Song Jiang parted from Liu Tang and walked home through moonlit streets, letting his steps wander where they would. He had not gone far when Old Woman Yan caught up with him, calling out: "Your Honor! I've sent people to invite you many times—what a precious guest, so hard to meet! If my girl said something out of line and offended you, have some regard for an old woman's face. I'll scold her myself and make her apologize properly. Tonight I'm lucky enough to run into you, so come along with me."

"I'm busy with county business today," Song Jiang said. "I can't get away. Some other day."

"That won't do at all," the old woman insisted. "My daughter's waiting at home for you. Just come and comfort her a little—surely you can manage that?"

"Truly, I am busy. Tomorrow for certain."

"I want you to come tonight." She grabbed his sleeve. "Who's been stirring you up? My girl and I depend on you for the rest of our lives. Don't listen to outsiders' gossip—make your own decision. If my daughter's done anything wrong, it's on my head. Just come along."

"Let go of me. My business can't be set aside."

"If you're a little late with official matters, the magistrate won't flog you for it. Miss this chance and you may not find another. Come with me—there'll be words for you at home."

Song Jiang was an impatient man, and the old woman's nagging wore him down. "Let go, then. I'll come."

"Don't run off," she said. "An old woman can't keep up."

"What a nuisance!" Song Jiang muttered, but he followed her to her door.

Wine does not intoxicate a man—a man intoxicates himself. Flowers do not bewitch a man—a man bewitches himself. If today you know regret, Why did you act so in the first place?

Song Jiang halted at the threshold. The old woman barred his way with her arm. "Now that you've come this far, you can't turn back." He went inside and sat on a stool. The procuress was cunning—as the saying goes, no one gets the better of an old bawd—and fearing he might slip away, she settled herself beside him and called up the stairs: "My girl! Your beloved Third Brother is here!"

Yan Poxi lay on her bed facing a single lamp, brooding, waiting for young Zhang the Third to come. When she heard her mother call out "your beloved Third Brother," she thought it was Zhang Sanlang. She sprang up eagerly, smoothed her hair with one hand, and muttered: "That short-lived wretch—he's kept me waiting long enough! I'll give him a couple of slaps first!" She flew down the stairs, but peering through the lattice, she saw by the bright lamp in the hall that it was Song Jiang. She turned around and went back up, flopping onto the bed as before.

The old woman heard her daughter's footsteps descend, then climb again. "My girl," she called, "your Third Brother is here—why did you run off?"

From the bed Poxi answered: "Is it so far? He's not blind. Why doesn't he come up himself instead of making me wait on him, with all this endless fussing?"

"She's really been pining because you haven't come," the old woman said to Song Jiang. "Let her vent a little—it won't hurt." She smiled at him. "Come, I'll go up with you."

Song Jiang was already half annoyed by the girl's words, but the old woman pulled him along, and he mounted the stairs reluctantly.

The upper floor was a spacious room. The front half held a table and stools; the back half was the bedchamber, with a carved bed with railings on three sides, hung about with a red silk curtain. A clothes rack stood to one side with towels draped over it, and beside that a washbasin. On a gilt lacquer table sat a pewter lamp stand, with two low stools nearby. The wall facing the bed bore a painting of a beauty, and opposite the bed stood four armchairs in a row.

When Song Jiang reached the top of the stairs, the old woman dragged him into the bedroom and made him sit on one of the stools facing the bed. Then she hauled her daughter up from the mattress. "His Honor is here! You have such a temper—you spoke harshly to him and drove him away, and now you mope about at home missing him. I went to great trouble to bring him here, and you won't even get up to apologize? Instead you sulk!"

Poxi pushed her mother's hands away. "Why all this cursed racket? I've done nothing wrong! If he doesn't come, how is that my fault? Why should I apologize?"

Song Jiang said nothing. The old woman pulled one of the armchairs up beside him and shoved her daughter toward it. "Sit with Third Brother a while. You needn't apologize if you don't want to—just don't be cross. You two haven't seen each other in days; say something affectionate."

