of the earth floor. At his side a woman poured out the tarasun—fermented mare’s milk— from a barrel. The other warriors crowded the enclosure. But

Khlit, familiar with the ways of the steppe, knew that he had nothing to fear as long as he was in the yurt of the khan. A guest by the fireside is inviolable.

“You like not the Dragon Emperor?” He tugged at his long mustache thoughtfully.

“Nay; how should I?” roared the other. “When his guards cut us down as if we were leper beggars by the highway.” “Yet your yurt is near the Liao.”

“The Togra is a rare nest for the outlaws. Plundering is good. Nay, there is talk of a new hunt of the Lord of Ten Thousand Years—may he die without honor!” Dokadur Khan glanced side-wise at Khlit, as if to observe the effect of his speech, as he fondled a hooded falcon on a perch beside him. “I have sent the word to the outer districts of the Togra.”

“Hey,” laughed Khlit, for it was his custom to learn what others knew, “then your men wax fat on the slain game?”

“And on the hunters,” chuckled his companion. “A plump mandarin adorns himself with more silks and jewels than a dozen merchants.”

“Stripped of his clothing,” added Khlit shrewdly, “the mandarin fetches a good ransom.”

“Eh, that is true,” grinned the khan.

The suspicion had faded from his eyes, which had become moist from the heady drink. Here was a meet soul to drink with, whatever his name. He ordered the kettle of mutton, which had been preparing, to be placed between himself and his guest. Around them grouped the listening warriors and behind them the women. The dirty urchins sought place as best they could, while the dogs whined expectantly against the tent felt.

It was the evening meal of the yurt.

Khlit was accustomed to observe his surroundings keenly. Hence it was that he still lived in a time when few men survived middle age. His wits, sharpened by conflict with many

races, had grown more alert with the years that weakened the vigor of his sword-arm.

So, before the boys who had brought water and cloths to cleanse their hands had departed, he had assured himself that the followers of Dokadur Khan were men above the average of the steppe bands, that the khan himself enjoyed complete mastery over them; that his rule embraced the entire Togra, and that, for all his protestations of enmity to the Chinese, his loyalty was for sale to whoever paid best.

From Khlit and the khan the mutton kettle had passed to the men and then to the women. By the time it reached the urchins, there was little but bones and sinew. Khlit noticed that one boy had armed himself with a bare thigh bone and was fighting the dogs with it for the morsels they had ravished from the mess. On an impulse the Cossack tossed the child his half-consumed portion.

The boy caught it eagerly, laying about him sturdily to drive away the dogs, and vanished through the tent flap with a surprised glance at his benefactor. Dokadur Khan grunted. But the act had caused Khlit’s pistols to flash in the firelight.

“Those be good weapons,” observed Dokadur Khan, scanning them enviously. “I will buy them.”

“Nay,” Khlit laughed. “I will not sell.”

“There be two, of Turkish workmanship. I will give a horse for them.”

The Cossack shook his head. He was not willing to part with the serviceable weapons—and still less willing to have them in the hands of the Khirghiz. The other growled.

“Then you are one without wit. I have said I desire the pistols. Is my will a light thing to be put aside?”

“And I have said I will keep them.”

Dokadur Khan puffed at his pipe sulkily. Khlit regarded him calmly.

“So long as you are within the yurt,” muttered the other, “I cannot lay hand on you. It is written. But, when you leave the

yurt, my men will follow and slay you for the weapons. If you give them now, you will not die, but there will be no payment.” Khlit’s teeth gleamed under his mustache.

“A jackal snarls when it may not bite. But who fears a jackal, Dokadur Khan?”

The other’s hand went to his sword, and his lip lifted in a snarl. But Khlit did not look at him.

“Nameless one of unmentionable fathers!” the Khirghiz swore. “It is well you are in the Togra. You cannot leave unseen, and my men will take the weapons from your carcass before you are a mile into the defiles.”

Khlit knew that Dokadur Khan would do his best to keep his promise. But he knew he was safe as long as he remained in the yurt. He leaned closer to the other.

“Harken, Khan,” he said slowly, “we be two men with wise heads, you and I. Women quarrel over trinkets. I have heard that Dokadur Khan is skilled above other men in taking horses and in plundering where the danger and the spoil is the greatest. I have seen that this is true. Hey, you are a falcon that takes only the swiftest fox or the strongest antelope.”

Mingled feelings showed in the Khirghiz’ flat face. Pleasure combatted suspicion. His guest was one who cared nought for his feelings, yet who implied that they had common interests. A man of pride and, perhaps, one with a message.

“The falcon that flies highest,” he responded surlily, “can best see the game afoot. Here in the Togra we hear of events in the steppe and over the frontier.”

“Then you have heard when the Dragon Emperor comes to Liao to hunt.”

“Within a week or less.”

“With many followers?”

Dokadur Khan threw back his head with a roaring laugh.

“Nay, you must be from a distance, if you know not that Wan Li hunts with an army. Aye, an army of thousands; blue and yellow banners of spearmen, armor-arrayed beaters by the hundred;

the nobility of Liao province. His pagoda is moved upon the backs of fifty oxen—”

“Rare plunder for a shrewd man.”

The khan stared, his grievance forgotten.

“Wan Li’s court! Nay—” he shook his head helplessly—“the Forbidden City itself is not safer than the imperial riches. A hundred beaters die in the time between sunrise and dark, for his sport. Have the Rakchas sent madness upon your head?”

Khlit shook his head, and the Khirghiz saw that there was no folly in the keen, deep-set eyes under the tufted gray brows.

“Nay, Dokadur Khan, I would not steal, even from Wan Li. But spoil! There is the reward of the brave fighter. Is the Son of Heaven too high for the glance of a khan such as yourself? Nay, I have seen the citadel of an empire taken by men who had no other virtue than that they rode three hundred miles in three days.”

The light of memory in his eyes, the Cossack told the plains-men what he had seen—a part of it—in his journey from Russia through Persia to Mongolia. As they listened, the men drew nearer the fire eagerly. Here was a tale fit for true men!

“Truly,” protested the khan at the finish, “I fear not the men of the Dragon Emperor—even though the guards of the Golden Tomb be near at hand in the Liao Hills. But I have not two thou-sand men. It cannot be!”

“Can a hooded falcon strike? Nay; only one that soars.” “But how?”

Khlit pointed across the fire to the west.

“A fool tells what he is about to do. From where I have come are men who have no fear of the Dragon army. This much will I say. Be watchful during the hunt. For the end of the hunt will be the Seventh Moon, which is favorable to foes of the Dragon.”

There was no mistaking Dokadur Khan’s growing interest. Khlit’s recital, capped by his vague promise, had fired his tarasunheated brain.

“By keeping your men ready with arms at hand and your eyes keen. Is the Dragon the only one to hunt?”

Dokadur Khan pondered this with an air of wisdom. There was respect in the glance he cast at Khlit, also burning curiosity. He was aware that his followers were stirred by the words of their guest, and he did not wish to appear ignorant of what was afoot on the steppe.

When the talk ended, Khlit had gained two points. He had aroused the interest of the brigands and possibly gained himself allies, of a sort, if he should need them in the Togra. And he had taken the khan’s mind from his pistols.

Of this last Khlit could not be sure. Morning might bring thought of his promise to take the weapons to Dokadur Khan. Men of that type were fickle. It might be well not to put him to the test. His respect for Khlit had mounted; still. . .

Khlit settled the matter himself by stealing from the tent long before dawn when the encampment was wrapped in sleep. He attracted no attention. Yet, when he walked to where his horse was picketed, he heard a step beside him and turned, hand on sword.

“Lord,” a small, high voice came out of the darkness, “I had thought that the honorable one might leave before it was light. I read wisdom in his look, and those who are wise do not trust to Dokadur Khan. So I waited without the tent.”

Khlit peered at the shadow beside him and made out the figure of the boy to whom he had thrown the meat. He laughed softly.

“Eh, little warrior,” he chuckled, “you will be a leader of men some day, and perhaps a horse thief.”

“If the honorable one says that,” cried the urchin proudly, “it will come true. I listened under the tent wall, and surely the honorable one has the wisdom of the earth at his will. It was such a tale as I have never heard.”

The boy kept close to the Cossack’s side as the latter saddled his horse and mounted.

“Now,” he whispered importantly, “I will show the khan a way to leave the Togra before the riders of Dokadur can reach him.”

Khlit leaned down. “Have you a horse, O one who will be great?”

“Nay,” the lad muttered; “they say I am too young—” “Come, then,” chuckled Khlit.

He swung the child up to his saddle peak. The lad gasped, half in fright, half in pleasure.

“Show me now this way from these cursed ravines.”

By dawn they were many miles from the encampment. Khlit had little fear that his trail could be followed. Still he did not rein in his horse until they reached at midday the last of the ridges and came out on the level plain. Then, to the boy’s sorrow, he set his comrade down.

“Harken, little khan,” he growled. “Before many hours the men of Dokadur will come out near here. If not, go to one of the sentinels. Bear this as a free gift from me to Dokadur. Bid him not forget the seventh moon.”

He put one of his pistols into the hand of the delighted lad and added some beef as an afterthought.

“It will earn you a better share of mutton,” he laughed. “Say to the khan that I forced you to come with me. And remember the seventh moon.”

“He shall hear,” swore the child, “on my life!”

“I doubt it not. Health and honor to you!”

With that Khlit spurred off eastward across the plain in high good humor. As long as he was in view, the boy stood in the defile holding the weapon clasped tight. Not until Khlit had vanished did he remember he was hungry and eat the dried meat. It was well, he thought triumphantly, that the old khan had not offered him reward. For true men do not reward one another, more than the trust between them, for a service asked and given.

II

A water-clock tells the passing of time: if the owner of the clock

dies, it will not stop. Only when there is no more water will it

stop. Chinese proverb

At one of the locks on the upper Liao stood the fish-house of Lun Chang, of lowly ancestors. When the crews of the outward-bound junks rested from their labors, they entered the fish-house of Chang to throw dice and to barter for dried fruit and salt fish. Thus it was that Chang prospered and heard much of what came to pass in Liao province. And, as with men of higher caste, his good fortune was his undoing.

It was late one afternoon of the sixth moon that Chang, his skinny hands folded in his sleeves and his straw-shod feet crossed under him, saw a small river junk draw in to the bank and a tall plainsman with some difficulty land himself and his horse.

The stranger mounted at once, not clumsily, but with a leap that brought a glint to Chang’s lined eyes. A horseman, thought the fish dealer, and one from the plains. Undoubtedly possessed of a full purse of taels. Wherefore his kowtow was respectful.

“Health and an honorable life, uncle,” he chattered; “is it your will to grace my insignificant shop with your presence? Food of the finest—”

Khlit scowled. He knew but a few words of Chinese, and the patois of Chang missed its mark. But the nature of the house was self-evident. He pointed to an armful of cherry branches not yet stripped of their fruit or leaves.

“Bring me these, Swine Face,” he growled in the Tatar tongue. Chang, however, knew the dialects of the frontier.

“It shall be as the lofty one desires,” he said, picking up the branches. “Lo, here is luxuriant fruit, grown in the gardens of Wei Chung-hsien himself. Nay, will the honorable one—”

Khlit had caught the burden from him and placed it before his horse. Not until he saw that the animal was feeding well did the Cossack seat himself on a bench without the shop, calling for dried fish. When Chang had satisfied his wants, the shopkeeper lingered near, curious as to the man who fed his horse better than himself.

“You are from the plains, uncle. You come in good time, for the Son of Heaven himself, with many of his court, comes in the

Dragon Chariot to Liao province to the hunting pavilion of Wei Chung-hsien.”

Khlit tossed the man a coin and kept on eating. Chang stared curiously at his tanned face and gray mustache. His visitor, he was sure, was no Tatar; nor was he a Manchu. Then, what?

“You have come to take part in the hunt, uncle? Perhaps you are one of the plainsmen sent for by his Excellency, Wei Chung himself, to tell of the whereabouts of game.”

Khlit knew that it would be well to adopt some story as to his coming. The suggestion of Chang, he reflected, would serve very well. He had little fear of recognition by the Chinese, in his new attire. Few of the latter had seen him, and they were either dead or scattered with the armies of the empire. Still, his face and tongue would excite inquiry from the spies of the emperor. The fish merchant, doubtless, would repeat what he knew. And recognition would mean death to Khlit, who had fought against the Chinese more than once.

“Aye,” he responded indifferently, “a plainsman.”

“Then you will have honor at the hunting pavilion, good sir,” gossiped Chang, “for the hunt must not fail of success, especially as it comes in the seventh moon, which some astrologers say is unpropitious for the emperor. It took all the arts of the beautiful Lady Li, the favorite, to bring him to Liao, it is said.”

“Is the master of an empire obedient to the whim of a woman?”

Chang looked around him cautiously and lowered his voice.

“I have heard many rumors, honorable hunter. A junkman from the Forbidden City swore, when he had several beakers of wine, that the Lady Li, of the tiny feet, holds the heartstrings of Wan Li. In all but name she is empress. She is as fair as a pink sunrise—although that is a topic not for my profane tongue— even if she was once a harlot.”

Khlit grunted with distaste of the man’s whispering. Yet here was tidings Khlit needed. He tossed another coin to Chang. This time it was gold. The fish dealer thrust it eagerly into his belt with a quick glance at his visitor.

“It is music in my ears,” observed Khlit, “to hear such news of the Dragon Court. There is little heard of such things on the steppe. Say on.”

Momentary suspicion gleamed in Chang’s faded eyes. It was dangerous to talk of those in power in Liao. But he loved gossip. And the stranger undoubtedly was a man from the steppe, and not a spy.

“Harken, uncle. Beyond the hunting pavilion of Liao is the Fourteenth Tomb of the Ming Dynasty, called the Golden Tomb because of the treasures buried with the forefather of Wan Li. The Son of Heaven, in his august pleasure, is a lover of the chase. He was displeased when the astrologers declared that the seventh moon was one of bad omen. The emperor plans, it is rumored, to visit the pavilion in order to burn incense before the grave of his great ancestor, as is the custom. Then at the same time he will hunt. Thus, by his mission of prayer, the ill luck will be averted, and he may still enjoy a hunt.”

Khlit did not smile at the manner in which the Dragon Emperor had saved his face. The ways of the Chinese were new to him, and he pondered.

“And Wei Chung—whatever the devil calls himself?” he asked. “Truly, you know many things, Chang.”

The dirty fish dealer was plainly flattered.

“Wei Chung-hsien,” he explained, “is an honored eunuch and advisor of the munificent Wan Li. All unworthy, I speak the names of such great men. The home of Wei Chung-hsien is in the province here, and it is said he is head of the spies of the Dragon Throne, besides being one of the clouds of Heaven. He has the trust of Wan Li—a mighty eunuch.”

Khlit’s probing brain pieced together the fragments of the fish dealer’s gossip—with a grim curiosity as to the land where such as Chang bandied rumors about the court.

