Lin Chong, having killed Wang Lun, stood with his dagger still in hand and addressed the assembled men. “Though I was a military instructor sent here under sentence, today I have gathered with you heroes for a common cause. But Wang Lun’s heart was narrow; he envied talent and rejected the worthy, making excuses to refuse them shelter. For that reason I have burned him out in this fight—not because I seek his seat. With my courage and spirit, how could I dare oppose imperial troops or cut down the chief villains at court? Now we have Brother Chao Gai, who gives away wealth for righteousness and is full of wisdom and valor. All the world has heard his name, and none refuse to follow him. Today I put honor first: let him be master of this mountain. What say you?”

All cried out in agreement. But Chao Gai protested: “No. From ancient times, ‘a strong army does not press its host.’ However strong I may be, I am a newcomer from afar. How dare I take the highest place?” Lin Chong stepped forward, pushed Chao Gai into the commander’s chair, and shouted: “Today matters have come to a head—do not refuse! If anyone disobeys, let Wang Lun’s fate be his example.” After much urging, Chao Gai sat. Lin Chong then ordered all to bow before him in the pavilion. Some of the lesser bandits were sent to lay out a feast in the main hall; others carried away Wang Lun’s corpse; still others went through the mountain calling all the minor chiefs to gather for the council.

Then the company invited Chao Gai to mount a horse, and they all rode to the great hall. Before the Hall of Assembly they dismounted and climbed the steps. They seated Chao Gai in the central chair of honor, with incense burning before him. Lin Chong stepped forward: “I am but a rough fellow who knows a little of spear and staff—no learning, no talent, no strategy. This mountain has been blessed that so many heroes have gathered here, and our great cause is now clear, unlike the careless days before. The Professor is with us, so let him be our strategist, holding command over all troops and officers. He must take the second seat.” Wu Yong replied: “I am only a village scholar; I have no plan for ordering the realm. Though I have read some of Sun Wu’s art of war, I have never won even half a merit. How dare I sit above others?” Lin Chong said: “Matters are settled—no more modesty.” Wu Yong could only take the second seat.

Lin Chong then said: “Master Gongsun, please take the third seat.” Chao Gai objected: “That will not do. If we go on yielding like this, I must step down entirely.” Lin Chong answered: “Brother Chao is mistaken. Master Gongsun’s name resounds through the rivers and lakes; he excels at war, with schemes beyond mortal reckoning and arts that summon wind and rain. Who can match him?” Gongsun Sheng said: “Though I have a few small tricks, I lack the talent to govern. Better that you take this seat.” Lin Chong replied: “This very victory will prove your craft. It is like a tripod with three legs—if one is missing it cannot stand. Do not refuse.” So Gongsun Sheng took the third seat.

When Lin Chong would have yielded further, Chao Gai, Wu Yong, and Gongsun Sheng all refused. They said together: “We obeyed because of your tripod argument, but if you keep offering seats to others after we three are placed, we must withdraw altogether.” The three pressed Lin Chong into the fourth seat. Then Chao Gai said: “Now let the chiefs Du Qian and Song Wan be seated.” But those two, seeing Wang Lun slain, thought: “Our own skills are feeble; how could we sit near such men? Better to show good grace.” They earnestly begged Liu Tang to take the fifth seat, Ruan the Second the sixth, Ruan the Fifth the seventh, Ruan the Seventh the eighth. Du Qian took the ninth, Song Wan the tenth, and Zhu Gui the eleventh.

So eleven heroes ruled Liangshan Marsh. Seven or eight hundred men from all parts of the mountain came before the hall to bow and then stood in ranks on either side. Chao Gai addressed them: “All of you here know that Instructor Lin has made me master of this mountain, with Professor Wu as strategist and Master Gongsun sharing command, while Instructor Lin and the others help govern. You shall each keep your old duties—managing affairs front and back, guarding our stockades and shores. Do not fail. Work with one heart for our great cause.” He then ordered quarters arranged for both families that had come to the mountain, and brought out the gold and jewels seized from the Birthday Convoy, along with silver from his own estate, to reward the chiefs and bandits on the spot.

