And as time passed they had less and less reason to trust Cheong-Chau, to think that they could rely upon his word. The man proved himself a reprobate. He was an opium drunkard; and that is a thing not so common in China as the majority of Europeans imagine.
It is true that opium is smoked throughout the length and breadth of the East. Indeed, the opium pipe in China is the equivalent to the British workman's glass of beer, and opium dens in that country are as common as public-houses in this.
At the same time, most Chinese are only moderate smokers. They do not smoke enough opium even to injure their health. The reason for this is obvious: opium, even in China, is very expensive, and the ordinary man cannot afford to buy much of it. Neither does opium happen to be a drug that does a great deal of harm unless it is taken in excess; it probably does infinitely less harm than alcohol. If taken in large doses, however, its results are disastrous and terrible.
For some reason or other--never explained by physiologists--repeated doses of opium sap the moral fibre. A man begins to smoke opium in a small way, but after a time he finds that he has to smoke double the quantity of pipes in order to get the desired result. And so on, until he finds himself taking doses that would kill one who was not inured to the drug. By that time he has lost everything a man should value most: his sense of honour, his will power, much of his physical strength, and his power of concentration. He is a degenerate whose mind is filled with the foulest, most perverted fancies, who is a stranger to truth, and who delights as often as not in committing the most fiendish of crimes.
Now Cheong-Chau was evidently such a man; for one night he rolled into the cave, awakening his captives--who for many hours had been fast asleep--by the blasphemy and violence of his language. His gait was unsteady; the pupils of his eyes, visible in the bright light of the fire, were small as pinheads. He carried in his hand a naked sword.
"I am Cheong-Chau," he shrieked. "Death to all foreign devils who dare set foot upon the sacred soil of China!"
Bursting into a loud laugh, he raised his sword as if he would strike down Mr Waldron, who had risen to his feet.
"Stay," cried the judge. "Have we not your oath--that if the money is paid you will not stain your hands in blood?"
"Oath!" cried the robber. "What are oaths and blood to me? Am I a Canton flower-girl or a Buddhist priest that I should not shed blood when the fancy takes me? Know that I am Cheong-Chau, the robber, who cares for neither oaths nor gods nor men."
For some reason or other he had singled out the American; and it looked most certain that, at that moment, the life of Mr Hennessy K. Waldron was in the greatest danger. However, Mr Waldron never moved an inch; he neither drew back nor showed the slightest sign of alarm. He held his ground, staring the villain boldly in the face.