The girl refused to come near and sat down across from Song Jiang instead, turning her face away. He lowered his head and stayed silent.

"How can we hold a feast without wine or broth?" the old woman said. "I've got a bottle of good wine at home. I'll buy some tidbits and make it up between you. My girl, keep His Honor company—don't be shy. I'll be back directly."

Song Jiang thought to himself: "This old woman has me pinned down. Once she goes downstairs, I'll slip away after her." But the procuress sensed his intention. As she left the room, she pulled the door shut and hooked the latch from outside. Song Jiang noted grimly: "The old bawd outsmarted me."

Downstairs, Yan lit a lamp in the kitchen, stoked the fire under a pot of hot water, then took some loose silver to the lane mouth and bought fresh fruit, fish, tender chicken, and salted delicacies. Back home she laid everything out on platters, poured wine into a pan, heated it in the kettle, and filled a flagon. She arranged several dishes, three cups, three pairs of chopsticks on a tray, and carried it all upstairs. Unlatching the door, she set the food on the table. Song Jiang still hung his head; her daughter stared elsewhere.

"My girl," said the old woman, "get up and pour the wine."

"You two drink if you like—I'm not in the mood!"

"Child, we indulged you from childhood, but you can't behave that way with others."

"What if I don't pour? Will a flying sword come take my head?"

The old woman laughed. "There I go again, saying the wrong thing. His Honor is a man of the world—he won't hold it against you. If you won't pour, at least turn your face and drink a cup."

Poxi would not even turn around. The old woman poured for Song Jiang herself, and he drank one cup to be polite.

"Don't take offense, Your Honor," she said. "Set aside all the gossip—we'll talk tomorrow. Outsiders see you here and get jealous; they jabber nonsense and spread filth. Pay them no mind. Just drink." She filled three cups on the table. "My girl, don't act like a child. Have a sip."

"Stop pestering me! I'm full—I can't drink."

"My dear, at least drink one cup with your Third Brother."

Poxi thought: "My heart belongs to Zhang San. Why should I humor this fellow? If I don't get him drunk, he'll be all over me." So she forced herself to take half a cup.

The old woman smiled. "She's just fretful. Have another cup or two and then sleep. Your Honor, drink up as well."

Song Jiang, unable to refuse, downed three or four cups in succession. The old woman drank several herself, then went downstairs to warm more wine.

Seeing her daughter finally drink had cheered her. "If I can keep him here tonight," she thought, "he'll forget his grievance. We can string him along a while longer and see." She gulped down three big cups in the kitchen and felt pleasantly numb. She poured herself another bowl, then warmed more wine, filled the flagon, and climbed back up. Song Jiang still sat silent; her daughter was twisting her skirt and looking away.

The old woman laughed aloud. "You two aren't clay statues! Why so quiet? Your Honor, you're a man—show some tenderness, say something sweet!"

Song Jiang had no reply ready. He kept his mouth shut, caught between staying and going. Poxi thought: "You won't pay me any mind, yet you expect me to cozy up to you and amuse you as before? Not this time."

The old woman, well into her cups, rambled on about this neighbor and that, chattering nonsense without end.

A cunning tongue can keep a patron in the net; Many a clever soul has been ensnared. For such deceits, after death, The tongue itself shall be plucked out.

Now there was a man in Yuncheng County named Tang Niu'er—Second Brother Tang to all—who sold pickled vegetables and hung about the streets doing odd jobs. Song Jiang often helped him with money. Whenever Tang had some small matter needing official attention, he'd go to Song Jiang and come away with a few strings of cash. And when Song Jiang needed a service done, Tang would risk his life for him.

That evening Tang had lost at gambling and was hard up. He went looking for Song Jiang at the county office and at his lodging, but found him nowhere. "Second Brother," said the neighbors, "who are you hunting so frantically?"

"My throat's parched," he said. "I'm looking for my patron, and I can't find him anywhere."

"Who's your patron?"

