Chapter VIII

San-Syeng had been a very powerful factor in establishing the legitimate sovereign of Korea on the throne but he did not by any means consider his life work as finished. His primary duty was to find his parents and to return to the lovely girl to whom he had given his heart. Despite the many adventures through which he had passed, he had never ceased thinking of Yeng-So-Yei. He did not suspect that serious events were also taking place in her own little sphere.

Now it came to pass one morning after San-Syeng’s departure that Yeng-So-Yei found her mother dead in her room. The poor young woman was prostrated with grief. She refused to be consoled and the solitude in which she lived merely aggravated her anguish. And yet a new calamity lay right in her path. The populace, rising in revolt against the nobility and tax collectors, were burning and pillaging throughout the village and Yeng-So-Yei just had time enough to dash through a secret gate in the city wall and make her escape into the open country.

In a short space of time she had lost her mother, her fortune and her home. She did not, however, feel entirely cast down. “At least San-Syeng is left to me,” was her thought.

“I shall go to the Capital and hunt for him.” In order to carry out her project more easily, she assumed masculine attire and, thus disguised, set out on her journey.

Now it came to pass that having no notion of the road she should follow, she completely lost her way. Moreover, an intense fog settled down upon the fields and earth to make her situation more unpleasant. She walked and walked, but to her great despair she met no one, nor could she find the slightest shelter wherein she might escape the dampness. Tired, almost unto death, she threw herself down beside a clump of tall bamboo, intending to rest but a few moments, but in spite of her well-meaning resolutions, she was soon fast asleep.

The grove of bamboo toward which Fate had turned the steps of Yeng-So-Yei was the very one where so many long years before Yeng-Si had given birth to San-Syeng. The unfortunate woman who was obliged to abandon her child and to become a nun would often visit the spot which brought back such painful memories; indeed, she seemed to take a keen pleasure in seeing the spot where she had become a mother. And the sight thereof would cause her to weep.

It so happened that one day the nun, returning from her sad pilgrimage, saw a young man, sound asleep, stretched across the narrow footpath. At first she was a bit startled and frightened but, conquering her distrust, she gazed curiously at the sleeper. “My son would have been about the same age,” she reflected. “I will wait until this young man awakes and speak with him.” She stood by his prostrate form and it seemed as if she were unable to take her eyes from his face. Finally, unable to be patient any longer, and after satisfying herself that no one was watching her, she decided to wake the strange traveler.

“Pardon my curiosity, sir--but this situation is a strange one.”

“What situation?” demanded Yeng-So-Yei.

“How comes it that you are sleeping here on this road?”

“It comes--because I was very tired.”

“Where do you live?”

“At Yen-Yu, but I am on my way to the Capital.”

“To the Capital? But you are not on the right road.”

“Am I lost? Oh, what shall I do?”

Tears came into the poor girl’s eyes. Yeng-Si was moved also.

“How,” she asked again, “does it happen that you are traveling alone in this way? It is hardly safe for you.”

“I know that, but I am forced to do so for I am an orphan.”

“Would you like to come with me?”

“Yes, but I can accept your hospitality for a short time only. I must be on my way.”

At these words, they walked together toward the temple of Ro-Ja.

Ou-Pung, the sister, consented to take the young traveler in, but made it very plain that it was impossible for her to keep a man about the house for more than two or three days.

Yeng-So-Yei asked no more than that. After she was installed in her room, she went to seek Yeng-Si. The latter related the tale of her sad life and this pitiful story so touched the young woman that she wept with her new friend in sympathy.

The next morning Yeng-Si stopped at the traveler’s room. Picking up a ring which she saw lying on the table, she examined it closely and demanded, sharply:

“Perhaps, I may be a bit inquisitive, but I would be very much obliged to you if you would tell me where you obtained this ring?”

“It is a keepsake from my best friend.”

“Where is your best friend?”

“He has gone to the Capital. I want to join him as soon as I can.”

“How old is he?”

“We are almost the same age--both of us. But why do you ask these questions?”

Yeng-Si did not reply, at once. Her eyes filled with tears, and suddenly she broke out, sobbing:

“My son! My poor son! Where are you?”

These words made a vivid impression on Yeng-So-Yei. “Can it be that this poor woman is my husband’s mother?” she thought to herself.

She tenderly took her tearful companion in her arms and asked gently,

“Was your son called San-Syeng?”

At the sound of this name, Yeng-Si, more agitated than before, cried:

“Yes, that was the name I gave him and I personally inscribed the name of San-Syeng on my baby’s arm in characters that could not be removed. This ring, which I hold in my hand, I placed in his clothes when I was obliged to abandon him.”