They slaughtered oxen and horses, sacrificed to heaven and earth, and celebrated their renewed brotherhood. The chiefs drank until midnight. The next day they feasted again, and for several days more. Chao Gai and Wu Yong then planned with the others: repair the granaries, strengthen the stockades, forge weapons—spears, swords, bows, arrows, armor, helmets—to meet the imperial troops; build boats of all sizes and drill the men in water fighting. So it was arranged. From that time the eleven chiefs of Liangshan were bound like limbs to one body, their honor deep as bone and marrow. A poem says:

Ancient friendship outlasts gold;
When hearts are one, love grows old.
See these loyal men of the Marsh—
Through death they hold their faith steadfast.

Now Lin Chong, seeing that Chao Gai dealt generously and settled all families on the mountain, suddenly remembered his own wife in the capital, whose fate he did not know. He spoke privately to Chao Gai: “Since I came up this mountain, I wanted to bring my wife here, but Wang Lun’s shifting temper made life too uncertain, and time slipped by. She is still in Dongjing—alive or dead, I cannot say.” Chao Gai said: “Brother, if your lady is in the capital, why not send for her? Write a letter at once, and I will have men go down the mountain night and day to fetch her.” Lin Chong wrote the letter and sent two trusted bandits away. In less than two months they returned and reported: “We went to Instructor Zhang’s house before the Palace of the Imperial Guard. We heard that your wife was pressed by Marshal Gao to marry his kin, and she hanged herself—she has been dead half a year. Instructor Zhang, sick with grief, died of illness a fortnight ago. Only her maid Jin’er remains, married to a husband in that house. The neighbors told the same tale.” When Lin Chong heard this, tears streamed down his face, and from that day he shut away his longing. Chao Gai and the others sighed heavily.

The mountain settled into daily drill, preparing against the imperial troops.

One day, as the chiefs sat in council, a bandit hurried in: “The prefecture of Jizhou has sent a military officer with near a thousand men and four or five hundred boats, now anchored in the reed marshes of Stone Tablet Village.” Chao Gai started and called for Wu Yong: “The army is coming—how shall we meet them?” Wu Yong smiled: “No need for worry, brother. As the saying goes: ‘Earth blocks water; generals meet soldiers.’” He drew the three Ruan brothers aside and whispered instructions; then gave Lin Chong and Liu Tang their orders; then briefed Du Qian and Song Wan.

The prefect of Jizhou had appointed Regimental Commander Huang An with a constable to lead more than a thousand men. They gathered boats from the district, split into two columns, and drove toward the marsh.

Regimental Commander Huang An’s force rowed out with flags waving and war cries ringing, straight for Golden Sands Beach. As they neared the shore, a wailing sound rose over the water. “Is that a horn?” said Huang An. “Split the boats in two and shelter among the reeds.” He saw three small craft coming from afar, each carrying five men—four at the oars and one standing in the bow, wearing a crimson headcloth and red embroidered jacket, holding a grappling pole. The crews were dressed alike. One of Huang An’s men recognized them: “Those three are Ruan the Second, Ruan the Fifth, and Ruan the Seventh!” Huang An shouted: “All boats forward—seize those three!” Forty or fifty craft answered with a shout and swept toward them.

The three boats whistled once and turned back. Huang An leveled his spear and urged pursuit, promising rewards. The Ruans reached into their cabins and pulled out shields of blue fox fur to cover themselves from the arrows that rained behind them. The chase ran two or three li down the waterway, until a small boat came flying up to Huang An with terrible news: “Don’t pursue! Our boats that went in by the other channel have all been sunk and taken!” Huang An demanded an explanation. The man gasped: “We saw two boats ahead, each with five men, and gave chase. After three or four li, seven or eight small craft darted out from side channels and loosed crossbow bolts like locust swarms. When we turned back to the narrow mouth of the creek, twenty or thirty men on shore stretched a great bamboo rope across the water. Before we could cut it, they pelted us with lime pots and stones like rain. Our soldiers abandoned the boats and jumped into the water to save themselves. When we crawled ashore, the horsemen were gone—their horses led away, their guards killed in the water. We found this little boat by the reeds and came straight to warn you.”

Huang An groaned in despair and waved a white flag, ordering all boats back. But as they turned, the three boats behind them returned with a dozen more, each crewed by five men, red flags waving, whistles blowing, coming on like the wind. Huang An tried to spread his boats for battle when a cannon roared from the reeds. He looked around—red banners filled every side. His nerve broke. The pursuing boats shouted: “Huang An! Leave your head and go home!” He drove his boat hard toward the reedy bank, but forty or fifty small craft darted out of hidden channels on both sides, crossbows spitting bolts like rain. In that storm of arrows he cut through with only three or four boats left. He leaped into a fast skiff and looked back—his men were splashing into the water one after another; some were dragged down with their boats, most killed outright.