The Lady Li, it appeared, owed much of her influence over Wan Li to the fact that she was the mother of a child—who was not the heir to the throne. Thus, without the title of empress, she

was still the favored woman of the court—a court unequaled in the Ming Dynasty for magnificence. Rumor stated that she was as ambitious as she was beautiful.

Wei Chung-hsien had been the emperor’s friend from birth—a confidential advisor and intimate of the astrologers. His position as master of the spies naturally gave him access to all information that came to the court, wherefore he was much sought after by nobles who wished to better their fortunes.

“What kind of a man,” broke in Khlit impatiently, “is this emperor who has women and near women for councilors?”

Horror showed in Chang’s face at this remark. The fish dealer might gossip concerning the Lady Li, but the person of the Son of Heaven was of celestial purity. A generous monarch, he cried, dutiful to the spirits of his ancestors and peace-loving, leaving the management of his armies in the hands of Wei Chung-hsien. Khlit tugged at his mustache moodily. The picture was not to his liking.

A sudden silence on the part of Chang caused him to look up. Along the bank of the river a small cavalcade was coming toward the inn. Several horsemen preceded a black sedan with yellow trimmings. Beside it walked two stout mandarins in gorgeous dress.

“A sedan of the court,” whispered the fish dealer hurriedly. “Bow!”

Khlit remained seated as he was, but the other advanced a pace and bent his head nearly to his knees. Not content with this, Chang kneeled in the dirt and pressed his head to the ground. Abreast of the shop the sedan halted, and one of the silk-robed personages approached them.

Khlit had not seen such an individual before. The man’s sleeves hung below his knees; the blue-green of his robe was faced with yellow, and a tiny dragon was embroidered near the throat. A stout man, with smooth flesh hiding his eyes.

The newcomer halted and surveyed the prostrate fish dealer, who bobbed his head without looking up. Then he said something

Khlit did not understand. Chang rose on his haunches with a muttered reply. Khlit saw the figure of the fish-merchant stiffen.

Without further speech Chang got up and went into the house. He came out with a wooden spade. The man of the dragon robe pointed to the earth near the building, and Chang set to work to dig. Khlit saw that several sailors, who were looking on, had fallen to their knees. The face of Chang was dripping sweat, and in it Khlit read something akin to deadly fear. At times the dragon-robed individual kicked him.

Something was in the air. Khlit noted that the horsemen had come closer and were watching idly. From the latticed window of the sedan-chair he thought he saw a face peering, a small face, half-veiled by a fan held before it. A pair of dark eyes were visible over the fan. They belonged, thought Khlit, to a woman. He was not sure.

By now Chang had dug some two feet below the surface, for the ground was soft—a hole some six feet by two. He worked feverishly, aided by the kicks of the other. His legs were trembling. Then Khlit saw the dragon robe turn toward the sedan. Apparently some message passed between the occupant of the chair and the other, for the man stepped to Chang’s side. The fish dealer dropped his spade with a hoarse cry.

Quickly and without waste of effort the man of the dragon robe placed one hand over Chang’s forehead, catching two fingers in the nostrils. A knife flashed in the other hand. The man then drew the knife deftly across the throat of the fish dealer.

Khlit saw the legs of Chang crumple under him, and Chang himself fall into the newly dug hole. The man in the dragon robe motioned to the onlookers, who took up the spade and began throwing the dirt back on the body. The slayer of the fish dealer tossed the bloody knife down and turned to Khlit.

The Cossack, surprised at what had happened, understood that the other was asking his name. He thought quickly.

“I am a huntsman,” he said in the dialect of the plainsmen of Dokadur Khan, “come to the pavilion.”

The Chinaman’s brow cleared.

“You are one of those—summoned?” he asked in the same dialect.

“To the hunt.”

“By order of—”

“Wei Chung, of Liao,” hazarded Khlit shrewdly.

The gossip of the slain Chang had served him well. “Where do you come from?”

“The border. Is it not well? I have been told—”

The man held up his hand for silence.

“It is well, hunter. I am Ch’en Ti-jun, a eunuch of Wei Chung’s. You can speak freely to me. What is your name and caste?” Khlit glanced around at the watching sailors.

“That is for the ears of him who sent for me,” he said slowly; “not for others.”

The eunuch nodded approvingly.

“A fool is light of tongue,” he commented. “Yonder carrion that was Chang, the fish dealer, gossiped concerning the name of a woman high in favor in the eyes of the Son of Heaven. Now he is sped to his ancestors unhonored.”

Khlit remembered the face he had seen behind the lattice of the sedan and guessed that the dark eyes might belong to the Lady Li. He said nothing, however, mounting his horse and joining the cavalcade which resumed its course away from the river. This he did at the bidding of Ch’en Ti-jun.

As he rode, he summed up what he had learned. Clearly, Wei Chung-hsien had sent for certain men from the border. Khlit had told the eunuch that he was one of this number. Ch’en Ti-jun would doubtless report as much to his master. Meanwhile, Khlit’s position at the hunting pavilion would be safe.

What did Wei Chung desire of him? How would he explain his coming to the latter? Time would take care of that, thought Khlit, who was accustomed to rely on his wit. In this manner did Khlit come to match his skill against the men of the Dragon in the contest which only ended at the second gate of the Golden Tomb.

He found the pavilion of Wei Chung to be a yâmen of considerable size, an array of ornate buildings enclosed by a wall, the pavilion itself being a palace surrounded by gardens in the center of the enclosure. He was led by one of the horsemen to a low building beside the stables where the hunters were quartered. Entering, after caring for his horse, he found a motley assembly dicing and drinking.

Khlit selected a wooden couch in one corner of the hall where he could see what went on in the building, placing his saddle-bags and coat upon it. Among his companions he identified long-haired Manchus of the North, a few swarthy, fur-clad Tungusi hunters, and the remainder squat Solangs of the border provinces. Hillmen and plainsmen, he thought, with few Chinese. Drunk, for the most part, and quarrelsome. He was content, however, to be here and not in the edifices of the Chinese, where spies were to be found.

His entrance had not passed unnoticed. A six-foot Manchu swordsman swaggered over to his couch and surveyed him, arms akimbo.

“Ho, good sirs,” bellowed the giant, “a graybeard has fallen into our nest! Nay, look, he wears a full head of hair, unshaven on the forehead. By the sacred magpie, he is a cur among proper men. He will give us good sport! Shall we pluck out his hair or singe his beard?”

Several of the hunters strolled over at this, and gibes flew fast at the unconcerned Cossack. Among men such as these a gray-beard was a rare sight, and Khlit belonged to none of the factions present. The drunken idlers welcomed the prospect of entertaining torment at the hand of the Manchu, who, by his size and manner, seemed to be a leader of his faction.

Khlit understood the speech of his persecutor, as the Manchu tongue was similar to the Tatar, but he made no response except to look up. To the Manchu this was a sign of weakness.

“Come, lads,” he roared, “we’ll singe the hair of his face and head. Ho, then he will be like a raven plucked of its feathers.”

“An owl!” put in another gleefully.

“Here is fire!” added a third, handing to the Manchu a smoldering stick pulled from a brazier.

Khlit looked from one to the other. Loud-mouthed scoundrels, he thought, and therefore less dangerous. The Manchu thrust back the sleeves of his embroidered tunic with elaborate pretense and flourished the brand. The onlookers roared with glee at this by-play.

“I have no quarrel with you,” growled Khlit, who had grown to dislike combat except where it served his own ends.

“Then I will pick one with you, grandfather of the owls.”

Laughter greeted this sally. Attracted by the noise, a short figure in armor-stained undercoat of leather thrust through the group, a Manchu with a quiver slung over his shoulder and a guitar, at which he was plucking, under one arm. The newcomer stared at Khlit with a frown, and the Cossack returned his gaze curiously.

“Poor sport for you here, Kurluk,” quoth the archer to the tall Manchu. He peered closer at Khlit. “May the devil mate with me! Nay, may I be born again as a woman, and queen of a pest-house, but here is an old friend!”

The man’s voice stirred Khlit’s memory. The short, tight-muscled form of the archer also was familiar. The latter, seeing his hesitation, plied the strings of the guitar.

When sober I feel,

You are both my good friends.

When drunken I reel,

Our good fellowship ends!

He sang, and recognition flashed into Khlit’s eyes. He remembered a certain tower he had once held by good use of his curved saber, assisted by the shafts of the squat archer.

“Arslan!” he responded. “What do you here, minstrel?” The singer kowtowed solemnly.

“Lord,” he laughed, “I follow upon the scent of golden taels. Or silver, for that matter. Whoever pays, I am his servant; if he

pays well, I am his slave. Here be women of the court in yonder palace who throw a worthy minstrel coins for a melodious song; likewise certain clouds of heaven who are pregnant with gold. As for Wei Chung, being neither man nor woman but a eunuch with a fat purse, I plant my shafts in the gizzards of his enemies.”

“When last we met, Arslan,” observed Khlit, recalling that the archer had been employing his arrows against the Chinese, “it was otherwise—”

“The dice of fate, lord,” broke in Arslan hastily, “fall not al-ways in the same manner. Like a horned ram, a poor mercenary does well not to look behind him—”

“Or to name those whom he met before, Arslan,” growled Khlit meaningly, for fear the archer should reveal his identity. Arslan, however, he knew to be a man of wit and counsel, indebted to him for his life. “I, also, am a mercenary without title or honor other than my sword brings. Hey, that is a true word.”

“You know this graybeard, Arslan?” put in Kurluk impatiently. “Nay, I shall make him croak like a sick raven. What name bears he?”

The slant eyes of the short archer narrowed shrewdly. Khlit’s words had not been wasted.

“He has the surname of the Curved Saber, O light of skull,” he laughed. “From that long weapon at his thigh.”

“You called him ‘lord,’ ” persisted the other suspiciously.

“Because he is a better fellow than you, Kurluk. Before this life you were an ape. You will be born again as a parrot, undoubtedly. But this old warrior has wisdom under his gray thatch.”

Kurluk scowled, resenting Arslan’s nimble tongue. The latter, however, he did not choose to antagonize.

“We will burn his roof for him,” he muttered, flourishing the brand.

The onlookers guffawed.

Arslan’s yellow teeth gleamed.

“Take care you scorch not your own thick fingers, Kurluk of the addle-pate,” he retorted.

He had seen Khlit use his curved sword.

When a heaven-born fool

Uses fire, in his folly,

He will find it a tool

Of dire melancholy.

He chanted, grinning. Kurluk scowled the more and advanced upon Khlit. The Cossack by a quick thrust of his scabbard knocked the burning stick to the floor. Kurluk swore and clapped hand to sword. The watchers drew back, sensing a quarrel. The noisy hunters fell silent, watching the two.

“I have done you no harm, Kurluk,” said Khlit mildly, for in his present situation he disliked to attract attention to himself. “Leave the brand in the fire, and we will drink good wine together, you and I.”

But the Manchu was not minded to forfeit his sport. His prestige was at stake, and Arslan’s taunts had got under his thick skin. He jerked out his short sword savagely.

“Come, dog of the devil,” he growled, “I am weary of hearing you bark. Let me see your teeth, if old age has left you any.”

With that he spat in the direction of the Cossack, who rose from the couch at once, drawing his weapon. Arslan plucked rapidly at his guitar in high good humor.

As a rule, a Manchu was well-versed in use of the heavy, hatchet-shaped sword. There were no sturdier fighters among the men of the Dragon banners. But a Cossack is trained from infancy in handling his weapons and is a match for the skilled Osmanli and the best of the dangerous Tatars. His skill is that of one bred to no other purpose.

Khlit’s shoulder and arm muscles were lean. He knew that his strength would last only a brief interval against the powerful swordplay of Kurluk. Wherefore he met the rush of his adversary in a manner that brought startled exclamations to the lips of the onlookers and a grin from Arslan.

Kurluk swung his weapon to beat down Khlit’s guard. He found that the other’s curved sword pressed against his own before his stroke gathered force. Lash and thrust as he would, the lighter sword formed a glittering guard before his face. When his strokes pierced the guard, the Cossack leaped to one side.

Not only that. Deftly Khlit was thrusting at Kurluk’s head. His swift, short strokes cut the skin of the other’s shaven head, drawing from one side to the other as a man uses a whetstone against a knife. Blood streamed from the Manchu’s skull. Striving desperately to free his sword from the pressure of the other’s blade, Kurluk was helpless to stop the deliberate slicing of his forehead.

A moment after the bout had begun, it ended. Kurluk stood cursing, his eyes and ears filled with blood that spattered from his face to the floor. Blinded by it, he was helpless.

“Come, Kurluk,” cried Khlit, lowering his sword, “a skilled warrior like you should use his weapon against his enemies. ’Tis a waste of good blood between friends. Let Arslan pour water over your sore head, and we will drink a cup of wine. Truly, it was not by might but by a trick of the sword that I blinded you. So I would have you for a friend.”

Kurluk growled irresolutely, rubbing at his smarting eyes. “Nay, brain of an ox,” mocked Arslan, “here is a true man. Sheathe your sword.”

The Manchu did so. Thus it was that the Cossack found a friend in a land where he had few friends and many foes. But uppermost in his mind was the regret that the sword-bout had drawn widespread attention to him. He could no longer hope to remain unnoticed among the hunters.

III

On the first day of the seventh moon the beast Chi Lin was sighted

near the hunting pavilion of the Son of Heaven. Once before had

the beast Chi Lin been seen, and the omen was auspicious for the

hunt. Yet at the same time a dark star was ascendant in the sky at night. How was it to be known which was the true omen, the

good or the bad? Annals of the reign of Wan Li

In his silk-hung apartment Wan Li moved restlessly, glancing at the water-clock which showed it to be an early hour in the evening. A tall man in middle age with the full girth and broad, placid face of his race, he had discarded his robes of ceremony for a short dragon tunic.

Wan Li was impatient. For a week he had waited at the hunting yâmen of Wei Chung-hsien, and as yet there had been no decision from the court of astrologers regarding the omens of the coming hunt. And it was already the seventh moon. A verdict had been promised for that night, and it was already late. He halted impatiently by the two attendants at the door.

“Has Li Yuan F’o asked for admittance yet?” he asked. One of the men kowtowed.

“May your Majesty live forever! Your servants have not seen the honorable astrologer—”

“Then go,” commanded Wan Li, “and say it is my will that he come!”

He seated himself irritably on an ebony bench but looked up eagerly at the appearance of the astrologer. Li Yuan F’o, a venerable savant in ceremonial attire, made the nine obeisances and kneeled. His lined face was troubled.

“Your decision—the omens?” inquired Wan Li quickly.

“Lord of Ten Thousand Years!” began the man. “Your court of astrology has considered the omens with the greatest care, and our divination has been made. As the Son of Heaven in his wisdom knows, the augury of the stars is infallible. The lives of your ancestors of illustrious name have been safeguarded by the celestial omens.”

