his time had come. The seal thus set to the fate of his acquaintance was a severe shock to poor Ts'èng. His tongue refused to speak, and he durst not look on the face of the condemned man. But Lung was quite unmoved.
"You see," he said, addressing Ts'èng, "my race is run, and I only hope that if ever you should be in a like position, you may be enabled to face the future with the same composure that I do, and to place as sure a faith in the loving tenderness of the Great Mother of us all, as that which now supports me."
Ts'èng was too much overcome to utter a word, but wrung his friend's hands, and with weeping eyes watched him led off to be questioned by the judge before being borne to the execution-ground.
This event cast a gloom over the prison for the rest of the day; and the approach of night, even though it entailed a retreat into the close and fetid atmosphere of the cell, was a relief to all. The next morning, immediately after breakfast, the jailer paid another visit to the courtyard and summoned Ts'èng to appear before the magistrate. The contrast between his last interview with his judge and the present occasion, covered Ts'èng with shame and remorse. As he entered the judgment-hall he scarcely ventured to lift his eyes to his former host, who was seated behind a large table covered with red cloth, attended by secretaries, interpreters, and turnkeys. He thought it just possible that when the magistrate recognised him he would pay him some consideration. But these hopes were rudely dispelled when two of the executioners, who stood at the foot of the dais, taking him by the arms, forced him on his knees. At the same moment, at a signal from the magistrate, one of the secretaries read out the accusation, in which he was charged with having murdered "a wandering pedlar, named Ting."
"Are you guilty of this charge, or not guilty?" asked the magistrate, in a cold, clear voice.
"Not guilty, your Excellency," said Ts'èng, vaguely hoping that his denial would be sufficient.
"Call the witnesses," said the magistrate; and to Ts'èng's horror, at a sign from the secretary, Tan stepped forward and fell on his knees.
"Now tell us what you know of this matter," said the magistrate.
Thus adjured, Tan told the whole story from beginning to end, and though he laid great stress on the pressure Ts'èng had put upon him to induce him to help to bury the body, he, on the whole, made his statement plainly and truthfully. Still Ts'èng thought it possible that, if no other evidence was produced, his word would be taken against his servant's, – at all events, the only answer that occurred to his confused mind was a flat denial.
"The whole story, your Excellency, is a lie from beginning to end," he said, "and is invented by this man out of spite, in consequence of my having had occasion to flog him for a gross falsehood and breach of trust." The confident manner in which Ts'èng made this uncompromising assertion, evidently produced a favourable effect on the magistrate, who, turning to Tan, asked –
"Have you any evidence of the truth of your story?"
"Well, your Excellency, I can show you where we buried the body, and where it is at this moment, if it has not been removed."
At these words Ts'èng, who felt the ground slipping from under
