This lake, so like a jewel in its brilliancy, is studded with innumerable islands adorned with palaces and temples and on one of the larger islands, near the north shore, is a viceregal palace used as a suburban dwelling by the Viceroy of Chukiang.
One spring afternoon, when the pink petals lay strewn about, the Viceroy sat in the sun on a marble terrace thoughtfully munching his melon seeds, occasionally throwing one to the goldfish and turtles that crowded toward the terrace bank, snuffling, flopping but impatient to be fed. On a high ebony table beside his pipe and tea bowl lay a package of papers and at intervals the Viceroy re-perused some part of their contents, then placidly resumed his melon seeds, gazing over the lake to the hills bright in their spring foliage, to the slopes pink with blossoms, to the lake’s edge, fringed with the feathery bamboo. The shadow of a wutung tree slowly creeping across the terrace passed over the table and, hiding his bare grey head from the warm rays of the spring sun, aroused him from his meditation; again he looked over the papers then raised his hand.
In a moment Ho Ling, Mandarin of the Fifth Rank, came from an adjoining pavilion and bowed before him.
“I have read these reports,” said the Viceroy gruffly, decisively tapping the package of papers. “They are guilty, and to-morrow shall die.”
The mandarin bowed.
“Justice,” continued the Viceroy, “is an excellent thing—when not delayed; to put off the punishment of the guilty is to destroy the dignity of the state—a procrastinating Justice is the buffoon of the populace. Do you understand?” And squinting his eyes, the Viceroy surveyed inquisitively the mandarin, who bowed repeatedly, uneasily.
“You were one day late.”
The mandarin continued bowing.
“Well!” demanded the Viceroy, impatiently tapping the papers that were spread upon his knees.
“I stopped——”