Now there could be no thought of mercy. If the bell did not come from its cast perfect in tone and fair to look upon, Guanyou must be punished with the severest punishment that could be meted out to man—even death itself. That was why there was a look of stern expectancy on Yongluo’s face, for he really loved Guanyou and did not wish to send him to his death.
As for Guanyou himself, he had long ago given up all thought of success, for nothing had happened since his second failure to make him any surer this time of success. He had settled up his business affairs, arranging for a goodly sum to go to his beloved daughter; he had bought the coffin in which his own body would be laid away and had stored it in one of the principal rooms of his dwelling; he had even engaged the priests and musicians who should chant his funeral dirge, and, last but not least, he had arranged with the man who would have charge of chopping off his head, that one fold of skin should be left uncut, as this would bring him better luck on his entry into the spiritual world than if the head were severed entirely from the body.
And so we may say that Guanyou was prepared to die. In fact, on the night before the final casting he had a dream in which he saw himself kneeling before the headsman and cautioning him not to forget the binding agreement the latter had entered into.
Of all those present in the great foundry, perhaps the devoted Ke’ai was the least excited. Unnoticed, she had slipped along the wall from the spot where she had been standing with her mother and had planted herself directly opposite the huge tank in which the molten, seething liquid bubbled, awaiting the signal when it should be set free. Ke’ai gazed at the emperor, watching intently for the well-known signal. when at last she saw his head move forward she sprang with a wild leap into the boiling liquid, at the same time crying in her clear, sweet voice:
“For thee, dear father! It is the only way!”
The molten white metal received the lovely girl into its ardent embrace, received her, and swallowed her up completely, as in a tomb of liquid fire.
And Guanyou—what of Guanyou, the frantic father? Mad with grief at the sight of his loved one giving up her life, a sacrifice to save him, he had sprung forward to hold her back from her terrible death, but had succeeded only in catching one of her tiny jewelled slippers as she sank out of sight for ever—a dainty, silken slipper, to remind him always of her wonderful sacrifice. In his wild grief as he clasped this pitiful little memento to his heart he would himself have leaped in and followed her to her death, if his servants had not restrained him until the emperor had repeated his signal and the liquid had been poured into the cast. As the sad eyes of all those present peered into the molten river of metals rushing to its earthen bed, they saw not a single sign remaining of the departed Ke’ai.
This, then, my children, is the time-worn legend of the great bell of Beijing, a tale that has been repeated a million times by poets, story-tellers and devoted mothers, for you must know that on this third casting, when the earthen mold was removed, there stood revealed the most beautiful bell that eye had ever looked upon, and when it was swung up into the bell-tower there was immense rejoicing among the people. The silver and the gold and the iron and the brass, held together by the blood of the virgin, had blended perfectly, and the clear voice of the monster bell rang out over the great city, sounding a deeper, richer melody than that of any other bell within the limits of the Middle Kingdom, or, for that matter, of all the world. And, strange to say, even yet the deep-voiced colossus seems to cry out the name of the maiden who gave herself a living sacrifice, “Ke’ai! Ke’ai! Ke’ai!” so that all the people may remember her deed of virtue ten thousand years ago. And between the mellow peals of music there often seems to come a plaintive whisper that may be heard only by those standing near, “Xie! xie”—the Chinese word for slipper. “Alas!” say all who hear it, “Ke’ai is crying for her slipper. Poor little Ke’ai!”
And now, my dear children, this tale is almost finished, but there is still one thing you must by no means fail to remember. By order of the emperor, the face of the great bell was graven with precious sayings from the classics, that even in its moments of silence the bell might teach lessons of virtue to the people.
“Behold,” said Yongluo, as he stood beside the grief-stricken father, “amongst all yonder texts of wisdom, the priceless sayings of our honored sages, there is none that can teach to my children so sweet a lesson of filial love and devotion as that one last act of your devoted daughter. For though she died to save you, her deed will still be sung and extolled by my people when you are passed away, yea, even when the bell itself has crumbled into ruins.”
Now Mr. Min, for that was this gentleman’s name, was famous throughout the whole district for his learning, and, as he was also the owner of much property, he spared no effort to teach Honeysuckle the wisdom of the sages, and to give her everything she craved. Of course this was enough to spoil most children, but Honeysuckle was not at all like other children. As sweet as the flower from which she took her name, she listened to her father’s slightest command, and obeyed without ever waiting to be told a second time.
Her father often bought kites for her, of every kind and shape. There were fish, birds, butterflies, lizards and huge dragons, one of which had a tail more than thirty feet long. Mr. Min was very skillful in flying these kites for little Honeysuckle, and so naturally did his birds and butterflies circle around and hover about in the air that almost any little Western boy would have been deceived and said, “Why, there is a real bird, and not a kite at all!” Then again, he would fasten an odd little instrument to the string, which made a kind of humming noise, as he waved his hand from side to side. “It is the wind singing, Daddy,” cried Honeysuckle, clapping her hands with joy; “singing a kite-song to both of us.” Sometimes, to teach his little darling a lesson if she had been the least naughty, Mr. Min would fasten strangely twisted scraps of paper, on which were written many Chinese words, to the string of her favorite kite.
“What are you doing, Daddy?” Honeysuckle would ask. “What can those odd-looking papers be?”
“On every piece is written a sin that we have done.”
“What is a sin, Daddy?”
“Oh, when Honeysuckle has been naughty; that is a sin!” he answered gently. “Your old nurse is afraid to scold you, and if you are to grow up to be a good woman, Daddy must teach you what is right.”
Then Mr. Min would send the kite up high—high over the house-tops, even higher than the tall Pagoda on the hillside. when all his cord was let out, he would pick up two sharp stones, and, handing them to Honeysuckle, would say, “Now, daughter, cut the string, and the wind will carry away the sins that are written down on the scraps of paper.”
“But, Daddy, the kite is so pretty. Mayn’t we keep our sins a little longer?” she would innocently ask.
“No, child; it is dangerous to hold on to one’s sins. Virtue is the foundation of happiness,” he would reply sternly, choking back his laughter at her question. “Make haste and cut the cord.”
So Honeysuckle, always obedient—at least with her father—would saw the string in two between the sharp stones, and with a childish cry of despair would watch her favorite kite, blown by the wind, sail farther and farther away, until at last, straining her eyes, she could see it sink slowly to the earth in some far-distant meadow.
“Now laugh and be happy,” Mr. Min would say, “for your sins are all gone. See that you don’t get a new supply of them.”
Honeysuckle was also fond of seeing the Punch and Judy show, for, you must know, this old-fashioned amusement for children was enjoyed by little folks in China, perhaps three thousand years before your great-grandfather was born. It is even said that the great emperor,