“No one knows better than I, Li Yuan,” assented Wan Li respectfully.

“We have used the utmost of our knowledge. The World Honored One must not undertake the hunt. The dark star of evil omens is in the ascendancy during this moon. It is written that your Majesty must start upon no venture while this star is high in the heavens. That is the verdict of the court of astrology.”

Wan Li frowned. Plainly he was not pleased.

“Yet I come here upon a sacred mission. To enter the tomb of my ancestor and burn incense before his coffin. Such an act is sufficient to abolish the evil influence of the star. Have you considered that, Li Yuan?”

The man kowtowed.

“We have considered, Lord of Ten Thousand Years. To open the grave door of the Golden Tomb, wherein no one but the Son of Heaven may come, is a holy act, but the omens are dark. Heed well the words of your faithful servants and close your ears to all others. There are some near you who think first of themselves, then of the Presence—”

Wan Li moved his head impatiently.

“I heed your words of wisdom as an astrologer, Li Yuan. But other advice I judge as I please. You are hostile to Wei Chunghsien, who has my heart and ear. Is the decision of the astrologers final?”

Li Juan’s stately head bowed.

“It is final, except for divine intervention—such as the appearance of the celestial beast Chi Lin, which is always auspicious to your dynasty. Your Majesty must not hunt. The Golden Tomb awaits you.”

Both the astrologer and the emperor started at this unfortunate reference to the tomb of the Ming Dynasty. Wan Li was impressed as well as disgruntled. He shook his sleeve, dismissing the savant.

“Very well,” he muttered. “I had it in my heart to hunt, but, if the omens—”

Li Yuan departed hastily, a triumphant light in his faded eyes. In the outer hall he did not see the eunuch Ch’en Ti-jun step from a hidden door and follow him. Still less did the astrologer

guess that this door gave access to a compartment directly behind the silk hangings of Wan Li’s chamber. The eunuch laid his hand roughly on the savant’s shoulder.

“Treacherous imbecile!” hissed the eunuch. “Is that the way you obey the command of Wei Chung-hsien? After a week’s hum-bug!” Li Yuan freed himself with dignity.

“The message of the stars,” he said gravely, “is not subject to the will of men. I have told his Majesty the truth. Let him be warned by it. I care not for Wei Chung.”

“You will think otherwise,” assured Ch’en Ti-jun savagely, “if your old fingers are crushed slowly and your brains squeezed until they run through your nose. Go back and tell Wan Li you have reconsidered, or Wei Chung shall deal with you.”

“Am I the servant of Wei Chung?” Defiance flashed in the eyes of the astrologer. “Is the Lord of Ten Thousand Years a slave to his own minion? Even if the court has become a hotbed of spies and false tales, forbidden to men of honor? Nay; I serve Wan Li and the stars.”

The eunuch smiled.

“Even the decision of the stars, Li Yuan, can be bought by gold. You were witless to refuse Wei Chung’s generous offer of rank and gold ingots. Truly, the matter is not important. What harm can come to Wan Li if he hunts?”

“I know not,” the astrologer’s voice trembled, and his glance fell. “But the stars do not lie. If the matter is so slight, why do you offer me so much to lie?”

Ch’en Ti-jun gnawed his lip; then he passed his long fingernails softly across the astrologer’s thin throat.

“You know what happens to those who disobey Wei Chung? And how useless it is to oppose him? Are you entirely mad?”

Li Yuan’s figure, which had fallen to trembling, stiffened.

“I shall be before long,” he muttered angrily, “if these rats and foxes who are eunuchs of the court seize what power is left to the emperor. Already they have the command of his armies and the decision as to who shall be admitted to the Presence. They build

triumphal arches for themselves, while the Son of Heaven, blind to their sins, goes unhonored. They wear the imperial yellow and forge orders in his name. Now they would control the immutable verdict of the stars—”

Still muttering, the old man moved away from Ch’en Ti-jun, down the passage. The eunuch looked after him, scowling. Then he turned swiftly and halted by the door from which he had come. He paused as if listening, nodding once or twice, as at a command from behind the hangings.

“But if they deny it?” he whispered.

Apparently the reply satisfied him, for he went to the attendants of the emperor’s chamber. Wan Li acknowledged his subservient greeting with a gleam of anticipation. Experience had taught him that the eunuchs were quick to guess his pleasure and minister to it when he was displeased—more so than the hereditary members of his court, who persisted in troubling him with protests and state affairs.

“Lord of Ten Thousand Years,” began Ch’en Ti-jun respect-fully, “it is the honor of your slave to be the bearer of good tidings. Some members of the court of astrology have disagreed with the ancient Li Yuan. They say he has not interpreted the stars correctly. Your slave brings you their word.”

“Is it favorable?”

“World Honored One, it is so. And this is the manner of it. While a certain star of ill omen is in the sky during the seventh moon, there is another star above it.”

Wan Li nodded eagerly. The eunuch glanced involuntarily toward one of the silk hangings which swayed as if with a breath of air, although the chamber was closed on all sides.

“It is due to the zealous Wei Chung, whose happiness it is to serve the Son of Heaven, that the good tidings were learned,” he continued smoothly. “He has questioned some of the astrologers and discovered this all-important fact. No less a star than that of good omen, your Majesty’s birth-star, is now taking the ascen?

dancy over the dark orb of ill omen. He does not believe that the venerable Li Yuan knew of this.”

“Li Yuan is old,” agreed Wan Li eagerly; “he may have made a mistake.”

“Doubtless unwittingly. But during the seventh moon, when the birth-star of the Son of Heaven is high, he may undertake a hunt in safety. His happiness is precious to those near the Presence. Excellent game has been sighted in the country between here and the Togra. Everything is prepared. Will your Majesty name the happy day of the opening of the hunt?”

Mingled feelings were reflected in the good-natured face of Wan Li.

“Is it not true,” he questioned, “that a birth-star and the one of evil omen together in the sky may mean death?”

Ch’en Ti-jun shook his head with a smile.

“In the case of lesser men, perhaps—and then not always. But there is no power like that of the Dragon Planet. Has not the star of your dynasty brought prosperity and long years to you? O Lord of Ten Thousand Years, has the word of the ancient Li Yuan more force than the good omen of your dynasty? Wei Chunghsien would be grieved if he heard that the Son of Heaven had such a thought.”

Wan Li shook his head dubiously. His better judgment told him that in matters of celestial omens the old astrologer would not deceive him. But he had the superstition of his time, and the prospect of the anticipated hunt was alluring. He dismissed Ch’en Ti-jun, unable to make up his mind.

Not more than five minutes after the hangings had fallen be-hind the eunuch, they parted again and revealed the smiling form of Wei Chung-hsien, clad in resplendent silks, embroidered as was the emperor’s tunic with a yellow dragon. The large eyes of the chief eunuch were soft with pleasure as his massive figure made a slight obeisance.

“Glorious tidings for the ear of the Son of Heaven. All breath-less, I hasten to bring them, to be the first to whisper the aus-

picious news. Your divine reign has been blessed by a true sign from heaven. A Manchu huntsman of my employ has sighted a Chi Lin near the yâmen. The god-like beast that is an omen of celestial goodwill.”

Wan Li started and flushed.

“A Manchu huntsman! His name? Bring him to me that I may hear the story from his own lips.”

Wei Chung shook his head regretfully.

“The fortunate man,” he responded, “is drunk, overcome by his find, and cannot come to the Presence.”

A last doubt clouded the smooth brow of the emperor. “How could a Manchu recognize the sacred beast?” Wei Chung bowed with folded arms.

“O Lord of Ten Thousand Years, do you not see that the wonder is twofold thereby? For he, being of low birth, did not know what he had seen. Only when he described the strange beast to me did I know of the good fortune of your Majesty. It is proof the man did not lie. As for the hunt—”

“The day after tomorrow,” cried Wan Li joyfully, “I appoint as the beginning of the hunt. See that all is ready.”

For a week the huntsmen had been idling in their quarters, and joyfully they received the tidings that night. The hunt was to begin at dawn on the second day. A eunuch of the court brought them the news, and they straightway fell to cleaning weapons and discussing the location of game on the plains beyond the Liao River.

To Khlit and Arslan the announcement brought relief. They had been chafing at the inactivity. Khlit especially found it irk-some. He had tried to enter the imperial yâmen to satisfy his curiosity concerning the Dragon Court. But every gate was guarded by the followers of Wei Chung. Nobles came and went in curtained sedans, surrounded by horsemen.

The atmosphere of the encampment beside the yâmen, where the soldiers of the emperor were quartered, was also strange to Khlit. The officers treated him with a contempt which he bore

with grim patience. The Chinese men-at-arms were suspicious of his unusual face and figure and avoided him. Their weapons ex-cited his amusement—armored headpieces and vambraces guarding the arteries, huge quilted coats and two-handed swords, silken garments and black satin boots. The air of secrecy and distrust that pervaded the place was disagreeable to the open-handed Cos-sack.

Thus he was surprised when a messenger came from the yâmen summoning him to the hunting pavilion with Arslan. The archer touched him on the shoulder warningly as they followed their guide into the darkness.

“Silence is best, lord,” he whispered. “Where we are going, the curtains have ears. If any ask, remember that you are one of the stout fellows sent for by Wei Chung from the plains. Kurluk and I are among them. None will know that you were not summoned with the rest.”

Khlit grunted understanding. They were admitted by the sentinels at the gate and turned into a narrow passage that brought them to some stairs leading to the floor above. Here the floors were carpeted with costly Persian rugs, and the walls shone with lacquer and enamel. The scent of dried flowers was in the air.

A slender girl peered out at them from a curtain, which was drawn aside, and they stood in a dimly lit chamber where the walls were veiled in shadows cast by a red paper lantern overhead. Their guide had disappeared, but a squat eunuch took his place. Khlit felt that they were being carefully inspected by unseen eyes.

Presently he saw the eunuch kowtow and Arslan follow suit. Then he was aware that a woman had entered the room and was seated on a couch in front of them. In spite of the warning hiss of the eunuch, the Cossack scanned the shadowy figure.

He saw a slender form, erect, in a black silk dress, gold-embroidered, with a yellow crepe veil framing a delicate face. The tiny red lips were brilliant with paint; the dark eyes inscrutable. She was speaking in a low voice. Later Arslan interpreted what she had said.

They had been granted an audience by the Lady Li, favorite of the emperor.

She had heard, she said, that they were the leaders of the hunts-men who were to find game for the Son of Heaven. During the chase they would keep near the imperial sedan, pointing out the places where the finest animals were to be found. Such was the custom.

Before the chase began, said the Lady Li, the Son of Heaven would go to the tomb of his ancestor, a few hours’ ride into the plain from the yâmen. There he would enter the grave chamber to burn incense and offer prayer, as was permitted once in ten years to the Ming monarchs. This duty performed, Wan Li would go to his sedan. Then the signal would be given for the beaters to begin their casts into the plains, and the hunt would go forward.

The departure from the yâmen would be after midnight so that the emperor would leave the Golden Tomb at dawn—such was his impatience to begin the excursion into the plains.

From the moment they left the yâmen, said the Lady Li, it was her wish that the worthy huntsmen, comrades of Khlit and Arslan, should ride close to the imperial chair. Darkness, she hinted, was a screen for the working of evil by traitors, of whom there were many in the court. The huntsmen could be relied on to be faithful to their salt. They must see to it that the emperor was not molested during the confusion of the hunt. Especially when the chase pushed into the rocky regions in the distant plains where ambuscades were possible.

The huntsmen must never leave the chair of the emperor.

This was the word of the Lady Li of the shell-tinted face and the dark eyes. At a signal from the eunuch Arslan and Khlit took their departure, walking backward. A light rain was falling without, and the archer drew the Cossack into a group of cherry trees beside the pavilion gate while he told him the woman’s message.

“Hey, old warrior,” he chuckled, “you and I have been blessed with a rare sight, the face of the beautiful courtesan whose dainty hand upraised could slit the gullets of a thousand men if it pleased

her. We shall have a fat purse of taels for this night’s work. Nay, I marvel that she trusts us.”

Khlit shook his head moodily.

“Think you so, Arslan? Why should she put faith in us? Are the words of such a woman to be believed?”

“She spoke us fairly. We are to watch over the emperor’s per-son. Doubtless she has heard the tale of your swordplay with Kurluk. It may be she suspects evil of the fat Wei Chung.”

“In whose pay you are.”

“True. But the more masters, the more gold. The Lady Li has promised us costly emeralds and sapphires for doing her bidding. Wei Chung has not ordered otherwise.”

Khlit stared at the lantern over the postern thoughtfully. “It is said the Lady Li has a son. Is it true?”

“So the tale runs. A year ago the Lady Li announced that a son had been born, and the emperor burned incense before her tablet out of pure joy. Some said an infant had been smuggled into the woman’s palace that night, but doubtless they were sliced in quarters for that calumny. Wan Li favors the child above his lawful heir, who has the support of the older nobles. There be rumors that Wan Li has signed a decree naming the son of Lady Li as his successor. I know not. In the Dragon Court a decree is often a forgery at the hands of these foxes of eunuchs.”

“Evil follows the destiny of a ruler who gives power to servants.”

Arslan stared at his companion curiously. Khlit’s keen insight into what went on about him was something of a mystery to the light-minded archer.

“You speak as one who knows the celestial omens, lord,” he muttered.

The Cossack did not smile.

“Have you forgotten, Arslan,” he responded, “that I have been, for a time, a leader of men?”

“Nay, I have not forgotten, Khlit. Nor that you once saved my life. Wherefore, I am your man, and your will is mine. Your peril is my peril. But why have you come to this nest of evil?”

This question had often troubled Arslan. Khlit did not reply at once.

“It is in my blood to wander, Arslan,” he growled. “Why does a goshawk fly up into the sun? I have come to see the face of the Dragon Emperor, Lord of a Hundred Million Souls. When I have done so, I will be content.”

Arslan shook his dark head dubiously. Why should a man risk his skin in such a profitless venture?

“I have a thought,” mused Khlit, “that, if Wan Li died and the decree of which you speak could be produced, the Lady Li might claim the throne for her child. As the boy is an infant, she would then be empress dowager, in possession of the Dragon Throne.”

The archer caught his arm hastily.

“Those words would earn us molten silver down our gullets, Khlit,” he warned, anxiously. “Nay, you know not the power of the older nobles. If the Lady Li should be guilty of such a crime, all her influence at court would not save her life.”

“Not if she were allied to Wei Chung?”

“The chief eunuch is his own master, Khlit. Nay, the slayer of Wan Li would be snuffed out like a candle in the wind, if he were the all-powerful eunuch himself.”

“Wan Li might die by accident.”

“Does the sun become dark by chance? To think that is madness.”

The archer broke off, pointing to the postern. A sedan-chair had drawn up at the gate. The two watchers saw a robed figure descend from it hastily.

“That is the astrologer, Li Yuan,” whispered Arslan, peering out between the tree trunks.