"Registrar Song of the county office."

"I just saw him pass by with Old Woman Yan," someone said.

"That's it! That slut Yan Poxi is thick as thieves with Zhang the Third—they're like fire and flame. They fool nobody but Registrar Song. He must have heard rumors; he hasn't been there in some time. Tonight that old bitch has surely wheedled him into coming along with her false smiles. I've got no money and my throat's dry—I'll go cadge a few coins off him and get myself two bowls of wine."

He hurried to the Yan house. The lamps were lit inside, and the door stood open. He crept up the stairs and peered through a crack in the wallboards. There sat Song Jiang and Poxi, both with heads bowed, while the old woman sat at the table's end, chattering on without pause.

Tang Niu'er slipped into the room, greeted all three with folded hands, and stood to one side.

Song Jiang thought: "This fellow's come just in time." He gave a slight downward jerk of his chin.

Tang was sharp enough to catch the signal. "I've looked for you everywhere!" he said to Song Jiang. "So here you are, drinking and taking your ease!"

"Is there some urgent matter at the county office?" Song Jiang asked.

"Your Honor, have you forgotten? That case from this morning—the magistrate is furious! He's sent four or five runners to find you, and no one knows where you've gone. He's in a tearing rage. You'd best come at once."

"If it's that urgent, I must go." Song Jiang rose to leave.

The old woman blocked his way. "Don't try those tricks on me! This Tang Niu'er came here to play his part—you think you can fool an old hand like me? It's like swinging an axe in front of Lu Ban himself! At this hour the magistrate is home drinking with his wife and having a good time—what business could he be raging about? That sort of trick might fool a ghost, but not me!"

"Truly," said Tang, "the magistrate is waiting most urgently. I wouldn't lie."

"Dog's piss!" the old woman spat. "My eyes are like glass gourds! I saw you give him the nod to start his play. Instead of urging His Honor into my house, you're trying to drag him away! As they say: murder may be forgiven, but this outrage cannot!" She leapt up and shoved Tang Niu'er by the scruff of the neck, sending him stumbling from the room and all the way down the stairs.

"What are you pushing me for?" he protested.

"Don't you know that ruining a person's livelihood is like killing their parents and children? Raise your voice again and I'll beat you, you thieving beggar!"

Tang Niu'er stepped forward. "Go ahead and hit me!"

Drunk as she was, the old woman spread her fingers and slapped him twice across the face, sending him reeling out through the door curtain. She snatched the curtain down, tossed it behind the door, slammed both doors shut, and barred them, cursing all the while.

Tang stood outside and bellowed: "You thieving old bitch! Don't think you're safe! If not for Registrar Song's sake I'd smash this house to pieces! You'll get yours—if not today, then tomorrow! I'm not Tang if I don't settle with you!" He beat his chest and stormed off.

The old woman went back upstairs. "Why pay attention to that beggar, Your Honor? He goes around cadging drinks and stirring up trouble. A gutter rat like him dares come to decent doors and bully people!"

Song Jiang was an honest man, and her words struck home—he found himself trapped with no way out.

"Don't take it to heart," she said. "I know your worth. Now drink a cup with my girl. I expect you two will want to turn in early after so long apart—let me clear up." She pressed two more cups on him, gathered the dishes, and went down to the kitchen.

Song Jiang sat upstairs and reasoned with himself: "This woman and Zhang the Third have something going on—I half believe it, but I've never seen proof. If I leave now, she'll say I'm being crude. It's late anyway. I'll stay a while and see how she treats me tonight."

The old woman came up again. "It's late," she said. "You two should get some rest."

"Mind your own business," Poxi answered from the bed. "Go to sleep yourself."

The old woman laughed as she descended. "Good night, Your Honor. Enjoy yourselves—no need to rise early tomorrow." She tidied the kitchen, washed her hands and feet, blew out the lamp, and went to bed.

