ut, empty air had filled his place. Wu
Chi acknowledged no memory of a son; he could claim no reverence as a
father. . . . Tiao's husband. . . . Then he was doubly
childless. . . . The woman and her seed had withered, as he had
prophesied.

On the one hand stood the Society, powerful enough to protect him in
every extremity, yet holding failure as treason; most terrible and
inexorable towards set disobedience. His body might find a painless
escape from their earthly torments, but by his oaths his spirit lay in
their keeping to be punished through all eternity.

That he was no longer Wu Chi's son, that he had no father--this
conviction had been strong enough to rule him in every contingency of
life save this. By every law of men and deities the ties between them
had been dissolved, and they stood as a man and man; yet the salt can
never be quite washed out of sea-water.

For a time which ceased to be hours or minutes, but seemed as a
fragment broken off eternity, he stood, motionless but most deeply
racked. With an effort he stooped to take the cord, and paused again;
twice he would have seized the dagger, but doubt again possessed him.
From a distant point of the house came the chant of a monk singing a
prayer and beating upon a wooden drum. The rays of the sun falling
upon the gilded roof in the garden again caught his eyes; nothing else
stirred.

"These in their turn have settled great issues lightly," thought Weng
bitterly. "Must I wait upon an omen?"

". . . submitting oneself to purifying scars," droned the voice far
off; "propitiating if need be by even greater self-inflictions . . ."

"It suffices," said Weng dispassionately, and picking up the knife he
turned to leave the room.

At the door he paused again, but not in an arising doubt. "I will
leave a token for Tiao to wear as a jest," was the image that had
sprung from his new abasement, and taking a sheet of parchment he
quickly wrote thereon: "A wave has beat from that distant shore to
this, and now sinks in the unknown depths."

Again he stepped noiselessly to the couch, drew the curtain and
dropped the paper lightly on the form. As he did so his breath
stopped; his fingers stiffened. Cautiously, on one knee, he listened
intently, lightly touched the face; then recklessly taking a hand he
raised the arm and suffered it to fall again. No power restrained it;
no alertness of awakening life came into the dull face. Wu Chi had
already Passed Beyond.