Khlit saw the face of the old man in the lantern light as he spoke to the guards. Li Yuan F’o seemed strongly agitated as he begged admittance. The attendants barred his passage.

“The old stargazer is wroth,” interpreted Arslan, who had caught the raised voices of the trio. “He asks why a noble of the court is barred from the presence of the emperor.”

“What say the guards?”

“The Son of Heaven is asleep and must not be disturbed.”

Li Yuan seemed to be protesting violently. He tried to push between the guards and was thrust back by their spears. Beating his forehead with clenched fists, he returned to his chair, which was borne off in the darkness by the bearers.

No sooner had he disappeared than the bulky figure of Wei Chung came to the doorway from within. The chief eunuch muttered something to the two guards, who seized their spears and ran after the sedan. Then Wei Chung retreated into the building.

To Arslan’s horror Khlit emerged from the trees and sought the door, now empty of attendants. The archer followed unwillingly in time to see the tall Cossack peer up the stairs after the figure of the chief eunuch.

Not content with this, Khlit, motioning the archer to silence, slipped up the stairway. Looking into the silken hall, he saw Wei Chung vanish into the chamber where they had left the Lady Li. Arslan heard a moment later the shrill laugh of a woman.

“If we are found here,” he whispered fearfully, “we shall be meat for the hunting dogs on the morrow—”

This time Khlit accompanied Arslan to the door and out into the rain. His face was moody, and he did not speak until they regained the hunters’ quarters.

“A woman and a eunuch,” he said, “and well pleased.”

The next day Arslan reported that an imperial decree had ordered Li Yuan and the other astrologers from the grounds of the hunting pavilion. The name signed to the decree was that of Wei Chung.

It is written in the annals of Wan Li, of the Ming dynasty, that on the day before the hunt of the seventh moon, his Majesty out of generous goodwill toward his subjects ordained that a puppet show be given in the courtyard of the pavilion for the hunters. In the halls by the stables Arslan greeted the announcement of the servant with a loud shout of approval, while his black eyes snapped with excitement.

“Ho, brothers,” he cried, “here will be merry music of fiddles and rare wine for the men of the chase. Let us go at once and seize the benches before the puppet cage!”

His words were greeted by an answering shout from the idlers, whose interest was lightly stirred. The Manchus and plainsmen, Khlit among them, were early on the scene. They found the fruit-garden of the pavilion surrounded by eunuchs with drawn swords and the gates of the building itself heavily guarded by armed soldiery. But their anticipation was aroused by sight of a painted wooden structure among the trees in the courtyard.

The puppet stage was curtained on three sides, the fourth presenting a miniature stage to the audience. Swaying of the draperies suggested to the eager audience of soldiers, huntsmen, and servants that the puppets were already in preparation for the show. Musicians tuned up squeaky fiddles at one side of the edifice. An imposingly garbed mandarin stood before the stage, ready to interpret the actions of the play. Wine was not lacking.

Wan Li had given especial orders that his huntsmen were to be well entertained. He himself deigned to appear behind the lattice screens of the pavilion balcony overlooking the court. Wei Chung and the Lady Li with her attendants were the only ones with him, for, since his decision to hold the hunt, the emperor had dismissed the nobles, who plagued him with matters of state, back to Peking. He sat expectantly on a couch, as eager as his servants for the play to begin.

At a signal from the mandarin by the stage the huntsmen arose and kowtowed respectfully in the direction of the concealed monarch.

“These worthies of the chase, sire,” bowed Wei Chung, “ex-press their hopes for a great kill of antelope, deer, tigers and the splendid wild camels for the morrow. They rejoice with the Presence in the good omen of the Chi Lin.”

Wan Li was still disappointed that he could not speak with the man who had sighted the legendary beast called the Chi Lin— that left no footprint and conversed with human beings in their

own tongue. He half hoped, however, aided by the flatteries of the eunuchs, that the Chi Lin of good omen would be found in the hunt.

In the courtyard below the hunters were astir, for the mandarin had begun his chanting recital of the play, and the fiddles were sounding. Arslan listened with a critical ear and nudged Khlit.

“Harken, old warrior,” he whispered, “the play will be about the coming visit of Wan Li to the grave of his ancestor.”

Khlit looked up indifferently.

“Nay, we are like penned beasts, Arslan, guarded by drawn weapons. Since when have men been herded as animals?” The archer motioned him impatiently to silence.

“Yon minstrel of the long robe chants,” he explained, “how the tomb is watched night and day by chosen warriors of the Son of Heaven, for within it by the body of the illustrious dead man is a treasure beyond price. Harken—gold inlaid in enamel jars, and eternal candles that burn for ten years on pedestals of jade, also pearls and rubies of the rarest, and golden vessels. Small wonder it is called the Golden Tomb.”

A puppet garbed in the imperial yellow appeared on the stage, manipulated by the hands of the men behind the edifice. It bowed before a candle and a black box, purporting to be the tomb, while the voice of the mandarin chanted on and the fiddles struck up a rude tune. Then a form with a gray beard descended from the ceiling of the stage and bent over the kneeling monarch.

“See,” commented Arslan, “it is the dead emperor’s spirit come from the ten courts of purgatory. No one but a Son of Heaven can set foot in the tomb. Even he does not approach the coffin but stands in the grave chamber. A pity such glorious riches should be buried. Only once in ten years are they seen. Ho, I see singing girls coming from the pavilion entrance!”

Khlit took no heed of what was happening. His thoughts were occupied by the request of the Lady Li that they guard the emperor during the hunt. Why had the favorite of Wan Li chosen them for this important post? Because she distrusted the usual guards? But

these were the men of Wei Chung. And the Lady Li appeared on the best of terms with the chief eunuch.

Why had the old astrologer, Li Yuan, been kept from the emperor the previous night? Because the guards of Wei Chung were unwilling for him to deliver his message. What did the eunuch hope to gain from the hunt? Khlit did not know.

Memories of various things he had seen during his stay at the yâmen flocked upon him. Why had the veteran Ming generals of the Chinese army who had come with Wan Li been sent back to Peking on one pretext or another?

And why had Wei Chung sent out to the plains and the north-ern provinces for Arslan and Kurluk and their comrades? The Lady Li had spoken truly when she said that the huntsmen, who had no interest other than their own skins, would be trustworthy guards of the imperial sedan. And, undoubtedly, they knew the whereabouts of game and could show Wan Li the best sport. Perhaps, after all, Wei Chung only hoped to make the chase a success.

Still Khlit was not altogether satisfied. His keen eyes had searched the faces of those in the yâmen, and he had been power-less to read the thoughts behind the inscrutable, slant eyes, but he had read deceit and consummate cunning of a kind strange to him.

He looked up as the puppets disappeared and a murmur from the huntsmen greeted the coming of the singing girls—delicate and fancifully garbed damsels, who postured gracefully, swaying their supple bodies and chanting a shrill, melodious tune echoed by the fiddles. Arslan grinned with delight. Then, when the festival was almost at an end, one of the girls ran from the group and flung herself on her knees before the gallery where the emperor sat.

She stretched her slim arms upward imploringly, and Khlit, who was near, saw that her cheeks were blanched under their coating of red.

“Harken, Lord of Ten Thousand Years,” she screamed shrilly, “to a low servant of your beneficence! Heed my message. Because it is a word from the dead for the ear of the Son of Heaven.”

Sheer surprise silenced those around her. The singing ceased, and the fiddles broke off their tune. A movement behind the lattice showed that she was observed.

“Harken to a message from the unlawfully slain! Go not on the hunt at midnight. Your Majesty has been tricked with lies. The men of wisdom, who would have advised the Dragon faith-fully, were sent away by forged decrees. Where are the generals of your army? They are dismissed. Only eunuchs and their followers remain. The story of the auspicious beast Chi Lin was false, to delude the Son of Heaven. My father, the lowly Chang, was slain at his door because he voiced his suspicions—”

A heavy hand caught the daring girl by the hair and flung her to the earth. The high voice of Wei Chung rang out from behind the lattice.

“A knife for the mad wench! Her wails disturb the Son of Heaven.”

The tall form of Ch’en Ti-jun strode to the side of the prostrate girl. Khlit saw him seize a sword and slash the unfortunate woman savagely. When the sword was running red, the eunuch tossed it aside and kicked the quivering form. The assembled hunters were hustled from the enclosure by the eunuchs.

In the balcony Wan Li had risen with a frown.

“Are you the emperor, Wei Chung?” he demanded, “to have power of life and death?”

The chief eunuch bowed his head abjectly, with a scornful look Wan Li did not see.

“If your servant has offended, may his head fall from his shoulders. I did but speak hastily, fearing lest your Majesty’s peace be irked by the prating girl. For what is the like of such to the enjoyment of the kingly hunt that begins tonight?”

Wan Li surveyed him, hesitation mirrored in his good-natured face. The beautiful favorite stepped to his side.

“Lord of my life,” she whispered, “I also have offended. It was I who slew the scurrilous Chang because he dared to breathe tales against my name. His madness has affected his child—”

“I forgive you,” said Wan Li.

The courtyard was nearly deserted when Khlit and Arslan turned to go. To the archer’s dismay Khlit picked up the body of the girl and strode off with it to the gate.

“Have you love of the bowstring necklace?” whispered Arslan hurriedly. “Nay, the child is accursed now. Even while Ch’en Tijun was striking her, she cried that there was a conspiracy against Wan Li and that those who honored him should not leave his side in the hunt—”

But Khlit shook his head.

“Dog!” he growled. “This is the body of a young girl. Would you leave it to be defiled? Nay; we will give it to a priest.”

For all his protest the archer did not leave Khlit until the Cos-sack had seen to the burial of the slain girl at one of the temples. Then he followed as Khlit strode back to their quarters with moody brow.

“Truly, this is not such a great matter—a singing girl slain,” quoth Arslan.

“It is devil’s work.”

Khlit swung around and grasped his companion’s arm. Drawing the Turkish pistol at his belt, he thrust it into his hand. “Will you serve me, Arslan?”

“My will is your will. Aye, that I shall do.”

“Then seek out your horse. Say that you go on business of the hunt. Bear this weapon as a token from me to the Togra. You know Dokadur Khan?”

“The Khirghiz bandit? Aye.”

“Bid him, if he values his life, assemble his men. Say to him that I, Khlit of the Curved Saber, sent you. Say that there may be rich spoil for the taking. But he must be watchful. Post sentries at the entrances of the Togra ravines. I will join you there tomorrow.”

Arslan’s eyes widened in surprise.

“But the hunt—who will guide the emperor?”

“I will—with Kurluk and some of the Manchus.” Khlit’s gray mustache twitched in a smile. “The hunt? Nay; it has begun. But other game is sought than antelope or tiger.”

IV

The spirits of the everlasting dead have ascended on the Dragon. But in the tombs, hallowed by a thousand years, they are to be found. Humbly must the visitor come to the tombs.

For the mightiest emperor is a child before the faces of the

invisible dead. Li Yuan F’o, astrologer of the court

In the plains beyond the Liao River the Golden Tomb had been built by one of the early Ming emperors. To guard against discovery, a half dozen tomb mounds were constructed of which only one was used. There was no visible monument, except the high mound of earth rising among some low, pine-clad hills.

In accordance with immemorial custom, an armed guard was stationed in the hills, a guard called the kang leen or watchmen at night. The captain of these picked soldiers himself did not know the location of the true grave—a precaution made necessary by the treasures housed within. But on the night of the seventh moon, when the hunt of Wan Li began, a confidential messenger came to the guard from the court bearing an order sealed by the ring at the emperor’s girdle, commanding the captain to unearth the doorway of a certain tomb, buried underground.

So it was that, when the midnight gongs resounded in the yâmen of Wan Li, fifteen miles away in the plains, Chinese soldiers were working by moon and torchlight to uncover the stone door of the Golden Tomb. Under the pines they worked hastily, for the emperor was coming, and being alone in the hills they were gripped by fear of the dead man beneath the earth.

Wan Li entered his waiting sedan-chair with a light heart as the drums and gongs struck midnight. From the latticed gallery the Lady Li with her women watched his stately figure escorted

through the courtyard, illumined by a hundred torches in the hands of mounted attendants.

A roll of drums announced to the waiting soldiery that the chair of the emperor was in motion. In front of it went a troop of armor-clad horsemen, under command of Ch’en Ti-jun. The sedan-chair of Wei Chung followed that of Wan Li. The quick glance of the Lady Li noted that the eunuch’s chair was blazoned with the imperial dragon and possessed the same number of bearers as that of Wan Li. To all intents the two were alike, such was the presumption of the chief eunuch who had drawn to himself nearly all of the imperial power.

The lips of the dark-eyed favorite curled scornfully as she noted this proof of Wei Chung’s arrogance, passed over by Wan Li. Truly, Wan Li was blind, she thought. A man enslaved by pleasures, bound by his own weak will. Her glance fell upon the group of fur-coated huntsmen riding on either side of the imperial chair, led by the tall rider whom she had heard called the Curved Saber.

Behind the emperor’s cortege came an array of courtiers, robed for the chase, and such of the lesser nobles as Wei Chung had allowed to remain at the pavilion. Without the courtyard were waiting the ranks of soldiers and beaters who were to make a wide cast through the plains, hemming in the game to be killed in the presence of the emperor.

When the last torches of the cavalcade had vanished toward the plains, the Lady Li went to the chamber where she was accustomed to burn incense before the tablet of Wan Li. Instead of doing so, however, she locked the door and sank upon a couch, pressing her dainty hands against her temples, staring at a long candle, marked off at regular intervals to tell the passing of the hours.

Once clear of the pavilion, the imperial cortege fell into a swift trot, the sedan-bearers keeping up easily with the horsemen. On either flank the troops of soldiery spread out, their torches marking a line several miles from end to end. The huntsmen accom?

panying Wan Li kept their place in the procession silently. Their task would not begin until the ceremony at the Golden Tomb was completed.

Khlit rode at their head within a few yards of Wan Li’s sedan. The emperor, he noted, kept himself hidden in the screened depths of the chair. Beside him rode the swaggering Kurluk, who had taken Arslan’s place.

Khlit’s thoughts were busy as he rode. Chiefly he wondered concerning the singing girl who had sacrificed her life to warn Wan Li against venturing on the chase. She must have known the danger she courted by her rash speech. Arslan had heard her speak of a conspiracy, even under the mortal blows of Ch’en Ti-jun. But he could see no evidence of a plot against Wan Li.

True, the emperor’s immediate followers were all eunuchs, or nobles under the influence of Wei Chung. Yet he knew the main body of the soldiery would not countenance any violence to the person of Wan Li, sacred by the traditions of fifty generations. A weapon lifted against Wan Li would mean the death of the offender.

He believed that the Lady Li and the chief eunuch had joined forces. Both were interested in breaking the power of the emperor in order to install the favorite’s child on the Dragon Throne. With Wan Li out of the way, this might be done. But how was the way to be cleared?

