“Never have I beheld such a nose,” he began.
“There is a wart upon it,” said Yi Chin Ho.
“Never have I beheld—” Pak Chung Chang began again.
“Bring your father before me,” Yi Chin Ho interrupted sternly.
“My ancient and very-much-to-be-respected ancestor sleeps,” said Pak Chung Chang.
“Why dissemble?” demanded Yi Chin Ho. “You know it is your father's nose. Bring him before me that I may strike it off and be gone. Hurry, lest I make bad report of you.”
“Mercy!” cried Pak Chung Chang, falling on his knees. “It is impossible! It is impossible! You cannot strike off my father's nose. He cannot go down without his nose to the grave. He will become a laughter and a byword, and all my days and nights will be filled with woe. O reflect! Report that you have seen no such nose in your travels. You, too, have a father.”
Pak Chung Chang clasped Yi Chin Ho's knees and fell to weeping on his sandals.
“My heart softens strangely at your tears,” said Yi Chin Ho. “I, too, know filial piety and regard. But—” He hesitated, then added, as though thinking aloud, “It is as much as my head is worth.”
“How much is your head worth?” asked Pak Chung Chang in a thin, small voice.