"I had no such thought," said Frank.
Ling smiled again, regarding the boy even kindly--if such an expression may be used in regard to a man whose face was like that of a hawk.
"You are my friend," said he. "I know not why I like you. I think, because you are brave. I am not fool enough to believe for a moment that you love me; but I am sure that you have always realised that I am a just man, whereas Cheong-Chau was no better than a fiend. I would have you to understand--lest I be forced to harm you--that, wounded as I am, I am still master of this ship and master of you. My strength is going rapidly from me, as the tide goes down upon the margin of the sea, or as the sun sets when the day draws to its close. But I can still shoot, and if you play me false I shall kill you. Whilst the breath of life is within me, you will be wise to obey my orders."
He got to his feet, and walking more briskly than before, ascended to the upper deck, followed by Frank. There they hoisted the sail, and going to the forepart of the ship, hauled up the anchor. A minute later, the junk was sailing slowly down the river in the starlight, Ling holding the tiller.
With a skill that proved that he had spent a portion of his life upon the sea, he steered the junk into the narrow creek which had been entered by the launch. There Ling, assisted by Frank, lowered a gangway, conducting from the deck to the shore. The sail had been hauled down and the ship secured by hawsers made fast to the trunks of trees that grew upon the edge of the water.
Frank Armitage is never likely to forget that tragic night, its grim work and pitiful conclusion. He was led by Ling to the Glade of Children's Tears--so named, perhaps, because, in a barbarous age, the murdered infants had been buried there, and the temple erected so that men might pray to the heathen gods of China for those young souls who had passed so soon into the Celestial Kingdom.
The faint, cold light of the dying moon here and there pierced the branches of the trees, so that it was possible to distinguish the old moss-clad ruins, the great fallen images, and the lifeless body of the man whose very name had once spread terror from the Nan-ling Mountains to the sea. There was no sign of Tong; the man had evidently recovered consciousness and taken to his heels.
Frank stood by, a mute and wondering spectator of the fruitless efforts of the wounded giant. The air was heavy with the scent of the blossom which was on the trees; no sound disturbed the silence save the heavy breathing of Ling, becoming shorter and shorter as he worked, and the ceaseless washing of the water against the river bank.
Ling walked to the centre of the glade. His gait was steady, though his stride shorter than usual. He stood at his full height; and had he not once or twice carried a hand to his left side, the boy might have forgotten that the man suffered grievous pain and was weak from loss of blood.
He stood for a moment, thinking. It may have been that then he prayed to the god he worshipped, the god of Confucius and Mencius and the sages of all China: the Eternal Spirit of the Universe, the Incomprehensible Wisdom of the world.