Song Jiang sat on his stool, hoping Poxi would come over as she used to, coax and apologize, letting things drift along a while longer. But Poxi thought: "I only care for Zhang San. This fellow's like a thorn in my eye. He expects me to humble myself the way I did before—not this time! They say a boat comes to shore; it's rare that the shore goes to the boat. If he won't pay me attention, so much the better."

Let the reader understand: desire is the most fearsome thing. When a woman's heart inclines to you, neither swords nor fire can hold her back, and she fears nothing. But when her heart has turned away, you may sit on a mountain of gold and silver and she will not glance at you. As the proverb says:

If beauty favors you, even a boor turns charming; If she cares nothing for you, even a dandy seems a lout.

Song Jiang was a bold and upright man, but he knew nothing of handling women. Poxi had been utterly seduced by Zhang San's attentiveness, his constant flattery and small courtesies—how could she spare a thought for Song Jiang?

That night the two sat facing each other in lamplight without a word, each brooding, like statues waiting to be carried into a temple. The hour grew late; moonlight slanted through the window:

The Silver River gleams, the water clock drips on. Slanting moonbeams cast cold light through the casement; Cool breezes bring the breath of night. From the watchtower, drum after drum; In neighboring courts, washing beetles pound without cease. Wind chimes tinkle under the eaves, Shattering a traveler's lonely thoughts; The lamp on its silver stand flickers, Lighting a lady's long sighs. A lustful courtesan's heart burns like fire; A righteous hero's spirit towers like a rainbow.

Song Jiang glanced at the woman and sighed deeply. It was about the second watch when Poxi, without undressing, climbed into bed, propped herself on an embroidered pillow, turned her back to him, and settled down to sleep.

Song Jiang watched her and thought: "This wretch won't even look at me—she just goes to sleep. The old woman talked my ear off and plied me with wine; I can't keep my eyes open. It's late; I'd better sleep too." He took off his cap and set it on the table, hung his outer robe on the rack, and unfastened the ornate belt at his waist—on which hung a small knife and his document pouch. He hooked the belt over the railing at the head of the bed, removed his shoes and socks, and lay down at the foot of the bed behind the woman.

Half a watch later he heard Poxi laugh coldly. Song Jiang's anger churned; how could he sleep? As the old saying goes: "In pleasure, nights seem short; in sorrow, the watches drag." At the third watch, near midnight, the wine wore off. He endured until the fifth watch, then rose, washed his face in cold water from the basin, put on his robe and cap, and muttered: "You thieving slut—you've no manners at all!"

Poxi had not slept either. She turned over at his words. "Aren't you ashamed of that face?"

Song Jiang swallowed his anger and went downstairs. The old woman heard his footsteps. "Sleep a while longer," she called from her bed. "Wait for daylight. Why rise before dawn for no reason?"

Song Jiang made no answer but unbarred the door.

"Pull the door shut when you leave," she said.

He did so, then strode off, rage burning with nowhere to go. Passing the county office, he saw a lamp lit—Old Wang, the medicine seller, was setting up his stall for the early market.

Seeing Song Jiang approach, the old man greeted him: "Your Honor is out early today!"

"I drank too much last night and mistook the watch drums," Song Jiang said.

"You must be suffering from the wine. Let me give you a bowl of sobering broth."

"That would be welcome." Song Jiang sat on a stool while Wang brewed him a strong cup of Erchen soup.

As he drank, a thought struck him: "I've drunk this old man's medicine many times and never paid him. I once promised him a coffin but never delivered. Yesterday Chao Gai sent me gold—I kept one bar in my pouch. Why not give it to Wang for his coffin and make the old fellow happy?" He said aloud: "Uncle Wang, I promised you money for a coffin some time ago and never gave it. Today I have some gold with me. Take it to Chen Sanlang's shop and buy yourself a coffin to keep at home. When your time comes, I'll add something more for your funeral expenses."

"Your Honor has always been generous to me," Wang said, "and now you give me my very coffin—I can never repay you in this life. In the next, I'll be a donkey or a horse to serve you."