As Huang An fled, a boat rose from the reed beds with Liu Tang standing in it. A grappling hook shot out and caught Huang An’s skiff. Liu Tang leaped aboard, seized him around the waist with one hand, and shouted: “Don’t struggle!” Of the soldiers, those who could swim were shot dead in the water; those who dared not jump were captured in their boats. Liu Tang dragged Huang An to shore, where Chao Gai and Gongsun Sheng waited on horseback, swords ready, with fifty or sixty men and thirty horses. They took one or two hundred prisoners and hauled every captured boat into the southern water camp.

Back at the mountain hall, Chao Gai dismounted and sat in his place. The chiefs stripped off their armor and gathered around. Huang An was bound to the great pillar; gold and silk were distributed among the bandits. Counting the spoils: more than six hundred fine horses—that was Lin Chong’s doing; the eastern channel belonged to Du Qian and Song Wan; the western channel to the three Ruans; and Liu Tang had taken Huang An.

The chiefs rejoiced, slaughtering oxen and horses for a feast. There was home-brewed wine, fresh lotus root and fish from the marsh, new peaches, apricots, plums, loquats, dates, persimmons, chestnuts from the southern slopes, and chickens, pigs, geese, ducks raised on the mountain. The celebration ran long, for this was no small victory so soon after their founding. A poem says:

Wang Lun’s pride was laughable—
A mean man in a great seat!
Since the burning brought a new lord,
Liangshan’s cause grows strong and sweet.

In the midst of drinking, a bandit reported: “Chief Zhu Gui below has sent a man up.” Chao Gai called him in. The messenger said: “Chief Zhu learned that a company of merchants, several tens together, will pass by the road tonight. He sent word ahead.” Chao Gai said: “We are short of gold and goods—who will take the job?” The three Ruans answered: “We brothers will go.” Chao Gai said: “Good brothers, be careful, go quickly and return soon.” They changed clothes, strapped on sabers, took their halberds and grappling hooks, mustered over a hundred men, and set off down to Golden Sands Beach, crossing by boat to Zhu Gui’s inn. Fearing they could not handle it alone, Chao Gai sent Liu Tang with another hundred as support, adding: “Take only goods and gold—do not harm the merchants.” Liu Tang left. By the third watch there was still no word, so Chao Gai dispatched Du Qian and Song Wan with fifty more men to help.

At dawn a bandit came with good news: “Thanks to Chief Zhu, we have taken over twenty carts of gold and goods, plus forty or fifty mules and donkeys.” Chao Gai asked: “Did anyone die?” The man answered: “Those merchants saw how fierce we came and fled for their lives, leaving carts, animals, and baggage. Not one was hurt.” Chao Gai was pleased: “We are new on this mountain—we must not harm people.” He gave the messenger a silver ingot and went down with wine and fruit to meet them at Golden Sands Beach. The chiefs were hauling the carts ashore, then sent boats back for the animals. All were joyful. Cups passed around, and Zhu Gui was invited up the mountain.

In the Hall of Assembly they sat in a ring. The spoils were piled on the floor—silks and clothes in one heap, goods in another, gold and jewels at the front. The chiefs looked over their haul with satisfaction. Chao Gai ordered the storekeeper to put half in the treasury for future use. The other half was split two ways: one share among the eleven chiefs on the hall, one share among all the men of the mountain. The newly captured soldiers had marks branded on their faces; the strong were sent to feed horses and cut wood in the camps, the weak to guard carts and chop fodder. Huang An was locked in a cell behind the camp.

Chao Gai said: “When we first came here, I only hoped to escape disaster and serve Wang Lun as a minor chief. Thanks to Instructor Lin’s courtesy, I sit above all—and already we have two victories: we defeated the imperial troops, took men and boats, captured Huang An; and we have gained gold and goods besides. Is this not due to the worth of all you brothers?” The chiefs replied: “It is all by your good fortune, elder brother.”

