him with a dish of sunflower seed that she had parched herself, he would reward her with a sad smile, but would by no means laugh with her and joke as had formerly been his custom. On the first and fifteenth day of every moon he went himself to the temple and implored the gods to grant him their friendly assistance, while Ke’ai added her prayers to his, burning incense and weeping before the grinning idols.
Again the great Yongluo was seated on the platform in Guanyou’s foundry, and again his courtiers hovered around 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 Guanyou 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 Guanyou 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 Yongluo. Then he heard, as in a dream, the stern voice of the Son of Heaven:
“Unhappy Guanyou, can it be that you, upon whom I have ever heaped my favors, 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 Minglin, who recommended you, shall pay the penalty.”
For a long time after the emperor had departed, Guanyou 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 favor. 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. Ke’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 the blind horse coming at midnight to a deep ditch. Oh, how can he cross over?”
Willingly would this dutiful daughter have done anything to save her loved one. Night and day she racked her brains for some plan, but all to no avail.
On the day before the third casting, as Ke’ai was sitting in front of her brass mirror braiding her long black hair, suddenly a little bird flew in at the window and perched upon her head. Immediately the startled maiden seemed to hear a voice as if some good fairy were whispering in her ear:
“Do not hesitate. You must go and consult the famous juggler who even now is visiting the city. Sell your jade-stones and other jewels, for this man of wisdom will not listen unless his attention is attracted by huge sums of money.”
The feathered messenger flew out of her room, but Ke’ai had heard enough to make her happy. She despatched a trusted servant to sell her jade and her jewels, charging him on no account to tell her mother. Then, with a great sum of money in her possession she sought out the magician who was said to be wiser than the sages in knowledge of life and death.
“Tell me,” she implored, as the graybeard summoned her to his presence, “tell me how I can save my father, for the emperor has ordered his death if he fails a third time in the casting of the bell.”
The astrologer, after plying her with questions, put on his tortoise-shell glasses and searched long in his book of knowledge. He also examined closely the signs of the heavens, consulting the mystic tables over and over again. Finally, he turned toward Ke’ai, who all the time had been awaiting his answer with impatience.
“Nothing could be plainer than the reason of your father’s failure, for when a man seeks to do the impossible, he can expect Fate to give him no other answer. Gold cannot unite with silver, nor brass with iron, unless the blood of a maiden is mingled with the molten metals, but the girl who gives up her life to bring about the fusion must be pure and good.”
With a sigh of despair Ke’ai heard the astrologer’s answer. She loved the world and all its beauties; she loved her birds, her companions, her father; she had expected to marry soon, and then there would have been children to love and cherish. But now all these dreams of happiness must be forgotten. There was no other maiden to give up her life for Guanyou. She, Ke’ai, loved her father and must make the sacrifice for his sake.
And so the day arrived for the third trial, and a third time Yongluo took his place in Guanyou’s factory, surrounded by his courtiers. There was a look of stern expectancy on his face. Twice he had excused his underling for failure. Now there could be no thought of mercy. If the bell did not come from its cast perfect in tone and fair to look upon, Guanyou must be punished with the severest punishment that could be meted out to man—even death itself. That was why there was a look of stern expectancy on Yongluo’s face, for he really loved Guanyou and did not wish to send him to his death.
As for Guanyou himself, he had long ago given up all thought of success, for nothing had happened since his second failure to make him any surer this time of success. He had settled up his business affairs, arranging for a goodly sum to go to his beloved daughter; he had bought the coffin in which his own body would be laid away and had stored it in one of the principal rooms of his dwelling; he had even engaged the priests and musicians who should chant his funeral dirge, and, last but not least, he had arranged with the man who would have charge of chopping off his head, that one fold of skin should be left uncut, as this would bring him better luck on his entry into the spiritual world than if the head were severed entirely from the body.
And so we may say that Guanyou was prepared to die. In fact, on the night before the final casting he had a dream in which he saw himself kneeling before the headsman and cautioning him not to forget the binding agreement the latter had entered into.
Of all those present in the great foundry, perhaps the devoted Ke’ai was the least excited. Unnoticed, she had slipped along the wall from the spot where she had been standing with her mother and had planted herself directly opposite the huge tank in which the molten, seething liquid bubbled, awaiting the signal when it should be set free. Ke’ai gazed at the emperor, watching intently for the well-known signal. when at last she saw his head move forward she sprang with a wild leap into the boiling liquid, at the same time crying in her clear, sweet voice:
“For thee, dear father! It is the only way!”
The molten white metal received the lovely girl into its ardent embrace, received her, and swallowed her up completely, as in a tomb of liquid fire.
And Guanyou—what of Guanyou, the frantic father? Mad with grief at the sight of his loved one giving up her life, a sacrifice to save him, he had sprung forward to hold her back from her terrible death, but had succeeded only in catching one of her tiny jewelled slippers as she sank out of sight for ever—a dainty, silken slipper, to remind him always of her wonderful sacrifice. In his wild grief as he clasped this pitiful little memento to his heart he would himself have leaped in and followed her to her death, if his servants had not restrained him until the emperor had repeated his signal and the liquid had been poured into the cast. As the sad eyes of all those present peered into the molten river of metals rushing
