avail the golden carp in the shallow waters of the Yuen-Kiang?  A prickly mormosa is an adequate protection against a naked man armed only with a just cause, and a company of bowmen has been known to quench an entire city’s Heaven-felt desire for retribution.  This person, and doubtless others also, would have experienced a more heartfelt enthusiasm in the matter if the sublime and omnipotent Buddha had gone a step further, and pointed out not only the one to be punished, but also the instrument by which the destiny could be prudently and effectively accomplished.”

From the mountain path which led to Yang Hu’s cave came a voice, like an expressly devised reply to this speech.  It was that of some person uttering the “Chant of Rewards and Penalties”: 

  “How strong is the mountain sycamore! 
  “Its branches reach the Middle Air, and the eye of none can pierce
      its foliage;
  “It draws power and nourishment from all around, so that weeds
      alone may flourish under its shadow. 
  “Robbers find safety within the hollow of its trunk; its branches
      hide vampires and all manner of evil things which prey upon
      the innocent;
  “The wild boar of the forest sharpen their tusks against the bark,
      for it is harder than flint, and the axe of the woodsman turns
      back upon the striker. 
  “Then cries the sycamore, ’Hail and rain have no power against me,
      nor can the fiercest sun penetrate beyond my outside fringe;
  “’The man who impiously raises his hand against me falls by his
      own stroke and weapon. 
  “’Can there be a greater or a more powerful than this one? 
      Assuredly, I am Buddha; let all things obey me.’ 
  “Whereupon the weeds bow their heads, whispering among themselves,
      ’The voice of the Tall One we hear, but not that of Buddha. 
      Indeed, it is doubtless as he says.’ 
  “In his musk-scented Heaven Buddha laughs, and not deigning to
      raise his head from the lap of the Phoenix Goddess, he thrusts
      forth a stone which lies by his foot. 
  “Saying, ’A god’s present for a god.  Take it carefully, O
      presumptuous Little One, for it is hot to the touch.’ 
  “The thunderbolt falls and the mighty tree is rent in twain.  ’They
      asked for my messenger,’ said the Pure One, turning again to
      repose. 
  “Lo, he comes!”

With the last spoken word there came into the sight of those who were collected together a person of stern yet engaging appearance.  His hands and face were the colour of mulberry stain by long exposure to the sun, while his eyes looked forth like two watch-fires outside a wolf-haunted camp.  His long pigtail was tangled with the binding tendrils of the forest, and damp with the dew of an open couch.  His apparel was in no way striking or brilliant, yet he strode with the dignity and air of a high official, pushing before him a covered box upon wheels.