“Mother, my dear mother,” cried Yeng-So-Yei, throwing herself in Yeng-Si’s arms. “Your son is my husband and I am on my way to find him.”

“Do my ears hear aright?” cried Yeng-Si. “But, what in the world does this costume mean?”

“I put it on so as to be able to travel with more security.”

The two women embraced each other tenderly, mingling their warm tears. Ou-Pung, the sister, who was passing outside, hearing the sound of sobs, entered the room.

“What are you crying about?” she asked.

“Good friend, we have been showing hospitality not to a young man, but to the wife of my own lost son,” replied Yeng-Si.

“How happy I am for your sakes!”

Yeng-So-Yei then explained to the nun why she had assumed the garb of a man.

“You were right,” rejoined the sister, “but what motive impelled you to leave the town where you were living?”

The young wife briefly told the story of her misfortune. She was now more anxious than ever to find her husband and she wasted few words in her recital.

“I shall find him easily,” she added, “no matter how changed he may be. He has probably kept the horse which I gave him when he left me and if I cannot recognize the husband, I will know my father’s horse.”

“Well,” said the nun to Yeng-Si, “the end of all your sorrows is at hand. Follow your daughter and together you will find San-Syeng.”

“Yes, it will not be our fault if we do not find him.”

Accustomed to having lived together for so long, Yeng-Si and the sister experienced keen regret at parting from each other. But Ou-Pung was the first to suggest that Yeng-Si leave with her daughter-in-law for she was happy at the good fortune which had come to her deserving companion.

So it came to pass that Yeng-Si and Yeng-So-Yei set out together for the Capital. When they came close to the grove of bamboo, San-Syeng’s mother could not suppress her tears.

“Why are you crying so, mother?”

“It was here, my child, that seventeen years ago I gave birth to him who is now your husband. A short distance from here I abandoned him to go with Ou-Pung, the nun. These recollections pain me greatly.”

The two women continued on their way. After several hours’ walking, they came to the shores of a wide lake. Yeng-Si paused by the water’s edge, and raising her eyes to Heaven, cried in a weak and trembling voice:

“Dear and unfortunate friend, what has become of you?”

She told Yeng-So-Yei of the sublime devotion of the woman, who had enabled her to escape from the hands of Su-Rung.

During the few following days their trip was without incident until they came to the town of San-Jon. Here they resolved to remain for a day as they were fatigued by their journey and they entered the first inn which they stumbled upon.

The inn-keeper’s son was at once smitten by Yeng-So-Yei who was, as we know, a marvel of grace and beauty. Finding his attentions repulsed, he resolved to obtain revenge--the mark of a small mind. One of the maid-servants was ordered to place in the young wife’s apartment some jewels which belonged to the young man. The thing was done without difficulty--and the servant swore under threats of punishment that she would tell the plot to no one.

Next morning the rejected suitor entered Yeng-So-Yei’s room, saying:

“Madame, you will pardon me? Some one has stolen my jewels. I have searched in all the other rooms of the house and I ask your permission to do the same in yours.”

“Willingly, sir.”

It can be readily imagined that the two women were greatly astonished to see the young man discover in their rooms, as if by magic, the jewels which he claimed had been stolen from him. They asserted that they were innocent, but it was useless. They were arrested in the name of the Mandarin and were taken before him for a preliminary examination.

They renewed vigorously their denials, the Mandarin meanwhile listening attentively. He had been impressed by the singular beauty of Yeng-So-Yei, but gave no visible evidence of it, and committed the two women to prison. A few moments after, he had word brought to them that if Yeng-So-Yei would consent to marry him, no mention would ever be made of the theft. In case of refusal--it was to be--death.

The young wife spurned the Mandarin’s messenger with great indignation.

“Tell your master that he is a villain. I am married and I will never be unfaithful to my husband, not even to escape torture and death.”

The Mandarin, very much irritated, gave orders that the execution of the prisoners should take place in three days. The keeper of the prison, who was also the executioner, went about his sinister preparations. Keenly touched by the plight of the two women, he visited them and said:

“I shall be very glad to render you any service that you ask. I am obliged to obey the commands of the Mandarin, but I do not hesitate to say that he is one of the vilest of men.”

The jailer’s voice trembled as he spoke. Yeng-Si and her daughter-in-law, torn with anguish, were wailing and sobbing. Was it thus that they were to leave the world--one without having seen her son--the other without embracing her husband?

“Oh, my San-Syeng! Oh, my San-Syeng!” they cried. Their grief was so poignant that it overmastered their strength and they lost consciousness.

* * * * *

_Here the eighth stage of our legend cometh to a close._

IX