Chao Gai said to Wu Yong: “The lives of our seven brothers were saved by Registrar Song and Constable Zhu. As the ancients said: ‘To know a kindness and not repay it is to be no man.’ Where would we be now without them? We must send gold to Yuncheng soon—that is our first duty. And Bai Sheng still sits in the Jizhou prison; we must get him out.” Wu Yong said: “Do not worry, brother. I have a plan. Registrar Song is a righteous man who does not look for reward, but courtesy demands we send something once the mountain is settled—a brother should go himself. As for Bai Sheng, we can send someone unknown to spend money on the jailers, loosening his bonds so he can slip away. For now let us stock grain, build boats, forge weapons, repair the walls and houses, and prepare against the imperial army.” Chao Gai agreed: “Then I rely entirely on your strategy.”

So Wu Yong set each chief to his task.

Meanwhile the prefect of Jizhou heard from the soldiers who had escaped how Liangshan had slaughtered the army and captured Huang An—how the outlaws were so fierce that none could approach them, and the waterways were a maze of channels impossible to navigate. The prefect groaned and said to his clerk: “He Tao lost most of his men and came back alone with both ears cut off; he has been home nursing himself ever since and still is not healed. Of the five hundred who went out, none returned. So I sent Huang An with more troops—and they too are lost. Huang An is taken alive up the mountain; our dead cannot be counted. What can we do?” He was still brooding when a messenger arrived: “A new official has come—he is at the East Gate pavilion.” The prefect hurried out on horseback and met his successor beneath the dust of the road. They exchanged documents from the Secretariat, then rode to the prefecture to hand over seals and ledgers. A banquet was laid for the newcomer.

The old prefect told him everything about the great bandits of Liangshan and their slaughter of imperial troops. The new official’s face went the color of earth. He thought: “So Chancellor Cai favored me with this post—but what a place! No strong soldiers, no brave generals. How can I catch such outlaws? If they come to the city to demand grain, what then?” The old prefect packed his things and returned to Dongjing to answer for his failure.

The new Prefect Zong called in a newly posted military officer and discussed raising troops, buying horses, storing grain, recruiting bold civilians and clever counselors, all to capture the Liangshan outlaws. He sent reports to the Secretariat asking neighboring prefectures to join the hunt, and issued orders to every county under his rule to defend their borders.

One such order reached Yuncheng County. The magistrate read it and told Song Jiang to draw up the paperwork for distribution to all villages. As Song Jiang handled the document, he thought: “So Chao Gai and the others have done this great thing—robbed the Birthday Convoy, killed the constables, wounded Officer He, destroyed so many imperial troops, and taken Huang An alive. Such crimes are punishable by the extermination of nine generations. Though they were driven to it, the law will not forgive them. If anything goes wrong, what will become of me?” Troubled, he handed the file to his clerk Zhang Wenyuan and strolled out of the county office.

He had gone barely thirty paces when someone called behind him: “Registrar!” Song Jiang turned. It was the matchmaker Wang, leading an old woman. Wang said: “You are in luck—the good Registrar is here!” Song Jiang asked what they wanted. Wang pointed to the woman and explained: “This family came from Dongjing. Three of them—husband, wife, and a daughter named Poxi. The husband, Yan Gong, was a fine singer and taught his girl all sorts of tunes. She is eighteen and quite pretty. They came to Shandong seeking a patron but found none, and drifted here to Yuncheng. The folk here have no taste for song and pleasure, so they could not make a living; they lodge in a quiet alley behind the county office. Yesterday her husband died of a sudden fever. She has no money for a coffin and asked me to help. I said, ‘In times like these, who can spare such things?’ We were at our wit’s end when you passed by, so I brought her to beg—please take pity and provide a coffin.” Song Jiang said: “I see. Come with me to the wineshop at the alley mouth; I will write a note for Chen Sanlang in the east market to supply one.” He asked: “And do you have money for the funeral expenses?” The old woman answered: “To tell you truly, Registrar, we have not even the coffin—how could we afford the rest?” Song Jiang said: “Then I will give you ten taels of silver besides.” The widow cried: “You are a father and mother reborn to us! We would serve you as horses or donkeys to repay this!” Song Jiang waved it off, gave her the silver, and went home.

The old woman took the note to Chen Sanlang’s shop, got the coffin, and buried her husband. Five or six taels remained, which mother and daughter used for their keep.