Khlit did not know. Were all his suspicions groundless? It seemed so. But the old Cossack was wise in the ways of evil, and he smelled treachery as keenly as he scented the damp night air.

Another thing that gave him food for thought was the treatment he and the Manchu mercenaries had received. Wan Li had given orders that the huntsmen should be honored. But was this the only reason that he and Arslan had been unmolested, al-though both must have earned the enmity of the all-powerful eunuchs?

They had been given a position of trust. And it was because Khlit’s shrewd mind had guessed at the reason that he sent Arslan to Dokadur Khan. If what he suspected came to pass, he and his friends would have need of aid, even from the bandits of the Togra.

Truly, thought Khlit, this would be a strange hunt. One where the hunters were silken-robed and inscrutable of eye, and where the lives of men counted as less than those of the beasts they sought.

He kept a keen lookout during the ride, but nothing occurred until they came to the pine hills that sheltered the tombs.

Here the soldiery on the flanks came to a halt, and the emperor’s cavalcade went forward alone under the pines. A few minutes’ trot, and they met the sentinels of the kang leen who accompanied them to the unearthed entrance to the tomb. The sedan-chairs of Wan Li and Wei Chung were deposited near the excavation. Khlit and the huntsmen dismounted and pressed for-ward curiously.

The torches of the kang leen lighted the place fitfully. Khlit saw that the courtiers and nobles remained at a distance in a semicircle about the entrance. A flight of stone steps led down to what appeared to be a stone slab in the form of a door.

Wan Li had emerged from his chair when he was approached by Wei Chung who escorted him to the tomb. Khlit was anxious to gain a better view of the Lord of Ten Thousand Years and made his way close to the entrance, in time to see his face clearly as he descended the steps and vanished in the shadows of the tomb.

Wei Chung was busied in arranging guards between the sedans and the gate. In doing so, the eunuch failed to notice Khlit, half-hidden in the shadows by the piles of freshly dug earth. The other huntsmen had returned to their horses. Khlit was about to do likewise, when he hesitated.

A sudden thought struck the Cossack. He was but a step from the sunken gate, and unobserved. It might be possible for him to

slip into the tomb after the emperor. The risk would be great. But the Golden Tomb was a prize worth seeing.

Khlit did not waste a second thought on his venture. Bending low, he scrambled down the freshly dug earth to the foot of the stairs. The huge stone gate was ajar, sixty feet below the earth’s surface. It led into a passage built up with teakwood pillars, the ceiling supported by beams of the same wood, fifty feet above the Cossack’s head. Some distance ahead of him light came through a door similar to the one he had entered. A glance showed Khlit the grave tunnel was empty as far as the further portal, and he walked forward quietly.

Midway he hesitated. He had heard a step on the stair behind him.

The sound caused the blood to quicken in Khlit’s veins. The light ahead of him was faint, and, looking over his shoulder, he could see nothing in the shadows of the stairway. A moment he waited, then turned, reassured. No one had appeared in the grave tunnel. He remembered that the place was forbidden to all the Chinese except those of imperial blood.

He had little fear of being followed. And to the best of his knowledge no one had seen him enter the mausoleum. Ahead of him, Wan Li would be engaged in his devotions. Khlit made his way to the second door and looked within.

Unlike the first stone gate, the second portal swung on cleverly contrived hinges, making it possible for one man to open it. The hall that Khlit now saw was the grave antechamber, built of jade slabs and empty of ornament. In the center knelt the emperor.

Wan Li’s back was toward the Cossack. He held a bronze bowl in which incense smoldered, sending thin spirals of smoke toward the ceiling. His face was toward the third chamber, which was the tomb, visible through half-drawn curtains of yellow silk, gold-embroidered.

In a low undertone Wan Li was repeating a prayer, bending his massive back over the bowl. The glow from the grave illumined the dragon emblazoned on his robe. Beyond him Khlit saw the

stone slab bearing the coffin of the Ming emperor. On either side of the slab were ranged sacrificial vessels of gold, emblems and ornaments of gold, studded with jewels.

The jewels reflected, with a hundred brilliant eyes, the light from the everlasting candles. These were huge masses of walrus fat, ascending in a pyramid, half-way to the ceiling. Khlit under-stood now why they were said to burn for ten years at a time beside the coffin.

Wan Li laid the bowl on the floor and touched his forehead to the stone. Silence reigned in the tomb. Khlit’s gaze was fixed unblinkingly on the treasure of the grave chamber. The panoply of death meant nothing to him. The thought came to him that all this gold beside the dry bones of a dead man was like the dragon robe of the living Wan Li—the trappings of immortality decked about a human frame.

Khlit looked at Wan Li and smiled. A weak creature wielding the power of other men’s making—a man ruled by women and courtiers, obedient to the words of astrologers. Was this the ruler of a hundred million?

Wan Li was praying again. Echoes in the rear chambers caught the murmur of his voice and whispered it back to Khlit. In spite of his scorn, the Cossack comprehended something of the spirit which had brought Wan Li to the tomb, the faithfulness to the memory of those who had worn the dragon robe before him. The link which bound Wan Li to the dead.

The emperor rose to his feet, and Khlit stepped back from the stone gate. He walked swiftly to the outer door and slipped through it as a sound behind him told him that Wan Li had closed the portal of the grave chamber.

The outer tunnel was now in darkness, and Khlit was forced to feel his way forward by the teakwood pillars. He went swiftly, not wishing to be observed by the man behind him. From the massive entrance gate he passed to the stairs, halting in the shadows at one side of the excavation.

It would be dangerous for him to walk out into the torchlight before the emperor came out. He reasoned swiftly that Wan Li would summon his men to help close the stone door. Then Khlit might make his appearance without exciting curiosity.

As he had thought, it happened. A resounding blow on the door by the man behind him brought Wei Chung with a dozen of the kang leen running to the stairs. As the dragon-robed figure passed up the steps within arm’s reach of the Cossack, Wei Chung and his followers swung-to the door.

The gate thudded into place, and the fastenings were secured. Khlit joined the men, who retraced their steps as the task was performed. He was in time to gain his horse, held by Kurluk, and trot to where his men were waiting before the imperial cortege was in motion.

Surely, thought Khlit, Wan Li’s mind had been fixed too long upon the dead, for his face was stony and drawn as that of a man who has seen his own grave.

He saw Wei Chung assist the imperial passenger into the sedan and lean within, as if to adjust the cushions, before he closed the door. Then the chief eunuch motioned to the courtiers; the drums sounded, and the chair-bearers broke into a trot. Khlit brought his men to their previous position, abreast the imperial sedan. They passed swiftly through the pines and out to the plains. The kang leen remained behind to guard the tomb.

It was near the hour of dawn. A fresh wind had sprung up in their faces, causing the torches of the cavalcade to flicker and the silk trappings of the sedan to rustle. The stars were dimmer overhead, and the spears of the horsemen who rode in the rear were outlined against the scarlet glow of sunrise in the east.

The huntsmen about Khlit were crying to each other, cheerful with the prospect of the coming hunt. Ch’en Ti-jun reined back his horse until he was within earshot of Khlit.

“Ride closer to the emperor’s chair,” he cried softly. “Remember the warning of the Lady Li.”

Khlit made no response. The attending eunuchs and courtiers were a bow-shot length away; the soldiery even further. Only the hard-worked bearers and a half-dozen linkmen were between the huntsmen and the chair. There was no sign of any danger. Nevertheless, Khlit did as he was instructed.

The closer formation moved the Cossack slightly ahead of Wan Li’s chair. His men formed a ring about it. He heard a sudden exclamation from one of the riders and turned.

A glance showed him what had happened. One of the torch-bearers, pressed closer to the sedan by the huntsmen, had allowed his brand to touch the side of the chair. Instantly the dry sandal-wood lattice-work and the silk trappings caught. A cry of horror broke from the bearers.

The flame crackled in the high wind. It licked up the side to the roof of the chair. The shout of the bearers was echoed by the nobles who had sighted the fire.

“Treachery!” screamed Wei Chung, leaping from his sedan. “The dogs have attacked the emperor!”

“Slay them,” shrilled Ch’en Ti-jun, striking at the nearest of the huntsmen. “Save Wan Li!”

The man within the chair could not have seen the flames. The bearers, plainly paralyzed by fear, had let their burden fall to earth. One of the Manchu riders, endeavoring to wrap his cloak about the flaming wood, was struck in the face by an arrow launched toward the group. Kurluk beat at the mounting fire with his heavy hat, only to be almost unhorsed by the rush of Ch’en Ti-jun.

Khlit had wheeled his mount into the group. But by now the fire had caught about the door and roof of the sedan. The wind quickened its progress.

“To the emperor!” Wei Chung was shouting. “Treachery!” “Aid for Wan Li!” screamed the nobles, charging into the dancing horses of the hunters.

Swords gleamed in the glow from the flames. Khlit saw that the huntsmen, surprised and surrounded, were being cut down. The Chinese appeared blinded by their excitement. Yet the Cossack noticed that their efforts were devoted as much to killing the riders as to quenching the fire that was consuming the remnants of Wan Li’s chair.

By now it was impossible that the man within the imperial chair could be saved.

The lattice door had swung inward, its fastenings loosened by the flames. Khlit had a fleeting glimpse of a ghastly, round face and wide, staring eyes. Already the face was blackened by heat, and the dragon robe was shriveling.

What he saw made Khlit rein in his horse and wheel away from the chair.

“This way!” he cried above the tumult. “Kurluk, men of the hunt!”

Several of the riders heard him and spurred toward him. The giant Kurluk, however, was hemmed in by the Chinese, using his sword valiantly. Some nobles were beating at the flaming chair with their cloaks, but the eunuchs seemed intent on cutting down the riders who had been escorting the sedan.

Khlit rose in his stirrups after the fashion of the Cossacks and led his few followers into the group around Kurluk. The giant Manchu saw them coming and beat himself free from his antagonists, who quailed from his heavy sword.

Another moment and he had gained Khlit’s side, cursing, his face streaked with blood.

“The devil himself set fire to Wan Li,” he panted. “By my father’s grave, it was no work of ours—”

Ch’en Ti-jun rode up to the Manchu, his seamed countenance alight with evil triumph. The eunuch pointed a pistol at Kurluk’s shaggy head and fired. Khlit saw his friend sway in the saddle, eyes closed and chin on breast. Then he slid to the ground.

“Ride,” shouted the Cossack to his remaining men, “or you are dead men!”

From three quarters the Chinese were closing in on them. But ahead of them a way was clear to the plains. Through the opening Khlit and his handful of hunters spurred, cutting down the few who tried to head them off. Cries and shots pursued them.

They were now free of the Chinese and settled down into a fast gallop, hugging their saddles to avoid the pistol shots. A motley troop of soldiery galloped after them. But the huntsmen were well mounted. Led by Khlit, they slowly widened the gap between them and their pursuers.

“Ho, comrade,” snarled a bearded fellow close to the Cossack, “the accident to Wan Li will cost us dear. The Son of Heaven is burned to a crisp.”

Khlit eased himself in his saddle, with a hard laugh.

“Have you lost your wits?” he demanded. “That was no accident.”

“Be that as it may,” growled the other, “we are dead men. Aye, dead by the rarest tortures known to those devils behind us. They will hunt us down like cornered antelope.”

“Aye,” muttered another, “there is no hope for us.”

Khlit was silent, thinking grimly of the false words of the Lady Li. Truly, they had been trapped. The Chinese courtiers and soldiers, as well as the eunuchs, had seen the flames break out on Wan Li’s chair in the midst of the hunters. The torch-bearer who had been responsible for the mishap was undoubtedly slain. Those of the sedan-bearers who lived would testify against the hunters to save their own skins.

He had suspected that they would be used in some such manner by the scheming eunuchs. But the swiftness of the catastrophe had surprised him. Wei Chung had planned well. There was no proof that the affair had not been an accident.

“Silence your loose tongues,” he growled over his shoulder, “and you will yet save your skins.”

In the plains ahead of him the dawn showed the rocky ridges of the Togra, still veiled in the distance by morning mists.

Arslan had ridden very rapidly to the Togra, for Khlit’s words had been urgent. When he came to the first of the rocky defiles, the Manchu drew rein and halted his beast with a calculating glance of his black eyes over the heights in front of him. The midafternoon sun shone full in his tanned face. There was no sign of watchers in the defiles, but Arslan knew that the men of Dokadur Khan could not be far off. It was the season of the hunt, and at such times the riders of the Togra were accustomed to come forth from their haunts.

The experienced archer had no wish to be taken for a scout of the imperial forces, as might readily happen. So he slung his bow over his back, adjusted the quiver carelessly at his left hip and displayed his guitar ostentatiously. By these signs he hoped to make plain that his mission was one of peace. To leave no doubt in the mind of those watching him from the heights, he rode forward slowly, to all intents heedless of where he went.

His strategy had its reward, for, instead of a matchlock ball or an arrow in his back, he was accosted by a dark-faced Khirghiz, exceedingly well mounted. In response to the other’s questions, Arslan stated that his mission was to see Dokadur Khan; that it was imperative; that he was alone and without intention of spying on the men of the Togra. Only half satisfied, the Khirghiz bade him accompany him, and they presently came out into a large gorge in which some hundred men were dismounted about fires.

Here his guide left him, and it was only after a long delay that the man returned, accompanied by the broad figure of Dokadur Khan, whom Arslan easily recognized by the missing ear. The Togra chieftain inspected his visitor narrowly.

“What is your message, Manchu?” he growled.

Arslan, who had dismounted, returned the other’s somber stare thoughtfully, his small head cocked to one side.

“In the last moon, Dokadur Khan,” he began—Khlit had told him as much—“you had a guest at your yurt in the Togra, a gray-haired rider who was not Tatar nor Manchu.”

“I remember. What of him?”

“He sends a message by me. Also a token. Do you recognize this, also?”

Arslan drew the chased Turkish pistol from his belt, being careful to handle it inoffensively, for the men of the Togra being outcasts were quick to suspect evil. Dokadur Khan’s eyes lighted as they fell upon the weapon, perceiving that it was one he had coveted. He was now the owner of the brace, for the other reposed in his own belt. He accepted it without acknowledgment.

“And the message?” he asked again.

“Was one of pressing importance. The hunt of Wan Li has be-gun. The man who sent me bids you sharpen your eyes and ears and watch well from the Togra, or the Chinese swords will slit your jaws from your gullets.”

“Does a goshawk need warning to watch its quarry?” snarled the chieftain. “You ride hard to say very little.”

Arslan held up his hand as a sign he had further tidings. Khlit had had time to tell him few things that were in the Cossack’s mind. But Arslan knew that Khlit would not send him on a venture that was not necessary, supremely so. There was no telling if Dokadur Khan was professedly loyal or not to the Chinese, for the moment.

