“Yanggukeni chajin anga
      Wheanpong tora deunda,
   The thick fog of the Westerners
      Broods over Whean peak.”

For forty years I was a beggar of Cho-Sen.  Of the fourteen of us that were cast away only I survived.  The Lady Om was of the same indomitable stuff, and we aged together.  She was a little, weazened, toothless old woman toward the last; but ever she was the wonder woman, and she carried my heart in hers to the end.  For an old man, three score and ten, I still retained great strength.  My face was withered, my yellow hair turned white, my broad shoulders shrunken, and yet much of the strength of my sea-cuny days resided in the muscles left me.

Thus it was that I was able to do what I shall now relate.  It was a spring morning on the cliffs of Fusan, hard by the highway, that the Lady Om and I sat warming in the sun.  We were in the rags of beggary, prideless in the dust, and yet I was laughing heartily at some mumbled merry quip of the Lady Om when a shadow fell upon us.  It was the great litter of Chong Mong-ju, borne by eight coolies, with outriders before and behind and fluttering attendants on either side.

Two emperors, civil war, famine, and a dozen palace revolutions had come and gone; and Chong Mong-ju remained, even then the great power at Keijo.  He must have been nearly eighty that spring morning on the cliffs when he signalled with palsied hand for his litter to be rested down that he might gaze upon us whom he had punished for so long.

“Now, O my king,” the Lady Om mumbled low to me, then turned to whine an alms of Chong Mong-ju, whom she affected not to recognize.

And I knew what was her thought.  Had we not shared it for forty years?  And the moment of its consummation had come at last.  So I, too, affected not to recognize my enemy, and, putting on an idiotic senility, I, too, crawled in the dust toward the litter whining for mercy and charity.

The attendants would have driven me back, but with age-quavering cackles Chong Mong-ju restrained them.  He lifted himself on a shaking elbow, and with the other shaking hand drew wider apart the silken curtains.  His withered old face was transfigured with delight as he gloated on us.

“O my king,” the Lady Om whined to me in her beggar’s chant; and I knew all her long-tried love and faith in my emprise were in that chant.

And the red wrath was up in me, ripping and tearing at my will to be free.  Small wonder that I shook with the effort to control.  The shaking, happily, they took for the weakness of age.  I held up my brass begging bowl, and whined more dolefully, and bleared my eyes to hide the blue fire I knew was in them, and calculated the distance and my strength for the leap.

Then I was swept away in a blaze of red.  There was a crashing of curtains and curtain-poles and a squawking and squalling of attendants as my hands closed on Chong Mong-ju’s throat.  The litter overturned, and I scarce knew whether I was heads or heels, but my clutch never relaxed.