One day the widow Yan came to thank Song Jiang. Noticing no woman about his lodgings, she asked Wang the matchmaker: “The Registrar has no wife at home—has he ever married?” Wang said: “I only know his family lives in Song Family Village; I have never heard of a wife. Here in the county he lodges alone. He is always giving away coffins and medicine to the poor. Perhaps he has no wife.” The widow said: “My daughter is pretty and can sing all sorts of songs; she knows every kind of amusement. When we lived in Dongjing she used to visit the pleasure houses, and all the madams loved her—several leading courtesans wanted to adopt her, but I refused because my husband and I needed someone to care for us in old age. Now fate has turned against her. The other day when I thanked Registrar Song, I saw he had no woman at home. So please tell him: if he wants a wife, I will gladly give him Poxi. He saved us when we were desperate; I can repay him by making him our kinsman.”

Wang carried this message to Song Jiang the next day. At first he declined, but the matchmaker’s tongue was persuasive, and at last he agreed. He rented a two-story house in the west alley, furnished it, and settled mother and daughter there. Within half a month Yan Poxi was decked in pearls and silk from head to foot. A verse describes her:

Flower face, willowy grace;
Jade beauty, slender waist.
A cloud of black hair, brows like new moons;
Lotus feet peep from silk skirts with longing;
Fingers like jade shoots half-hid in green sleeves;
Star-bright eyes dark as lacquer, breast like carved cream.
A beauty from a golden house—
A fairy descended to the dusty world.

Song Jiang even provided the old woman with jewelry and clothes, so that mother and daughter lived well.

At first Song Jiang slept at Poxi’s every night, but gradually he came less often. Why? Song Jiang was a true man who loved spear practice and cared little for women. Yan Poxi, fresh as water and just eighteen, found him not to her taste. One day Song Jiang unwisely brought his clerk Zhang Wenyuan to drink at her house. This Zhang—called Little Zhang the Third—was handsome: clear brows, bright eyes, white teeth, red lips. He haunted gambling dens and pleasure quarters, learned all the arts of flirtation, and could play any instrument. Yan Poxi was a creature of wine and lust; one look at Zhang and her heart tilted toward him. He saw her interest and returned it with his eyes. When Song Jiang stepped out to wash his hands, Zhang teased her openly.

As the saying goes: “No wind, no tree moves; no oar, no water stirs.” Zhang was a man of appetite and knew well what such glances meant. Seeing the woman’s obvious longing, he stored it in memory. Later, whenever Song Jiang was away, Zhang would come to the house pretending to look for him. The girl kept him for tea; talk led to more, and soon they were lovers. They burned like a fire together—and Zhang knew all the tricks of such affairs. It is said: “Never bring a companion to a lover’s game.” Song Jiang had done exactly wrong in bringing Zhang to her wine. “Tea arranges flirtation; wine is the go-between of lust.” The old saying held true.

From that time Yan Poxi had not a shred of feeling for Song Jiang. When he came, she answered him with sharp words and would not receive him kindly. But Song Jiang was a hero who did not set his heart on women, so he visited only once every ten days or half month. Zhang and Poxi clung together like glue and lacquer, coming and going by night; the whole street knew it, and whispers reached Song Jiang’s ears. He half believed, half doubted, then reasoned: “She is not a wife my parents chose for me. If she does not care for me, why should I anger myself? I simply will not go to her door.” So he stayed away for months. The widow Yan sent messages again and again, but Song Jiang always found an excuse.

A verse says:

The flower-maid would follow the stream;
The hero cares not for falling petals.
Mother loves money, daughter loves beauty—
One trade, two different customers.

Now to another matter. One evening near dusk, Song Jiang came out of the county office and sat in a teahouse across the way. He saw a big man walking past—white felt hat from Fanyang, black-green silk jacket, leggings and hempen sandals, a saber at his waist and a great bundle on his back. Sweat poured off him; he breathed hard and kept glancing back at the county offices. Song Jiang rose at once and followed. After twenty or thirty paces the man turned and looked at Song Jiang but did not know him. Song Jiang felt a flicker of recognition—where had he seen this face before? He could not place it.

The big man, seeing Song Jiang stare, also seemed to half remember him. He stopped and peered, but dared not ask. Song Jiang thought: “This fellow is strange—why does he keep looking at me?” Neither spoke. Then the man stepped into a barber’s shop by the road and asked: “Elder brother, who is that registrar ahead?” The barber answered: “That is Registrar Song.” The big man picked up his halberd, walked over, made a deep bow, and said: “Registrar, do you know me?” Song Jiang said: “Your face is somewhat familiar.” The man said: “May we speak somewhere private?” They turned into a quiet alley. The man said: “This wineshop will do.”

