to his,
burning incense and weeping before the grinning idols.

Again the great Yung-lo was seated on the platform in Kwan-yu's foundry,
and again his courtiers hovered round him, but this time, as it was
winter, they did not flirt the silken fans. The Great One was certain
that this casting would be successful. He had been lenient with Kwan-yu
on the first occasion, and now at last he and the great city were to
profit by that mercy.

Again he gave the signal; once more every neck was craned to see the
flowing of the metal. But, alas! when the casing was removed it was seen
that the new bell was no better than the first. It was, in fact, a
dreadful failure, cracked and ugly, for the gold and silver and the
baser elements had again refused to blend into a united whole.

With a bitter cry which touched the hearts of all those present, the
unhappy Kwan-yu fell upon the floor. This time he did not bow before his
master, for at the sight of the miserable conglomeration of useless
metals his courage failed him, and he fainted. When at last he came to,
the first sight that met his eyes was the scowling face of Yung-lo. Then
he heard, as in a dream, the stern voice of the Son of Heaven:

"Unhappy Kwan-yu, can it be that you, upon whom I have ever heaped my
favours, have twice betrayed the trust? The first time, I was sorry
for you and willing to forget, but now that sorrow has turned into
anger--yea, the anger of heaven itself is upon you. Now, I bid you mark
well my words. A third chance you shall have to cast the bell, but if on
that third attempt you fail--then by order of the Vermilion Pencil both
you and Ming-lin, who recommended you, shall pay the penalty."

For a long time after the Emperor had departed, Kwan-yu lay on the floor
surrounded by his attendants, but chief of all those who tried to
restore him was his faithful daughter. For a whole week he wavered
between life and death, and then at last there came a turn in his
favour. Once more he regained his health, once more he began his
preparations.

Yet all the time he was about his work his heart was heavy, for he felt
that he would soon journey into the dark forest, the region of the great
yellow spring, the place from which no pilgrim ever returns. Ko-ai, too,
felt more than ever that her father was in the presence of a great
danger.

"Surely," she said one day to her mother, "a raven must have flown over
his head. He is like the proverb of the blind man on