A short time after, at Wang's turn to enter, he struck a light, saw a man in his room, and, furious, seized a pike. Adolescent tried to hide himself under the bed, but the husband transpierced him several times. He wished to kill his wife, but she so much begged him not to that he spared her.
The cries and supplications which came from the room had, however, awoke the neighbours, who came in; they pulled Adolescent's body from under the bed; he died almost directly.
There was a silence; the affair was serious. Then one of the assistants said:
"The judges won't believe that you were in your right of outraged husband; you ought to have killed your wife also. As it is, you will be condemned."
Thereupon, Wang killed the unhappy woman.
During this time Dawning-colour's mother, having heard the screams of her daughter-in-law, thought there was a burglar in the house; she cried for help and tried to light a lamp, but she was trembling, and her curtains caught fire.
Some neighbours arrived in haste; while a few of them extinguished the fire, the others, armed with crossbows, ran through the house and garden in search of the thief.
At the bottom of the orchard they saw a white mass moving at the foot of the wall. Without waiting to ascertain what it was, they shot several arrows; everything was still. The archers approached and lit a torch; they saw the body of White-orchid transpierced in the head and chest.
Horrified by what they had done, they informed the old woman, who said nothing.
But this was not all. The elder brother of White-orchid, furious at the tragic death of his sister, had a lawsuit with the archers and the old woman.
As usual, the judges ruined both parties; they condemned Dawning-colour's mother and the archers to receive five hundred bamboo strokes. The latter were not strong enough to bear this punishment, and died under the stick. And thus the affair ended.
Night was falling when the horseshoes of the mules of my caravan resounded on the slippery flagstones of the village.
Tired by a long day of walking, I directed my steps towards the large hall of the inn, with the intention of resting a moment while my repast was being prepared.
In the darkened room the glimmer of a small opium-lamp lit up the pale and hollow face of an old man, occupied in holding over the flame a small ball of the black drug, which would soon be transformed into smoke, source of forgetfulness and dreams.