Upstairs they took a secluded room. The man leaned his halberd against the wall, set down his bundle beneath the table, and threw himself to the floor in a full kowtow. Song Jiang hurriedly returned the courtesy: “May I ask your name?” The man said: “Great benefactor—how have you forgotten me?” Song Jiang said: “Brother, who are you? Your face is truly familiar, but I cannot recall.” The man said: “I am Liu Tang, the Red-Haired Devil, from Squire Chao’s estate. You saved my life there.”

Song Jiang was shocked: “Younger brother, you have nerve! If any constable had seen you, we would be in trouble!” Liu Tang said: “For your great kindness I fear no death—I came specially to thank you.” Song Jiang asked: “How are Squire Chao and the brothers? Who sent you?” Liu Tang said: “Brother Chao sends his deepest regards. After you saved our lives, he is now lord of Liangshan Marsh. Professor Wu is strategist; Gongsun Sheng shares command. Lin Chong burned out Wang Lun in a fight. With Du Qian, Song Wan, Zhu Gui and us seven brothers, there are eleven chiefs in all. We have gathered seven or eight hundred men and grain beyond counting. Thinking only of your great kindness with nothing to repay it, Chao sent me with a letter and a hundred taels of gold for you, and something for Constables Zhu Tong and Lei Heng.”

Liu Tang opened his bundle, took out the letter, and handed it over. Song Jiang read it, then lifted the front of his gown, reached into his money pouch, and brought out the gold Liu Tang had set on the table. He wrapped one gold bar with the letter, tucked them into his pouch, and closed his gown. “Brother,” he said, “wrap up the rest of this gold again.” He called for wine and a platter of meat, vegetables, and fruit, and had the waiter pour for Liu Tang.

As dusk fell and Liu Tang finished drinking, he opened the bundle to offer the gold again. Song Jiang stopped him: “Listen, brother. Your seven brothers have just come to the mountain and need money. I have enough at home to get by. Leave it in your stronghold—when I run short, I will send my younger brother Song Qing to fetch some. It is not that I stand on ceremony; I have already taken one bar. Zhu Tong has his own means; no need for him. And Lei Heng does not know I saved you—besides, he is a gambler. If he took this gold and lost it at dice, trouble would follow. Give him nothing. As for you, brother, I dare not invite you to my lodgings—if anyone recognized you, it would be no joke. The moon will be bright tonight; go back to the mountain at once. Do not linger here. Convey my respects to all the chiefs; I cannot come to congratulate them, and I beg their pardon.”

Liu Tang said: “Brother, your kindness is beyond repayment. Chao sent me with this small gift as a token of his heart. He is chief now, with the Professor’s orders strict—not like the old days. How dare I carry it back? I would be punished at the mountain.” Song Jiang said: “If orders are so strict, I will write a reply for you to take.” Still Liu Tang pressed him to accept the gold, but Song Jiang refused firmly. He borrowed brush and ink from the tavern keeper and wrote a full letter of reply, which Liu Tang tucked into his bundle. Liu Tang was a straightforward man; seeing Song Jiang would not take it, he wrapped the gold as before.

As night came on, Liu Tang said: “Since you have given me your answer, I will leave tonight.” Song Jiang said: “Brother, I cannot keep you—our hearts are one.” Liu Tang bowed four times. Song Jiang called the waiter and said: “This gentleman left a tael of silver; I will settle with you tomorrow.” Liu Tang shouldered his bundle, took up his halberd, and followed Song Jiang down the stairs. At the mouth of the alley the sky was dusky—it was mid-eighth month, and the moon had risen. Song Jiang clasped Liu Tang’s hand: “Brother, take care. Do not come again. There are too many constables here; it is no jest. I will not see you farther—we part here.” Liu Tang saw the bright moonlight, stretched his legs, and set off westward at a fast pace, heading through the night back to Liangshan.

Song Jiang walked slowly home, thinking: “Luckily no constable saw him—that could have been a great disaster.” Then: “So Chao Gai has turned outlaw and grown so bold.” He had rounded two corners when someone called behind him: “Registrar! Where have you been? I have not seen you in days.” Song Jiang turned—it was the widow Yan. And because of this meeting, Song Jiang’s small courage would turn to great daring, his kind heart to a cruel one. How he dealt with the widow Yan is told in the next chapter.