“Heed this well, Dokadur Khan,” he said impressively. “There will be taking of spoil before many suns. He who sent me, knowing this and trusting in the skill of the men of the Togra, will offer you a share in what is to happen.”

The Khirghiz threw back his broad head with a growling laugh.

“Nay, small of wit! Does a man offer share in the spoil he has taken, if not from weakness? Has this old man of yours a tribe of horsemen? Nay, he is alone. How then can he take spoil? And where is it to be found?”

Arslan considered. Khlit had told him that they would have need of refuge in the Togra. And to bid Dokadur Khan be prepared with his men when he came to meet them. More than this he did not say. Arslan himself was curious as to why Khlit would come

to the Togra; also, what he had meant by speaking of the hunt that had already begun. It would not do to promise anything, or the Khirghiz would suspect.

“There be matters, Dokadur Khan,” he suggested, “that are best managed by one man alone. Where the stake is highest, a few players gain the best reward. Such a matter is this. The man who sent me has eaten at your fireside, and he has judged that you are one who may serve him. The honor is high.”

“Nay, am I a jackal to feed from other’s offal? In the Togra I am master.”

“Be it so. You are a free man. You need not come to meet the one who sent me, if it pleases you not. Yet Khlit said you would be of service.”

Arslan turned toward his horse indifferently. The Khirghiz halted him with an exclamation.

“Is this man Khlit of the Curved Saber? He who was master of the Jun-gar?”

“And of many others. Yet you need not join with him in this matter. The Khan Khlit deals with higher stakes than horseflesh or the plucking of a scurvy caravan. I will tell him that you will not see him.”

Arslan made as if to mount. In his interest at the news he had just learned, Dokadur Khan went so far as to lay hand on his shoulder. The archer swung around with a scowl, hand at sword.

“Stay!” muttered the chieftain quickly. “I will not harm you, Manchu. So, I remember now the old warrior’s face. It was like that of Khlit as it has been described to me. Dog of the devil! That is strange. What does the Curved Saber in the land of Wan Li?”

“That is for his telling,” responded the Manchu curtly, not failing to note the other’s quickened interest. His own indifference appeared the greater. Khlit had chosen his messenger well. “He comes to the Togra early tomorrow. I will meet him and say that you will not hear his tidings.”

Dokadur Khan meditated, his thoughts mirrored in his swarthy, pockmarked countenance. Khlit he knew to be a warrior of note, one who had more than once caused grief to the men of the

hat and girdle. What was he doing alone on the plains? Surely, it must be an important mission. He recalled that Khlit had hinted at a certain event that was to come to pass. What was this?

“He comes alone to the Togra?”

“What friends has he in the camp of Wan Li?” countered Arslan. “Nay, there will be few with him.”

“He is the foe of Wan Li, without doubt.”

“He has many enemies.”

“And he schemes to take plunder from the Chinese courtiers during the hunt?”

Arslan laughed. Khlit had not told him what was in his mind, but the archer knew it was not that. He judged that the Cossack had come to Wei Chung’s yâmen to gain sight of the Chinese court and that yesterday he had made up his mind on a course of action. What this might be, he did not know.

“Does a great khan seek for such plunder? In your village you know not the ways of the white-boned.”

The Tatar tradition of believing nobles to possess white bones and their inferiors black was known to Dokadur Khan, who stared ominously at the archer, angered, yet curious and anxious to learn what was in his visitor’s mind.

If Arslan had delivered his message outright, claiming refuge and aid for himself and Khlit against the men of Wan Li, Dokadur Khan would have given him a contemptuous refusal. This in spite of the magic of Khlit’s name. For the slow-witted khan could have nothing but indifference for men who sought help from him. But an enterprise against Wan Li was another matter and familiar ground to him.

“I also am a khan not lightly named by men,” he boasted, and Arslan smiled at the vanity of the man. “I have two thousand horsemen in the Togra, who are proved fighters, the chosen warriors of a dozen tribes.”

Arslan looked fleetingly at the motley array of riders, lying about the fires, occupied with bowl and dice. Mongrels, he thought, but hardy.

“Hey,” he growled as if disappointed, “no more? Khlit of the Curved Saber has led fifty times as many. Nay, I was at his side in the pillaging of Shankiang. Still, he has said that the fewer men the larger portions of spoil.”

Dokadur Khan scowled. “What is his plan?”

“He will say. How should I know? Am I one of the white-boned? But this I will tell you. In the Ming court the leaders are no more of one mind. Wan Li is fast losing his grip on the Dragon Throne. Others have their hands on it already. The factions may divide during the hunt. And while they fight among themselves— Nay, you are said to be quick of wit.”

“Aye, that I am. If the Chinese quarrel, we may profitably join with one party, now that they are on the plains, far from their main armies.”

Arslan laughed long.

“Have you forgotten the wisdom of Khlit? Would he waste thought on such a plan? Not so. I tell you he is foe to the end with the Dragon Court. Can you not see what he means to do?”

The shrewd archer knew that others were within hearing and that Dokadur Khan would be loath to admit his stupidity. As he had fancied, it came to pass.

“Aye, Manchu. But I will speak only with Khlit. He and I are one kind.”

“See that your men are ready when he comes. He will act quickly, or I know him not.”

Hence it was that the band of Dokadur Khan watched expectantly from the defiles of the Togra the coming of Khlit. But at this time, although Arslan did not know it, the old Cossack was riding to them, hard-pressed and harassed, a man marked for death by a half million swords, and the outlawed foe of the Ming nobility, as well as the party of Wei Chung and the Lady Li.

V

Two men may have equal cunning, but he who can best look into the mind of the other shall be leader. Not otherwise.

The sun was near the point of midday the morning after Arslan’s arrival at the camp of Dokadur Khan when Khlit and six followers spurred their wearied horses into a gallop within the shadows of the Togra ravines.

More men had been with the Cossack at dawn. Some had fallen by lucky pistol shots of the pursuing Chinese—who were poor marksmen with this new weapon. More had dropped be-hind when their horses became exhausted. These, facing death with grim hardihood, knelt by their fallen beasts and shot what arrows remained to them into the ranks of their pursuers. Thus, each man lost in this manner had served to delay the Chinese as a straggling deer holds the wolf pack for a moment until its flesh is torn from its bones.

Khlit had done his best for the men. Well mounted himself, he stayed near the rear of his group of riders, encouraging them and directing their course. They knew as well as he that there was no hope of quarter at the hands of the Chinese soldiery. On the frontier of the Dragon Empire war is carried out to its termination— the sword or bowstring for able-bodied men, the conqueror’s kang for children and handsome women, and whatever spoil may be available taken to the last bit of bronze or of silk cloth.

The Cossack had taken responsibility for the betrayal of the huntsmen upon himself. He had suspected that they were to be tools in Wei Chung’s intrigue. But how was he to foresee the manner of the eunuch’s treachery?

The men were content to follow him. They knew the fate that lay upon them after the burning of Wan Li’s chair. It mattered not if Wei Chung proclaimed it a plot on the part of the huntsmen or an accident. It meant death for them in the land of the Dragon. And Khlit had said they might yet be saved. By reason of his careful leadership during the pursuit, they had come to believe there might be truth in his words.

They rode into the nearest rock-bound defile with horses foam-flecked and dark with sweat. They splashed across a stream and

wound into some scattered scrub larches. As they did so, one who had looked behind gave an exclamation.

Khlit glanced over his shoulder in time to see two of the pursuing Chinese drop from their saddles with the feathered ends of arrows sticking from their chests. The others drew rein. The arrows continued to fly from the larch clump with great accuracy, and presently the riders turned and galloped back the way they had come. They were lost to sight almost at once in a bend in the ravine.

The huntsmen walked their horses forward slowly. Out of the larches trotted Arslan, several of the bandits following.

“Ho, uncle and brothers,” laughed the Manchu. “You bring a swarm of venomous insects into the Togra. Where are the others of our band?”

“Slain,” said an evil-looking plainsman with an oath. “Nay, devil take it—Kurluk?”

“Slain.”

Briefly Khlit told Arslan what had happened at the beginning of the hunt and asked for Dokadur Khan. The sobered archer informed him that the master of the Togra with the bulk of his men was at the encampment, a short distance into the defiles. Also, that strong troops of Chinese had been sighted riding toward the Togra from the plain.

“It was an evil day we entered the service of the devil-begotten Wei Chung,” he growled. “Kurluk and two-score brave fellows spitted like ripe fowls! Nay, that is an ill word. Bethink you, lord, our lives hang by a thin halter here. The Chinese will not lightly give up the pursuit. And Dokadur Khan has seen them and suspects that it is you they are after. He is like a weed moved in the wind, a friend to the strongest side. It may enter his fat head to give us up to the Dragon riders.”

“I sent you with a message.”

“It was faithfully delivered.” Arslan recounted what had passed between him and the bandit chief. “Nay,” he concluded, “where the saddle chafes is here. Dokadur Khan believes you

have come to offer him a share in a rare barranca, with excellent spoil for the bait. Instead you come like a tired antelope, marked by the falcon—”

“You did well. What do the Chinese?”

“The yellow faces are spreading out to cover all approaches to the Togra on the east—whence you have come—so our lookouts report. Presently they will enter not one but several of the passes at once. They are many, with leaders.”

“Then take me to Dokadur Khan.”

Khlit was silent until they reached the encampment where the master of the Togra was seated on his horse, several hundred followers with him. He eyed Khlit blackly as the Cossack rode forward with his dust-coated men. He did not raise his hand in greeting, nor did he offer to speak. Arslan would have broken the silence but refrained at a quick glance from Khlit.

The huntsmen scanned the men of the Togra with the searching glances of those whose lives are at stake yet who hope little. It was clear that Dokadur Khan was not pleased at their coming.

“Have you no more men than these?” said Khlit suddenly. “I sent you a warning to be ready. These men are not enough.”

Dokadur Khan grunted in sheer surprise. The Cossack had spoken like a leader who finds fault with a subordinate. Yet the Khirghiz saw that he had only seven riders with him and had come fleeing for his life.

“I have thrice this number,” he assured Khlit; then he scowled, fearing to lose dignity before his men. “My sentries tell me you are followed by the Chinese. The Togra is no place for doomed men. Your archer lied to me. Why should I not give you to the Chinese—since he has lied?”

In spite of himself he had asked the question. Khlit had not the manner of a hunted man. And Dokadur Khan found it hard to forget the reputation of the Cossack leader.

“They will be here within the hour,” he continued as Khlit was silent. “Already they form for attacking the defiles. We will bind you and give you to them, for thus we can save ourselves

from attack and our villages from fire. I did not bid you come to the Togra with yonder hounds at your heels.”

A murmur of assent from his men greeted these words. Arslan frowned. It was clear that the chieftain was excited, even frightened and thus dangerous. The huntsmen had dismounted and were watching Khlit.

The Cossack was still gazing at Dokadur Khan fixedly. Abruptly he laughed, and Arslan took a deep breath of surprise.

“We must make our peace with the Chinese,” scowled Dokadur Khan. “We have no quarrel with them.”

“In my first visit,” said Khlit slowly, “I marked you as one light of wit, yet I did not think the leader of a thousand men was altogether a fool. I know not if that be true. Answer me a question, Dokadur Khan. Know you why the men of the Dragon seek our lives?”

“It matters not.”

“Nay, it matters much. They believe, falsely, that we have slain Wan Li. But they believe.”

In spite of himself the Khirghiz gaped.

“Wan Li—the Son of Heaven—slain?”

Khlit nodded grimly.

“Ask these men who came with me. The sedan-chair of the Lord of Ten Thousand Years was set fire to this dawn. There was a great killing of those around him at the time. By the speed of our horses we escaped.”

The importance of the news was beginning to leak into the thick skull of the khan.

“And you rode here,” he growled. “A dog without home or friends. Nay, you are accursed now. We must surely give you

up. “How?”

“Dog of the devil! I will see to it myself.”

“And admit the Chinese to the Togra?” Khlit laughed again, and Arslan’s black eyes gleamed, for he thought he saw light. “Nay, then you are altogether a fool, Dokadur Khan. Think you

the men of the Dragon will stay their hand when they have slain us? Is the killing of an emperor so little a thing? Will they leave you and your villages unharmed? You know it is not so.”

The khan glanced down the ravine blackly. He realized the truth of what Khlit said. The huntsmen of the Cossack were much like his own men in race and appearance. Moreover, his own reputation with the Chinese was hardly above suspicion. Once in the Togra, the Chinese would undoubtedly slay right and left until their blood-thirst was appeased.

“If we give you up and flee to the upper defiles of the Togra Nor, they will weary of the pursuit in time.”

But in the eyes of Dokadur Khan and his men there was the glint of fear. They knew the numbers and strength of the men of Wan Li. In any case, their lot would be hard, and many would die.

Khlit leaned forward in his saddle and spoke quietly.

“Then you will lose the man who can aid you. I am that man. Fool! Do you think my coming of itself brought the men of Wei Chung hither? Nay, they would have come in any case, for the eunuch must have planned to slay hundreds of men on the frontier to bear out his scheme—to throw the blame for Wan Li’s death on the bandits. I alone know something that will protect you and your men and their women. If you give me up, your hope of safety will be gone. For then I will not tell you what I know. Choose and choose quickly, for the Chinese are approaching the passes in force.”

Dokadur Khan pretended to weigh the words of Khlit, while Arslan and the huntsmen watched without seeming to do so. In reality the mind of the Togra chief was tumultuous with uncertainty and fear. He had never been called upon to face the united strength of the Chinese forces. The fact that they were riding upon the defiles excited and flurried him. A bold enough man where a small barranca was concerned, the magnitude of the coming event confused him.

The calmness of Khlit further puzzled Dokadur Khan. How was it that the Cossack was untroubled, unless he knew of a

secret reason by which he could win safety? It was true that the men of Wei Chung would lay waste the outlaw settlements of the Togra. And Dokadur Khan had no place to flee; no ally except Khlit.

“What is it that you know?” he demanded.

And Khlit knew that he had won his cause. But the way was not yet cleared.

“That which will save us—you and me and our men. What I know, no one else knows.”

Dokadur Khan stirred impatiently.

“Already some Chinese have been slain in the Togra,” added Khlit.

One of the Khirghiz riders who had been with Arslan spoke. “It was the Manchu archer.”

“Do the men of the Dragon know the difference?” asked Arslan logically, and by Khlit’s silence he knew he had said the right thing.

The bandit khan scowled the more, and his followers swore. After this, they knew, there would be no escape from the Chinese.

“Nay, Khlit,” he asked, “speak. What is your thought? There is no time to be lost.”

The Cossack drew his whip slowly through his hand.

“We did not slay Wan Li, Dokadur Khan. The plot was the work of others. Of Wei Chung and his allies. They pursue us—and you. But other factions of the Dragon men do not yet know what is the truth of the event this morning. They would not slay us until they know what we know. From them we have not so much to fear. If Wei Chung’s guilt is proved, we are free men. I speak of the other Ming nobles and especially Li Yuan, the astrologer.”

