“Alas!” exclaimed Ping Siang, “this person now certainly begins to perceive that many things which he has unthinkingly allowed would present a very unendurable face to others.”

“In such a manner has it appeared to all Ching-fow,” said Yang Hu; “and the justice of your death has been universally admitted.  Even should this one fail there would be an innumerable company eager to take his place.  Therefore, O Ping Siang, as the only favour which it is within this person’s power to accord, select that which in your opinion is the most agreeable manner and weapon for your end.”

“It is truly said that at the Final Gate of the Two Ways the necessity for elegant and well-chosen sentences ends,” remarked Ping Siang with a sigh, “otherwise the manner of your address would be open to reproach.  By your side this person perceives a long and apparently highly-tempered sword, which, in his opinion, will serve the purpose efficiently.  Having no remarks of an improving but nevertheless exceedingly tedious nature with which to imprint the occasion for the benefit of those who come after, his only request is that the blow shall be an unhesitating and sufficiently well-directed one.”

At these words Yang Hu threw back his cloak to grasp the sword-handle, when the Mandarin, with his eyes fixed on the naked arm, and evidently inspired by every manner of conflicting emotions, uttered a cry of unspeakable wonder and incomparable surprise.

“The Serpent!” he cried, in a voice from which all evenness and control were absent.  “The Sacred Serpent of our Race!  O mysterious one, who and whence are you?”

Engulfed in an all-absorbing doubt at the nature of events, Yang could only gaze at the form of the serpent which had been clearly impressed upon his arm from the earliest time of his remembrance, while Ping Siang, tearing the silk garment from his own arm and displaying thereon a similar form, continued: 

“Behold the inevitable and unvarying birthmark of our race!  So it was with this person’s father and the ones before him; so it was with his treacherously-stolen son; so it will be to the end of all time.”

Trembling beyond all power of restraint, Yang removed the mask which had hitherto concealed his face.

“Father or race has this person none,” he said, looking into Ping Siang’s features with an all-engaging hope, tempered in a measure by a soul-benumbing dread; “nor memory or tradition of an earlier state than when he herded goats and sought for jade in the southern mountains.”

“Nevertheless,” exclaimed the Mandarin, whose countenance was lightened with an interest and a benevolent emotion which had never been seen there before, “beyond all possibility of doubting, you are this person’s lost and greatly-desired son, stolen away many years ago by the treacherous conduct of an unworthy woman, yet now happily and miraculously restored to cherish his declining years and perpetuate an honourable name and race.”