Su Chin, the Buddhist, who wept so copiously into his wine that its spirit was drowned by the tears.
As evening stalked over the fields, and the sun dropped beyond the far hills to die, their conversation slurred off into an unintelligible babble. They drank till they drooled at the lips. Then they started drinking all over again. Daylight faded, stars snapped out, a bright moon climbed the stairs of the sky. On and on they drank, and the tavern-keeper grew rich. On and on. Sometimes the wine flowed down their necks when they missed their mouths but no matter. Wine, more wine.
Ho Chih-chang fell out of his chair, rolled under a table, curled up like a cat and went peacefully to sleep. The Buddhist, Su Chin, was wallowing about in such a flood of tears he was momentarily in danger of death by submersion. Li Shih-chih sat moodily plotting the destruction of Li Lin-fu. He was working out the details of a dignified and profound execution. He would return to Changan with a great sword hidden in his voluminous sleeves. He would seek out Li Lin-fu. First he would bow. Then Li Lin-fu would bow. Then quickly he would raise his sword and chop off the Premier's head.
He confided his plans to Li Po, who was highly pleased, for he had had a similar notion.
"That," he said unsteadily, "would not only be a fitting death but one with considerable decorum."
But, alas, before Shih-chih could set off on his noble enterprise, he toppled into sleep.