"Don't say such things." Song Jiang reached under his robe for the document pouch—and froze. "Damn it! Last night I left it hanging on that slut's bed railing. I was so angry when I left that I never put my belt back on. A few taels of gold are nothing, but Chao Gai's letter is wrapped with them! I meant to burn it in front of Liu Tang at the tavern, but if I had, he'd have gone back and said I didn't value his chief's gift. I planned to burn it when I got home, but that old woman dragged me off. Last night I wanted to burn it by the lamp, but I feared the wench would see—and now in my hurry this morning I forgot it entirely! She's always reading songbooks; she knows her letters. If she's found it, I'm done for!"

He rose abruptly. "Forgive me, Uncle. I'm not lying—I thought the gold was in my pouch, but I left in such a rush that I forgot it at home. Let me fetch it for you."

"No need," Wang said. "Tomorrow is soon enough."

"You don't understand—there's something else with it. I must go get it." Song Jiang hurried back toward the Yan house.

A hero's troubles come when fate decrees; Heaven contrives to lose what's in the case. Already love has turned to enmity— Who'd think a promised gift would breed disgrace?

Now Yan Poxi, hearing Song Jiang leave, had gotten up. "That wretch kept me awake all night," she muttered to herself. "He has the nerve to expect me to beg his pardon! I'll have none of it—I'm happy with Zhang San. Who needs him? Good riddance if he never comes back!"

Talking to herself, she spread the bedding and began undressing, pulling off her jacket and loosening her skirt. The lamp on the table burned bright, and as she opened her bodice she noticed a purple silk belt trailing from the bed railing.

She laughed. "That black-faced fool! He's so careless he left his belt behind. I'll take it and give it to Zhang San." She reached for it and lifted up the pouch and knife together—the pouch felt heavy. She untied the mouth and shook it over the table, and out tumbled a package of gold and a letter.

She picked them up. In the lamplight she saw a gleaming yellow bar of gold. "Heaven has sent me money to buy treats for Zhang San," she said with a smile. "I've noticed he's been looking thin lately—I was just thinking of getting him something nourishing." She set down the gold and unfolded the letter, reading by lamplight: it was from Chao Gai, detailing all manner of business.

"Ha!" she cried. "I thought the bucket had fallen into the well—but here the well has fallen into the bucket! I wanted to marry Zhang San, and only you stood in the way. Now you've landed in my hands! So you're in league with the bandits of Liangshan Marsh, and they sent you a hundred taels of gold! Don't be in such a hurry—I'll take my time dealing with you." She wrapped the gold back in the letter, replaced it in the pouch, and tucked it away. "Not even the Five Saints could snatch this from me now."

She was still muttering to herself when she heard the door creak below.

"Who's there?" called the old woman.

"It's me," said Song Jiang.

"I told you it was too early! You wouldn't listen, and now you're back. Go up and sleep a bit with the girl; go when it's light."

Song Jiang did not answer but bounded straight upstairs.

Hearing him come, Poxi hastily rolled belt, knife, and pouch into a bundle and stuffed it under the bedding, then pressed herself against the wall and pretended to snore.

Song Jiang burst into the room and felt along the bed railing—nothing. His heart raced. Swallowing last night's anger, he shook the woman by the shoulder. "For our past acquaintance, give me back my pouch."

Poxi kept up her pretense of sleep.

"Don't be angry," he said, shaking her again. "I'll apologize tomorrow."

"I'm sleeping!" she snapped. "Who's bothering me?"

"You know very well it's me. Why pretend otherwise?"

She turned over. "Black Face, what do you want?"

"Give me back my document pouch."

"Where did I take it from your hands? Why come asking me for it?"

"It was hanging on the railing at the foot of the bed—I forgot it. No one else has been here; you must have taken it."

"Pah! You're seeing ghosts!"

"I was wrong last night. I'll apologize tomorrow. Just give it back—don't play games."

"Who's playing games with you? I never took anything!"

"You didn't undress when you went to bed, but now you're under the covers. You must have taken it when you got up to make the bed."

