“Oh, I am glad to see that you do not weep like the others. Are you a princess from the earth, or from chin hsing (venus)?”
“From the earth,” replied Ting Tsun, but he forgot to gentle his voice. The Moon Maiden shrank back.
“You are not a princess,” she accused.
“No, I am not a princess. These garments are a deceit. I was Prince Ting Tsun, when upon the earth. Now, I am Chang Pan—your slave.”
The Moon Maiden was quickly reassured and entered into talk with Ting Tsun, or humble Chang Pan, as he then called himself. She told the prince that she had lived with her parents on the far side of the moon—until the dragons came. Now she had no parents. And when the feast season of Brightest Light arrived the dragon King (Chao Ya, his name) would make her his bride. She knew the number of dragons—twenty-eight, one for each night in the month, and there was never more than one home at a given time. They could be slain only with the dragon King’s sword—a weapon that could slay the King himself. But—and the hopes of Prince Ting fell as she spoke—the King always kept the sword fastened at his waist. Yes, the loong King sometimes slept, but never more than once a day, and never for more than a few minutes. When? Just as the moon went down.
So Ting Tsun in his spotless maiden garb came upon the King asleep, and snatching up the monarch’s sword, awoke him and slew him. The blade had not yet done its sweep when it cleft the skull of a dragon who should have been guarding his King from harm.
The prince rejoiced at his success, howbeit rather modestly. His task had but started. There was many a chance for disaster. Death might lurk in a faltering blow, a lagging step, a momentary closing of the eyes.
By day the prince slept. By night he kept his post at the palace entrance. As each loong came crawling into his lair Prince Ting Tsun reached its heart with the dragon King’s sword. One thrust for each loong. One thrust each night, until a month had passed. In such manner His Valiant Highness destroyed the whole vile brood. His plans had carried through to triumph. Now he was free to return home and claim for his own the Princess Yun Chi. And a happy day it would be. He was happy now . . . oh, extremely happy. . . . Why shouldn’t he be happy? . . . the prince argued stoutly with himself. Yet his argument was not convincing. He would be compelled to leave the Moon Maiden. So his reasoning was hollow. He was not happy. He was sorrowful. He had grown fond of the Other World Princess.
But he must return to his own country. King Chan Ko had promised his daughter to whosoever should slay the dragon. In taking up battle, Prince Ting had given agreement to the terms. He was betrothed to the Princess Yun Chi.
The Moon Maiden was asleep when Prince Ting went to say good-bye. He would not wake her. He would go at once—after a last sad look. The sleeping princess stirred in her sleep and murmured. For another instant the royal youth paused. He heard his name murmured. He heard more—enough to amaze him, to weaken his will almost to the changing point. A moment more of listening, and Prince Ting Tsun must inevitably have remained upon the moon. But he would hear no more. He rushed from the palace, ashamed of his weakness, yet thrilled with pride.