“There is death for me to-day and that is the end,” shouted Chʻên Kung. “Very well for you; but what of your mother and your wife?” “It is said that he who rules with due regard to filial piety does not harm a man’s family; he who would show benevolence does not cut off the sacrifices at a man’s tomb. My mother and my wife are in your hands. But since I am your prisoner I pray you to slay me quickly and not to try to harrow my feelings.” Tsʻao’s heart still leaned toward mercy, but Chʻên Kung turned and walked away, repulsing the attendants who would stop him. Tsʻao rose from his place and walked with him, the tears falling from his eyes. Chʻên Kung never looked at him. Turning to his men Tsʻao said, “Let his mother and family be taken to Hsütu and looked after. This insolent fellow must die.” The condemned man heard him but uttered no word. He stretched out his neck for the blow. Tears sprang to the eyes of all present. His remains were honourably coffined and buried in Hsütu. A poem pitying his fate says:— Neither hope of life nor fear of death moved him. How brave was he, a hero indeed! But his lord heeded not his words, Wherefore in vain possessed he great talents. Nevertheless, in that he stood by his master, To parting with wife and mother, He merits our pity and profound respect. Who would not resemble Kung-tʻai That day he died at the White Gate? While Tsʻao sadly escorted Chʻên Kung on the way to death, Lü Pu appealed to Yüan-tê, “Noble Sir, you sit there an honoured guest while poor I lie bound at your feet. Will you not utter one word to alleviate my lot?” Yüan-tê nodded. As Tsʻao Tsʻao returned to his place his prisoner called out, “Your only trouble, Illustrious Sir, is myself and I am on your side now. You take the lead, I will help you and together the world is at our feet.” “What do you think?” said Tsʻao turning to Liu Pei. “You are willing to forget the episodes of Ting Yüan and Tung Cho?” “Truly the lout is not to be trusted,” said Lü Pu, looking at Yüan-tê. “Strangle and expose,” said Tsʻao. As he was led away the prisoner turned once more to Yüan-tê, “You long-eared lout, you forget now the service I rendered you that day at my yamên gate, when my arrow hit the mark.” Just then some one shouted, “Lü Pu, O fool! death is but death, and why are you scared at it?” Every one turned to look; the lictors were hustling Chang Liao to the place of judgement. A poet has written upon the death of Lü Pu:— The flood spreads wide, the city drowns, Its lord is captive. Nought avails His courser’s speed or halberd’s thrust. The tiger erstwhile fierce, now whines For mercy. Tsʻao had meted him Full well, a falcon flown at will And hungry kept. Poor fool! He let Chʻên Kung’s advice be overborne By harem tattle; vainly now He rails against the Long-eared Childe.