Poxi's brows shot up and her starry eyes blazed. "Fine—I took it! But I won't give it back! Go ahead and bring the officials; you can have me tried as a thief!"

"I never accused you of being a thief."

"Well, I'm certainly not one!" she said.

Her words made Song Jiang's blood run cold. "I've always treated you and your mother well," he pleaded. "Give it back—I have business to attend to."

"You're always grumbling that Zhang San and I have something going on. Even if he's not as good as you in some ways, he hasn't committed a capital crime—unlike you and your bandit friends!"

"Good sister, keep your voice down! If the neighbors hear, we'll all be in trouble."

"If you fear outsiders hearing, then you shouldn't have done what you did! I've got this letter safe. If you want mercy, you'll agree to three conditions."

"Not just three—thirty! Name them."

"I doubt you'll agree."

"Whatever must be done, I'll do it. What are the three conditions?"

Yan Poxi said: "First: from today, return my original deed of sale and write a new document stating that I may remarry Zhang San and you will never contest it."

"That I can agree to."

"Second: everything I wear on my head and body, and everything in this house—though you paid for it all—you must put in writing that you'll never claim it back."

"That I agree to as well."

"I fear you won't agree to the third," she said.

"When I've agreed to two, why not a third?"

"That hundred taels of gold Chao Gai sent you from Liangshan Marsh. Hand it over now, and I'll spare you the worst lawsuit under heaven—and return your pouch with its evidence."

"The other two conditions I'll meet readily enough. But that hundred taels of gold—he truly did send them to me, but I refused them and made him take them back. If I had them, I'd give them to you with both hands."

"Don't give me that! As they say: an official sees money like a fly sees blood. He sent someone with gold for you—would you really have refused it? That's pure nonsense! Every cat eats fish; no ghost ever returns from the court of King Yama! Who are you trying to fool? Just hand over the hundred taels—what's that to you? If you're afraid it's stolen goods, melt it down first and give it to me."

"You know I'm an honest man," Song Jiang said. "I don't lie. If you don't believe me, give me three days. I'll sell off my property and raise a hundred taels of gold for you. Just return the pouch."

Poxi sneered. "You black-faced rogue—you're clever, treating me like a child! If I gave back the pouch and letter now, then waited three days to collect, it would be like demanding payment from mourners after the coffin's already buried. No—one hand for the money, one for the goods. Bring the gold and we'll exchange."

"I truly don't have that gold," Song Jiang insisted.

"Tomorrow at the county court," she said, "you can say you don't have it."

At the words "county court," Song Jiang's fury erupted beyond all control. His eyes blazed. "Will you give it back or not?"

The woman saw his rage. "If you're so fierce, I'll never give it back!"

"You truly won't?"

"No! And a hundred times no! If you want it, come get it at the county office in Yuncheng!"

Song Jiang grabbed at her blanket. Poxi clutched both arms tight across her chest, heedless of the coverlet, guarding what lay beneath. As he tore the quilt away, he saw the end of his purple belt trailing from her bosom.

"So there it is!" He lunged for it with both hands. She clung to it desperately. They wrestled over the bed, she holding on for life, he pulling with all his strength—until with a violent jerk he dragged out not only the belt but the small knife that hung upon it, which clattered onto the mat. Song Jiang snatched it up.

Seeing the blade in his hand, Poxi screamed: "Black Face is killing me!"

That single cry unleashed all the fury pent up in him—a bellyful of rage with nowhere to go. As she opened her mouth for a second scream, his left hand pinned her down and his right brought the knife across her throat. Blood sprayed. She was still gurgling when he struck again to make sure; her head rolled clean off onto the pillow.

Where the hand reached, youth met its end; Where the blade fell, beauty died. Her seven spirits drifted dimly toward the courts of death; Her three souls wandered into the city of the wrongly slain. Her starry eyes closed tight, she lay stiff on the mat; Her rosy lips half parted, her head rested by the pillow. All her charms ended in a single hour— Could any now take pleasure in that face?

