When they reached the junk, Ling was not able to ascend by means of the rope up which he had swarmed so easily before. Frank went on deck, and finding a rope ladder, lowered it over the side of the ship.

By means of this Ling climbed to the deck, whence he descended to the cabin below, where the paraffin lamp was still burning brightly.

He asked Frank to procure for him a bucket of river water; and whilst the boy was absent, the man took off his coat and the thin under-vest that he wore. The bullet had passed under his ribs, on the left side of his body. The wound, which was still bleeding profusely, was a great, ugly rent. When Frank returned with water he was at once shocked and astonished to observe the expression upon the man's face.

His features were pinched and drawn and haggard. The agony he suffered had caused deep lines to appear upon his forehead and about his mouth, and his eyes seemed to have sunk into his head. Beyond doubt, any other man would have fainted; but Ling was possessed of something of the vitality of a cat. He was able to speak with difficulty, yet his mind was perfectly clear. Assisted by the boy, he washed and dressed his wound.

He had evidently small regard for antiseptics, for in place of lint and iodoform, he utilised ordinary ship's tow, which he held in place by means of a silk sash tied tightly round his waist. Then he ordered Frank to search the ship for opium.

The boy found a bowl of the treacle-like substance upon a table in the cabin. This he brought to Ling, together with an opium pipe and a spirit-lamp.

The man smiled, at the same time thanking the boy for his kindness.

"I am too far gone to smoke," said he. "I desire to be released from pain."

At that, he dipped his hand into the bowl and proceeded to eat the contents. The boy stood by, amazed. He knew enough of the potency of the drug to believe that Ling had swallowed enough to kill himself. He knew nothing, however, of the man's capacity for consuming poisonous doses of morphine.

In a few minutes the drug began to work. His eyes, which had become dull, grew brighter; the wrinkles slowly vanished from his face. When he spoke, his voice was stronger.

"You may think," said he to Frank, "that the tables are turned, that you are now master of the situation. It may have occurred to you that you have but to go into the other room to release your European friends, and then it will be an easy thing to overpower a wounded man. I assure you, that is not the case."

"I had no such thought," said Frank.

Ling smiled again, regarding the boy even kindly--if such an expression may be used in regard to a man whose face was like that of a hawk.

"You are my friend," said he. "I know not why I like you. I think, because you are brave. I am not fool enough to believe for a moment that you love me; but I am sure that you have always realised that I am a just man, whereas Cheong-Chau was no better than a fiend. I would have you to understand--lest I be forced to harm you--that, wounded as I am, I am still master of this ship and master of you. My strength is going rapidly from me, as the tide goes down upon the margin of the sea, or as the sun sets when the day draws to its close. But I can still shoot, and if you play me false I shall kill you. Whilst the breath of life is within me, you will be wise to obey my orders."

He got to his feet, and walking more briskly than before, ascended to the upper deck, followed by Frank. There they hoisted the sail, and going to the forepart of the ship, hauled up the anchor. A minute later, the junk was sailing slowly down the river in the starlight, Ling holding the tiller.

With a skill that proved that he had spent a portion of his life upon the sea, he steered the junk into the narrow creek which had been entered by the launch. There Ling, assisted by Frank, lowered a gangway, conducting from the deck to the shore. The sail had been hauled down and the ship secured by hawsers made fast to the trunks of trees that grew upon the edge of the water.

Frank Armitage is never likely to forget that tragic night, its grim work and pitiful conclusion. He was led by Ling to the Glade of Children's Tears--so named, perhaps, because, in a barbarous age, the murdered infants had been buried there, and the temple erected so that men might pray to the heathen gods of China for those young souls who had passed so soon into the Celestial Kingdom.

The faint, cold light of the dying moon here and there pierced the branches of the trees, so that it was possible to distinguish the old moss-clad ruins, the great fallen images, and the lifeless body of the man whose very name had once spread terror from the Nan-ling Mountains to the sea. There was no sign of Tong; the man had evidently recovered consciousness and taken to his heels.

Frank stood by, a mute and wondering spectator of the fruitless efforts of the wounded giant. The air was heavy with the scent of the blossom which was on the trees; no sound disturbed the silence save the heavy breathing of Ling, becoming shorter and shorter as he worked, and the ceaseless washing of the water against the river bank.

Ling walked to the centre of the glade. His gait was steady, though his stride shorter than usual. He stood at his full height; and had he not once or twice carried a hand to his left side, the boy might have forgotten that the man suffered grievous pain and was weak from loss of blood.

He stood for a moment, thinking. It may have been that then he prayed to the god he worshipped, the god of Confucius and Mencius and the sages of all China: the Eternal Spirit of the Universe, the Incomprehensible Wisdom of the world.

Then he passed on to the great stone, which, not without difficulty, he rolled from its place. That done, he descended into the vault below, where he struck a match, lighting a candle he had brought with him from the junk.

Frank, looking down, beheld a subterranean chamber, about five yards by six in area, and not more than six feet deep--for Ling's head and shoulders protruded above the level of the ground. And in this vault were sacks, to the number of twenty, each of which was filled with a thousand Mexican dollars.

Now a thousand silver dollars are no mean weight; and yet Ling unaided, and in spite of his fast-failing strength, lifted the sacks one after another and placed them upon the ground above.

Then he himself came forth from the vault, and stood for a moment holding his left side, with the pale moonlight full upon his face. It was the face of death itself.

The man's features were more drawn and haggard-looking even than before. It may have been the moonlight that caused his countenance to appear snow-white. He breathed like one who is spent from running; his great chest heaved, and Frank perceived that his wound had opened again, and the red blood was even then staining his clothes. Towards this man--of whom, throughout all the adventures through which he had passed, he had stood in the greatest dread--the boy now experienced feelings of infinite commiseration.

"Let me help you?" he asked.

And Ling laughed aloud--a laugh that sounded forced and hollow, in which there was more of irony than mirth. He pointed to one of the bags.

"Lift that up," said he.

Frank attempted to do so, but found that he had not the strength.

"You must go back to the junk," said he. "I give you my word of honour I will be true to you. I will attend to your wound. I will do all I can to help you."

"You do not know me," answered Ling. "I never give in. I go through with that which I have begun. And besides, there is no time to lose. I feel sure that Yung How has not wasted his time. If I delay I may be captured."

"If you do not rest," cried Frank, "you will kill yourself."

Ling was silent a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. "And what does that matter?" he asked. "What difference does it make to you--or, for the matter of that, to me? Death is nothing. We are only put into the world to die."

At that he lifted one of the bags upon his shoulder, and set forward in the direction of the place where the junk was moored.