“Would you have us go to Li Yuan, the whole of us with women and children! Nay, how may that be? The men of Wei Chung are already on three sides of the Togra, and they number five times our strength. Li Yuan is at the Great Wall.”

“By now, at the news of Wan Li’s death, he will be riding toward the Liao yâmen.”

“Even thus, how may we reach him?”

“In due time. That was not my plan.”

The men of the Togra cursed uneasily. Each moment increased their fear, a fact which did not escape Khlit.

“Harken, Dokadur Khan,” he continued. “My thought was that a picked few of us can win through the forces of Wei Chung tonight with darkness. The rest can hold the Togra. The ravines are well nigh impregnable if well held. Have you a place where the women and children can be concealed?”

“Aye, a rocky gorge near the lake. It is reached by a hidden tunnel.”

“It is well.” Khlit snapped his whip as if reaching a decision. “But this must be a fair bargain, Dokadur Khan. My men must have fresh horses and good ones. There must be no further talk of lies or treachery. We are of one race, we plainsmen, and the yellow faces are our enemies. If we hold together, we will win free. But you must do as I order.”

The slant eyes of the khan narrowed as he considered this. Here was a request that endangered his own prestige. If Khlit took the reins of leadership and was successful, his men would hold him in contempt. The Cossack shrewdly guessed what was in his mind.

“We will do more than win free,” he said. “We will gain spoil the equal of three years of your raids. I promised it, and it will come to pass. Thus your men will be rewarded.”

“Where is this spoil?”

“The Golden Tomb. The gateway is unearthed.”

To a man they stared at him, and Dokadur Khan gnawed his mustache. How might they go to the Golden Tomb when their own lives were in danger?

“The Togra is a natural fortress,” explained Khlit, who was watching him. “None can defend it so well as you. Arrange the defense as best suits you. The Chinese attack upon us, under Wei Chung, will draw them all to the Togra. Wei Chung dares not turn back until we are slain, for we are witnesses against him when

any can be found to hear us. In the excitement the Golden Tomb will be forgotten. It will be lightly guarded. With darkness I will take a hundred men, pass through the ranks of Wei Chung and ride to the tomb.”

“I will go with you,” meditated the khan.

“As pleases you. Tomorrow, when we have gained the ear of Li Yuan and the nobles, the attack on the Togra will be given up, for Wei Chung and Ch’en Ti-jun must hasten back to the Lady Li, their ally, if suspicion is aroused against them.”

Dokadur Khan hesitated. If Khlit went with them, they need not suspect treachery from him, because he would be at their mercy. Yet the prospect of the ride across the frontier troubled him. For the third time Khlit guessed at his thought.

“In the Golden Tomb,” he added, “is the wealth of an emperor, riches enough to load a dozen horses. We will take the extra horses with us. And at the Golden Tomb we may win safety from the wiles of Wei Chung.”

“It will be dangerous,” objected the Khirghiz, who nevertheless saw the eyes of his men glitter.

“Nay, Khan,” growled Arslan suddenly, “if you follow not the plan of the Curved Saber, our heads shall decorate the saddles of Wei Chung’s men in any case. Is there no danger in that? Are we sleek sheep to wait in a huddle for the happy dispatch of the butcher?”

A growl of agreement rose from the bandits. Dokadur Khan lifted his hand in decision.

“It shall be as you say, Khlit.”

“Remember, Dokadur Khan,” warned the Cossack, “there will be many slain. This is not a game of children. Ho, men of the Togra, have you good heart for kingly spoil and the clash of sharp swords? Will you put your strength against the evil brain of the eunuch?”

“Aye!” shouted those within hearing. “We be of good heart,” added one. “We will follow the Curved Saber!” shouted another, the one who had been with Arslan.

“It is well,” said Khlit, satisfied. “Now, do you see to the defense of the ravines, Dokadur Khan. You have skill at that. I and those with me will sleep until the shadows are long in the after-noon, for we are weary. Then waken us, having picked a hundred good men.”

And Arslan wondered to himself. He had seen a man worn and hunted, with only seven followers, win mastery over a thousand who wished him ill rather than good. And he had watched the plan of that man put into action over the objections of the khan of the Togra. Yet he had a doubt. Were they to face Li Yuan, loaded with the spoil of the Golden Tomb? If not, how were they to win back to safety with their burden? And what of the Lady Li, who was still at the yâmen with many followers?

The six who had ridden with Khlit to the Togra had not slept in thirty hours, and they quickly fell into a doze after retreating a short distance into the ravines to a cleared place which served as a meeting spot for the tribesmen. The Cossack, however, did not join them until he had seen to the selection of eight fresh horses for himself and his followers and the preparation of a good meal against their waking. Arslan aided him in this, for the confusion in the place was great, owing to the preparations of Dokadur Khan.

Khlit did not rest until everything had been arranged to his satisfaction. This done, he seated himself on his saddle, back against a sheltering rock, and was asleep on the moment. Arslan noticed that a small urchin of the encampment stood beside Khlit, holding his horse, and refused to move. When he questioned the boy, the Khirghiz told him that he had once guided Khlit out of the Togra and was waiting in hopes of being taken on the expedition that night.

“Ho, small warrior,” chuckled the archer, “we take no one who cannot quaff a bucket of the Ming men’s blood. But, if the jade Fortune blesses my bow, you shall have the skull of one Ch’en Ti-jun to play with ere nightfall.”

With that he swaggered off to his horse, and sought the ranks of the tribesmen.

Dokadur Khan was a skilled leader at this form of warfare. Moreover, his men were fired by hatred of those who had invaded their fastness. It was too late to try to hold the entrances to the Togra, but within these Dokadur Khan had distributed his men in ambush at strategic points.

Arslan knew that the narrow, rocky gorges would afford little cover to the Chinese. Few trees grew in the place, and frequently the ravines contained streams up which Wei Chung’s soldiers must force their way, coming as often as not to the blind barrier of a waterfall. The tribesmen knew the ground thoroughly and used their knowledge to good advantage.

Attracted by scattered shots, Arslan made his way to a height where a score of the Khirghiz held one of the main approaches of the Togra. Dismounting, the Manchu saw that the ranks of the mandarins’ troops had been thinned by the arrows of those above and they were giving ground in confusion. Their few pistols and arquebuses, badly aimed, were not sufficient to annoy the concealed bowmen.

“This is but idle sport,” laughed Arslan. “Come, we will make music for our friends below.”

Unslinging the guitar from which he rarely parted, he struck the strings and sang, exposing himself recklessly.

In the land of the mighty bowmen

The Ming men come,

To find a doughty foeman

In his Togra home.

Heedless of the pistol balls which sped near him, he composed another verse.

The fox is in his burrow,

O wise Wei Chung!

Red wine will warm the furrow

Of the Liao Tung.

He ceased his chant as the scattered soldiers in the ravine be-low gave back against the cliffs. The men beside him peered out from their concealment in time to see an array of armor-clad foot-men advancing through the ranks of the routed horsemen. Over their vital parts they wore heavy-quilted pads. At their head went a banner of one of the armies of Wan Li.

“Oho,” muttered Arslan, unslinging his bow, “here we have a goose that will require another kind of plucking. Fall to, good sirs, with your arrows and decorate yonder quilts for me.”

The archers plied their shafts. A few of the foot-soldiers fell, struck in the face and throat, but the majority passed on, closing up their files. These were not the mounted rabble of the hunt, but paid soldiers of the emperor, intent, as they believed, on avenging his death.

“Drop your bows, good sirs,” directed Arslan, noting the ill-success of the arrows, “and we will make cannon of ourselves and bump the helmets of the gentry beneath us.”

The tribesmen caught his idea and fell to with a will, some of the older men and boys who had been hiding behind them dragging up the stones and the archers launching them over the cliff. Several rocks, bounding down the ravine, did good execution, but the trained soldiery parted their ranks to let them roll through and pressed forward, although more slowly.

Even Arslan’s high good humor, bred by the prospect of battle, was beginning to fail when there was a shout from his companions. Down the ravine he saw a body of horsemen galloping, led by one of the lieutenants of Dokadur Khan. The mounted men struck the first ranks of the Chinese and crumpled them, pressing them back on those in the rear. Their armor was poor protection against the expert swords of the riders, and they gave ground.

It was not the custom of the tribesmen to continue such a hot hand-to-hand conflict, and they withdrew presently, leaving the Chinese badly cut up by their charge. The invaders halted where they were, waiting the coming of reinforcements before

renewing their efforts. Seeing this, Arslan mounted and left the spot, seeking Ch’en Ti-jun.

Much the same kind of conflict was raging in the other ravines, the tribesmen inflicting heavy losses on the Chinese and with-drawing slowly when overmatched. The struggle was bitter, neither side asking quarter, but it was difficult for the Chinese to gain the heights as they were ignorant of the paths up the rocks. Whenever they attempted to climb the cliffs, old men and boys of the Togra greeted them with rocks and spear points. By late afternoon the Chinese had won forward only a few miles at a heavy cost.

Arslan noted the success of his new companions with high glee. He was untiring in his efforts to locate Ch’en Ti-jun, and by diligent inquiries he was finally successful. The lieutenant of Wei Chung was directing one of the attacks against the heights from his sedan-chair, attended by a few followers. Arslan rode to the spot at once, and his slant eyes glittered evilly as he looked down from a nest of rocks upon the gilt chair of the eunuch.

The distance, however, was too great for an arrow. Arslan surveyed the scene before him carefully. The bulk of the Chinese soldiery were pressing forward with shouts and cries into one of the passes beside him, harassed as they went by the vindictive tribesmen. Other groups of the eunuch’s horsemen were acting apparently as a reserve some distance in the rear. The sedan-chair rested in the center of a natural amphitheater, surrounded by rocky heights through which ran the pass the Chinese were assaulting.

The smile faded from the Manchu’s dark face as he unslung his bow and saw to his saddle girths. Gripping his steppe pony with his knees, he spurred forward quickly. The snorting horse slid and sprang downward among the rocks. Arslan kept his eyes fixed on the yellow sedan. So far he was unobserved.

“The philosophers have said,” he muttered piously, “that with the slayer of his brother alive a man may not rest unavenged. May I prosper in my honorable purpose!”

He was now clear of the last of the rocks and spurred his mount forward. A shout told him that the men around Ch’en Ti-jun had seen him. As he rode, he fitted arrow to bowstring and bent low in the saddle. Other shafts flew around him. The servants seized spears and swords and ran toward him. But the experienced archer swerved his horse, to pass the sedan at a short distance from it.

Then he launched his shaft, reaching over his shoulder for an-other from the quiver. Swiftly he sent three other arrows crashing through the brittle lacquer-work of the sedan and grinned as he heard a shrill scream. His horse stumbled and fell, struck by a pistol ball. The archer sprang clear nimbly and ran for the rocks on the further side of the clearing, waving his bow triumphantly. The servants pursued him.

From the sedan-chair the bearers saw dark drops falling to the earth. Ch’en Ti-jun no longer screamed.

Arslan had now gained the slope of the ravine, but a hue and cry was raised about him. He paused from time to time to discharge an arrow at his pursuers. The servants of the dead eunuch were soon distanced, but the Chinese men-at-arms nearby had observed him and were closing in.

The Manchu was forced to drop his bow and take to his sword. When a foeman appeared from behind the rocks, Arslan sprang at him with catlike agility, his small frame twisting and writhing.

From the first of these encounters he emerged successful. Men were now running toward him from all sides.

He stood in his tracks, swinging his short sword, his eyes red, agrin with the lust of slaying. Then he lifted his deep voice in song.

The tide of blood is flooding,

With the setting sun;

When I see the ravens brooding

Over Ch’en Ti-jun.

He cut a menacing spear point from its haft and slew the wielder. Then he hurled himself at the group of his enemies.

It was during the last of twilight that the Khirghiz lad, who had waited to see the departure of Khlit and his fellow horsemen, re-membered the words of the Manchu archer. Arslan, the child reflected, had been missed when the picked horsemen under Khlit and Dokadur Khan rode off.

Searching among the slain where Arslan had last been seen the boy came upon the archer. The Manchu was half-sitting, half-lying against a stone, and at first the grin stamped on his dark face deceived the lad into thinking he was still alive. A second glance showed him the breastplate torn off and the body hacked from throat to belt.

The boy did not pause by his Manchu acquaintance. He was too busy despoiling the other slain of their weapons. But after a moment’s consideration he left the body of Arslan unmolested. He remembered that he had heard that spirits of the unburied dead peopled the earth, and Arslan had been too hardy a warrior to risk enmity with his shade, fresh from the Rakchas and the ten courts of purgatory.

Khlit had missed Arslan at the assembly and guessed that his comrade was slain when he did not appear. But the business of the hundred riders could not wait. When the men were equipped and ready, he followed Dokadur Khan out of the Togra at the head of the horsemen, noting that they took the hidden path through which the boy he had befriended had led him on his first visit to the place.

The men, numbering one hundred and seven, counting Khlit and his surviving huntsmen, were picked with care from the bands of the Togra and were well mounted on fresh horses. Khlit had also seen that a score of led horses were brought. During the ride through the ravines, he let Dokadur Khan guide him, but once clear of the defiles he assumed the leadership himself. To this the Khirghiz made no objection. He had the good sense to see that the dice were now cast.

The safety of his own men, surrounded in the Togra, rested on the success of their expedition. The defenders of the wilderness could hold out for another day and night. After that they must have aid, or the forces of Wei Chung, embittered by their losses, must be withdrawn. His companions were satisfied that Khlit spoke the truth. The magic word, Golden Tomb, had been sufficient to still their doubts.

But, as Dokadur Khan rode after Khlit, who was leading them by landmarks and sight of the stars, through scattered bands of the Chinese, he bethought him. During the heat of the day’s conflict the khan had had little time for consideration of Khlit’s plan.

Now he reflected. It was true that Li Yuan and the older nobles would pay highly for proof of Wei Chung’s guilt. It might be true, furthermore, that they were at the yâmen at Liao. And that Khlit might reach them there, since Wei Chung’s party were at the outskirts of the Togra.

But would Li Yuan believe what they said? It would appear to the Ming nobles that the plainsmen were trying to throw guilt on the eunuch to save themselves. Lady Li was with the Ming party. Dokadur Khan had heard that the favorite had a guileful tongue. Who were they to confute her words? He knew that Wei Chung and the Lady Li were the ruling party at the court.

“I have considered all this,” Khlit answered briefly when Dokadur Khan drew up beside him and voiced his doubts. “In the Golden Tomb is that which will save us.”

Dokadur Khan weighed this laboriously in his mind and was not satisfied. Were they to plunder the tomb? That was well enough in its way. There would be much gold. But, once possessed of the treasure, after driving off or slaying the kang leen, they would be between the forces of Li Yuan and the eunuch.