In his sudden fury Song Jiang had killed Yan Poxi. He retrieved the document pouch, drew out the letter, and burned it in the dying lamp flame. Then he fastened on his belt and went downstairs.

The old woman below had heard them arguing but paid little mind—until her daughter's cry of "Black Face is killing me!" startled her from bed. She threw on clothes and rushed upstairs, colliding with Song Jiang on the stairs.

"What are you two fighting about?" she demanded.

"Your daughter was too insolent," he said. "I killed her."

The old woman laughed. "What talk is this? You may have fierce eyes and a temper when drunk, but don't joke with an old woman!"

"If you don't believe me, go look in the room. I truly killed her."

"I don't believe it." She pushed open the door and saw the corpse lying in a pool of blood.

"Mercy!" she wailed. "What's to be done?"

"I'm a man of honor," Song Jiang said. "I won't run. Do what you will with me."

"That slut deserved it, truly—you did right to kill her! But now I have no one to support me in my old age."

"Don't worry about that," he said. "Since you take it that way, you needn't fret. I have some means; I'll see you well fed and clothed for the rest of your days."

"In that case—thank you kindly, Your Honor. But my daughter lies dead in her bed. How shall we bury her?"

"That's easy enough. I'll go to Chen Sanlang's shop and buy a coffin for you. When the coroner comes to dress the body, I'll speak to him myself. And I'll give you ten taels of silver for the funeral."

The old woman thanked him. "Best if you fetch the coffin before dawn," she said, "so none of the neighbors see anything."

"Very well. Bring me paper and brush—I'll write an order for it."

"A note won't do," she said. "You must go yourself, or they'll delay."

"That's true enough."

They went downstairs together. The old woman fetched her keys from the room, locked the door, and pocketed them. Together they walked toward the county office. It was still dark; the gates had just opened.

As they reached the left side of the county compound, the old woman suddenly seized Song Jiang by the collar and shrieked: "A murderer! Here's a murderer!"

Song Jiang froze in panic and clapped his hand over her mouth. "Don't shout!" But she would not be silenced.

Several yamen runners came running up. Recognizing Song Jiang, they tried to calm her: "Hold your tongue, woman! His Honor is no such man. Whatever the matter, speak reasonably."

"He's the killer!" she cried. "Seize him! Take him into court!"

Song Jiang was well loved by everyone in the county, high and low; no one would lay hands on him, and none believed the old woman.

When good men fall on trouble, all pity them; When villains escape disaster, all resent it. So a man must govern his own conduct, That friendship may avail him in his need.

Just when Song Jiang saw no way out, who should come along but Tang Niu'er, carrying a tray of clean pickled ginger to sell at the morning market. He saw the old woman clutching Song Jiang and crying for justice, remembered the drubbing she'd given him the night before, and burned with fury. Setting his tray on Old Wang's medicine stall, he pushed through the crowd and shouted: "You old thief! What are you grabbing His Honor for?"

"Tang the Second," she warned, "don't you interfere—or I'll have your life for it!"

Tang was in no mood for threats. He seized her hands and wrenched them apart, then without a word spread his fingers and slapped her across the face so hard she saw stars. The old woman staggered, dazed, and let go.

Song Jiang slipped free and vanished into the crowd.

The old woman immediately grabbed Tang Niu'er instead. "Registrar Song killed my daughter," she shrieked, "and this fellow snatched him away!"

"I knew nothing about it!" Tang protested.

"Good people," she cried to the runners, "catch the murderer! If you don't, you'll answer for it yourselves!"

The runners had no wish to touch Song Jiang, but taking Tang Niu'er cost them nothing. One held the old woman while three or four seized Tang and dragged him, kicking and struggling, into the county office.

Misfortune and fortune have no door—man brings them on himself. Wrapping yourself in hemp to fight a fire only sets you alight.

Whether Tang Niu'er escaped from the old woman's clutches must be told in the next chapter.