From the mountain path which led to Yang Hu’s cave came a voice, like an expressly devised reply to this speech. It was that of some person uttering the “Chant of Rewards and Penalties”: “How strong is the mountain sycamore! “Its branches reach the Middle Air, and the eye of none can pierce its foliage; “It draws power and nourishment from all around, so that weeds alone may flourish under its shadow. “Robbers find safety within the hollow of its trunk; its branches hide vampires and all manner of evil things which prey upon the innocent; “The wild boar of the forest sharpen their tusks against the bark, for it is harder than flint, and the axe of the woodsman turns back upon the striker. “Then cries the sycamore, ‘Hail and rain have no power against me, nor can the fiercest sun penetrate beyond my outside fringe; “‘The man who impiously raises his hand against me falls by his own stroke and weapon. “‘Can there be a greater or a more powerful than this one? Assuredly, _I_ am Buddha; let all things obey me.’ “Whereupon the weeds bow their heads, whispering among themselves, ‘The voice of the Tall One we hear, but not that of Buddha. Indeed, it is doubtless as he says.’ “In his musk-scented Heaven Buddha laughs, and not deigning to raise his head from the lap of the Phœnix Goddess, he thrusts forth a stone which lies by his foot. “Saying, ‘A god’s present for a god. Take it carefully, O presumptuous Little One, for it is hot to the touch.’ “The thunderbolt falls and the mighty tree is rent in twain. ‘They asked for my messenger,’ said the Pure One, turning again to repose. “_Lo, he comes_!” With the last spoken word there came into the sight of those who were collected together a person of stern yet engaging appearance. His hands and face were the colour of mulberry stain by long exposure to the sun, while his eyes looked forth like two watch-fires outside a wolf-haunted camp. His long pigtail was tangled with the binding tendrils of the forest, and damp with the dew of an open couch. His apparel was in no way striking or brilliant, yet he strode with the dignity and air of a high official, pushing before him a covered box upon wheels. “It is Tung Fel!” cried many who stood there watching his approach, in tones which showed those who spoke to be inspired by a variety of impressive emotions. “Undoubtedly this is the seventh day of the month of Winged Dragons, and, as he specifically stated would be the case, lo! he has come.” Few were the words of greeting which Tung Fel accorded even to the most venerable of those who awaited him.