How could they go to the Ming nobles with the wealth of the Golden Tomb in their hands and say that they came as friends? This was a heavy doubt, and to the slow mind of Dokadur Khan it appeared insuperable. Apparently they were to go first to the grave and then to the yâmen. How would they guard the treasure

when approaching the Ming party? In time it would be seen, and the truth would be known. Moreover, it would provide rare reasons for the nimble tongue of the Lady Li to pour into the ears of the nobles.

“Silence is best, Dokadur Khan,” snarled Khlit when he explained what was in his mind. “Does the condemned criminal debate with himself whether the noose that will hang him shall be silk or horsehair? Our plight, thanks to the evil Wei Chung, is no better than that. If we succeed, we shall save our skins and the lives of your folk in the Togra. If we fail, our fate will be no worse than in the Togra.”

“Nay,” growled the chieftain, “you have not heard of the torture of the red-hot nails driven slowly into the ears or that of the wooden donkey.”

“Aye, I have heard. But, if we win what we seek, the ears may happily be those of Wei Chung.”

“There may be truth in that. But harken, Khlit, you do not seek to hold the treasure of the Golden Tomb as ransom for our lives?”

“The treasure is vast. But thrice its worth would not serve to turn aside the vengeance of the Mings against those who have slain him they call the Son of Heaven.”

Dokadur Khan considered this in silence.

“Then you have proof that will convict Wei Chung?” he asked. To his surprise Khlit laughed.

“I have no proof.”

“If that be so, you cannot prove to Li Yuan that Wei Chung slew the emperor.”

“Nay, I cannot do so.”

“Nor that the Lady Li is guilty?”

“How should I have such proof?”

“You swore—”

“That at the Golden Tomb we may yet save our lives. Harken, Dokadur Khan, if you must think, consider this. In this land it is said that the spirit of the unburied will be met with by those

who are blood-guilty. Wei Chung and the Lady Li are guilty, and Li Yuan is a man of wisdom who knows the high arts of divination and magic.”

Whereupon Dokadur Khan, who understood not what Khlit had said, was silent. Which was what Khlit desired, for their task in reaching the Golden Tomb was difficult.

They rode fast, avoiding the caravan tracks and keeping to the plains. Fortunately the countryside was aroused by the news of Wan Li’s death, and such bands of soldiers as were in the vicinity of the yâmen were debating whether to take sides with the Ming nobles or Wei Chung. It was rumored that already the Lady Li had claimed the Dragon Throne for her infant son and was gathering troops to support her cause.

On the other hand the Ming party, consisting of those sent from Wan Li by Wei Chung before the hunt, was already nearing the yâmen. This served to throw the province of Liao into con-fusion in which it was possible for the small band of tribesmen to make their daring ride unmolested and almost unnoticed.

Only once more did Dokadur Khan speak when Khlit had halted to inquire the way of a peasant.

“If there is no proof and the gold treasure will avail us naught,” he said slowly, “what is it in the Golden Tomb that will save our lives?”

Khlit was silent for a moment.

“I followed Wan Li into the tomb entrance,” he responded. “And, while the emperor was kneeling before the shrine of his ancestor, I saw what gives me hope now and what brings us here.”

Dokadur Khan breathed quickly.

“Did you see Wan Li write something down and leave it in the tomb? He may have suspected Wei Chung.”

“He wrote nothing. I have said he prayed.”

“Then did Wei Chung leave proof of his guilt?”

“He has left no proof.”

“What, then?”

Khlit turned irritably in his saddle.

“This. See you that star ahead of us?”

“Aye, Khlit.”

“And its reflection in yonder pool of water?”

“Aye.”

“It is the star called by the wise Li Yuan the star of evil omen. He spoke truly. What I saw in the tomb was not the star. But it was like to it. Ho, Dokadur Khan,” laughed Khlit with sudden merriment, “I was looking at two emperors, one living and one dead. Yet before my eyes formed the image of death. When I tell what I know to Li Yuan he will understand. For he is a man of wisdom, while you are one without sense.”

Surely, thought Dokadur Khan, Khlit was mad. For how could he have seen the likeness of death with his eyes? And how could a dead man come to life to save their lives? Nay, they were doomed to the fate of the red-hot nails. For the peasant had said that the Chinese army and many of those at court were joining the ranks of Wei Chung and the Lady Li, and the cause of the Ming nobles appeared lost.

VI

The wisdom of a shrewd man is like finely tempered steel. It is like to a sword of rare workmanship.

For it may slay its owner in the same manner as the enemies of its possessor. But it does not blunder amiss.

The excitement that held the Liao province in its grip had reached the kang leen during that night in the seventh moon. The captain and soldiers who guarded the tombs in the pine hills were debating among themselves which party to join. In their quarreling they neglected to fill in the entrance to the Golden Tomb. It is not impossible that they considered, if civil war broke out in the Dragon Empire, they might despoil the mausoleum for themselves.

It is related in the chronicles of Wan Li that because of this confusion the kang leen neglected to post the usual sentries. Even as late as the third hour of that night they were gathered in groups

about the fires in front of their pavilion. Thus it was that they failed to see the troop of horsemen which approached swiftly from the plain, dividing at the first of the pine hills, to ride to either side.

Doubtless the neglect of the captain would have been punished by torture at the hands of his superiors if he had survived. It is written that the blight of an evil conscience falls upon a man without warning. In this case he had argued to his men that, by going over to the rising power of Wei Chung, whom he knew to be already hastening back to the yâmen and to Peking, they would be on the stronger side. And might also despoil the tomb without reproach, since they were no longer of the Ming party.

To this some objected that the spirits of the mighty dead might trouble them. But the treasure of the tomb, although they had not seen it, they knew to be of great value. Hence the majority sided with the captain. But, before they could act, the retribution for their evil intentions, as written in the annals of that year, was upon them.

From the pine clumps on either side of the fires came the hurried beat of horses’ hoofs, followed by cries of the soldiers by the outer fires. The kang leen ran for their arms which were scattered around the camp, as they had become careless in their talk. They saw the flash of swords in the firelight, and two groups of horsemen rode among the fires, one from the north, one from the south.

The captain of the kang leen was among the first slain. His men, surprised and ignorant of their foes, made a poor defense for picked troops of the Liao province. Some formed in groups with their spears; others fled into the darkness, but the greater part submitted to slaughter with the fatality of their race. The invading horsemen made no prisoners. To the fleeing kang leen it seemed that the evil they had summoned upon their heads had been swift in coming.

Khlit saw to it that no fugitives were left, concealed in the pine clumps. He had lost few men in the attack. He sent some of his

horsemen to harry the scattered guardians of the tomb and others to set fire to the pavilion so that they should have an abundance of light to work by. When he was satisfied that the place held no more of his enemies, he summoned Dokadur Khan with a few men and approached the entrance to the tomb.

The flames that rose from the pavilion that had sheltered the kang leen showed him that little earth had been restored to the excavation. Some had fallen in from the sides; that was all. Doubtless the news of Wan Li’s death had interrupted the work of filling in the earth over the stairs.

With the tools that lay at hand he had his men clear the steps. By this time all the plainsmen had returned from their tasks and were clustered about the excavation, staring. Only Dokadur Khan and a few others went with him down the steps. They had heard what he had said about the spirits of the dead.

These few carried torches. By their light Khlit set about opening the massive stone gate. The fastenings were of heavy iron, and the gate itself was a foot or more in thickness. It was some time before the way was clear for it to swing back.

Then it took a dozen stout fellows to move it on its stone hinges. It creaked slowly open, and the tribesmen hung back. It was a place of the dead, and none of them cared to enter except Khlit, who lacked superstition. Nevertheless the Cossack’s eyes shone strangely under their shaggy brows as he led Dokadur Khan and the torch-bearers forward into the grave tunnel.

The stale odor of cold and confined air struck their nostrils, and their boots echoed on the stone. The tribesmen glanced curiously at the lofty pillars of teakwood and at the further door.

Khlit walked the length of the grave tunnel in silence and pushed open the inner door, which was lighter, being designed to be swung back by one man. Standing within the threshold of the inner door, they now saw the cavernous grave chamber, lighted by the everlasting candles of the tomb. And the plainsmen halted in their tracks with muttered oaths. Before them glittered the wealth of the Golden Tomb.

And in the tomb stood Wan Li.

The Lord of Ten Thousand Years faced them impassively, his wide-sleeved arms folded across his deep chest, the candlelight caressing the sheen of his silk robe. Only his eyes moved, eyes under which were dark circles, searching from face to face.

Dokadur Khan recognized him and drew a deep breath of amazement. Here was the man the empire mourned as dead. Or was it really a living man? He swore softly but, looking long, was reassured. It was Wan Li, undoubtedly alive. His followers were uncertain, gaping and moving uneasily while they looked from Khlit to Dokadur Khan and from them to Wan Li. They had forgotten the wealth that they had first seen in their bewilderment. Only Khlit was tranquil.

“As I promised, Dokadur Khan,” he said grimly, “here is what will save our lives. The Son of Heaven was left by Wei Chung in the tomb of his ancestor.”

The emperor spoke sharply, but none among the plainsmen understood his words, which were in the dialect of Peking, the court speech. Dokadur Khan swore again; then he laughed gruffly. Then he stared at Khlit.

“How has this come to pass?” he asked, and the men hung upon Khlit’s response, pressing forward.

“Stand back,” commanded the Cossack sharply. “Wan Li is no foe of ours. Moreover, his safety means our lives. Nay, the matter is simple. I have said I came to the tomb, watching Wan Li from the shadows. As I said, I saw the dead emperor in his coffin and the living monarch, Wan Li. And also the image. For, as I watched, I saw another enter the tomb after me, unseen by Wan Li. It was a eunuch, much like the emperor in face, and dressed in similar robes. He it was who walked from the tomb, while Wan Li was shut within by his enemies. I saw it from the shadows of the stairs.”

Dokadur Khan’s mind moved slowly, and here was a weighty matter. He stared at the tall figure before him, wetting his bearded lips.

“And the other,” he asked, “the false Wan Li—”

“Was a servant of Wei Chung’s. He was not suspected by the soldiery without the tomb when he walked to the sedan-chair, for what reason had they to doubt he was Wan Li? The mind of Wei Chung is dark and evil as that of a serpent.”

“Then he planned to have Wan Li die in the tomb?”

“Without doubt. Of starvation and thirst. Harken, O slow of wit. See you not he plotted the death of the emperor. But it was needful to do it without casting suspicion on himself. He could not slay the Son of Heaven. So he slew the servant, being treacherous even to his own men and heedless of the life of one who served him. It was when he helped the false Wan Li into the sedan that he slew him with a knife. I saw the wound by the light of the fire that consumed the sedan.”

The emperor stared at Khlit, striving to fathom what he said. In spite of his plight, he did not lose his habitual dignity.

“In this way,” concluded Khlit, “Wei Chung silenced the mouth of the servant that might have betrayed him—for the race is one without honor—and, if he should have been discovered in that act, he could have said he did it to punish one who had assumed the person of the emperor. But he was not seen, and the chair with its body was burned as he plotted—”

“To hide the body that might have bared the trick,” swore Dokadur Khan.

“And to cast the guilt upon us to conceal what he had done. That was why he wished to slay all who were present.”

“Aye,” assented the khan, who saw light at last and could understand this. “Death silences tale-bearers.”

In the annals of Wan Li it is written that during the hunt of the seventh moon, when the star of evil omen was ascendant, Wan Li was missed for a day and night, being thought slain, until he was restored to Li Yuan and other nobles by a band of huntsmen who had found him.

That is all that is written, because much was left out owing to the evil influence of the eunuchs about the emperor. Still, the chronicles state that an open rebellion by the forces of the Lady Li was only averted by the fortunate appearance of the Son of Heaven at the yâmen. Owing to this the silken cord of happy dispatch was sent to the Lady Li, for her slim throat, by order of Wan Li himself.

Khlit had kept his imperial prisoner by his side and, escorted by Dokadur Khan and the remaining huntsmen, sought for and found the party of Li Yuan and the Ming nobles who were en-camped near the yâmen, a few hours’ ride from the tomb. In the ranks of the Togra men a man was found who could converse with the emperor, and through him it was explained that his huntsmen had seen him imprisoned in the tomb and had rescued him. Whereupon they gave the Son of Heaven food and wine.

This done, Wan Li promised them that their lives should be safeguarded and they should receive a fitting reward. All this does not appear in the annals of his reign, owing to the power of Wei Chung, who censored all that was written.

Khlit and Dokadur Khan saw that Wan Li was delivered to Li Yuan, who greeted him on bent knees, accompanied by the other nobles of his party.

“It is a night of true beneficence,” murmured the delighted astrologer. “Because the influence of the star of evil omen has been overcome by the rising birth-star of the Son of Heaven and the Lord of Ten Thousand Years.”

Khlit did not understand this. He waited impatiently on his horse while the court kowtowed. He saw the silken cord of suicide sent to the beautiful favorite, without understanding what it meant.

But Wei Chung, who had arrived at the yâmen, heard, and sent a messenger to Wan Li bearing congratulations on his return and saying that his faithful servant, Wei Chung-hsien, had been striving to punish those who had conspired against the throne, the evil servants of the doomed Lady Li—so said the messenger—and who

had nearly caused the Son of Heaven to lose his life while in the care of Wei Chung, who was innocent—thus ran the message—of all blame, because he had not been aware of the conspiracy of the Lady Li nor of the eunuch who had impersonated Wan Li.

“It is a lie!” Li Yuan had cried, lifting his clenched fists.

But Wan Li had hesitated. Nor would he give the word to slay the eunuch.

Hearing of what had passed from the plainsmen who under-stood the talk, Khlit did not at first believe that Wei Chung was actually to be spared. But his own eyes told him that Wan Li hesitated, unwilling to believe evil of the chief eunuch. Where-upon Khlit swore and whispered to Dokadur Khan to assemble his men. Unnoticed in the confusion, they left the yâmen. Riding swiftly, they gained the plain.

There they met the rest of their men with loaded pack horses. Under cover of darkness they made their way out to the Togra. Dokadur Khan swaggered jubilantly in his saddle.

“Hey, old warrior,” he cried familiarly to Khlit, “it is a good night’s work. The spoil of the Golden Tomb, taken after we left with Wan Li, will well repay my men. Half of the treasure, as you have asked, will be sent to the Tatars, your old friends. You have served well me and mine, and I will see that the division is even, to the weight of a hair. The Tatars shall have a royal gift from you.”

Khlit did not reply at once.

“I have seen the master of a million men,” he said at length, “and he is a weaker man than you or Arslan or I. For he cannot safeguard the lives of those who are his friends. Nor can he save his own. He will yet die by the hand of Wei Chung.”

The tribesmen listened, for these were the words of one who had done them a great service. But they understood them not. At Khlit’s next speech, however, they laughed with him.

“Hey, good sirs,” he cried, leaning forward and patting the neck of his horse, “we have our lives and our good horses, and the free steppe is before us. It is well.”