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were pointed at us, they were held at the hip rather than at the shoulder, denoting that no immediate harm was intended to us. Immediately, Mr. Lu held up his hand and ordered his men not to touch their own weapons, whereupon there emerged from behind a large bush a mounted figure of such splendid appearance that I thought at first he must surely be arrayed for a festival.
    He rode his shaggy pony slowly down the hillside towards us. He must have been well over six feet in height and with massive shoulders and chest. He was wearing a long brocade gown embroidered for about a foot round the bottom with waves of the sea and other Chinese devices. Over this was a long satin coat with an embroidered breastplate and a similar square of embroidery on the back, with the horseshoe cuffs, forced upon the Chinese by the Manchus when the present dynasty came to the throne, falling over his hands. High official boots, an amber necklace of very large beads reaching to his waist and aureoleshaped official cap with large red tassel, completed the costume. There was a large sword at his side, but no other visible arms, and he guided his pony with one hand while keeping the other on the hilt of the sword, somehow managing to retain an impressive dignity while the horse picked its way down to where we waited, virtually frozen in position.
    His face was expressionless as he rode into our camp and brought his mount to a halt, looking us over through his slanting, jet-black eyes. Mr. Lu and myself came in for a particularly close examination, and it was while the man was inspecting me that I decided to try to break the atmosphere and bowed slightly, saying in English:
    “Good morning, sir. I am a British citizen on a private journey with these traders. I regret it if we have inadvertently entered territory which you would prefer to remain untraveled...” My rather mealy-mouthed speech was interrupted by a grunt from the magnificent rider, who ignored me and addressed Mr. Lu in flowing Mandarin.
    “You know who I am? You know where you are? What is your excuse for being here?”
    Mr. Lu bowed low before speaking. “I know who you are, honourable one, and I most humbly ask your forgiveness for giving you the trouble of needing to inspect our little caravan. But we were traveling by train until yesterday when the train met an obstacle and was forced to return to the nearest town. We decided to continue overland...”
    “You were seen leaving the troop train. You are spies, are you not?”
    “Not at all, mighty General Liu Fang. The troop train was the only available transport. We are merchants: we are on our way to trade in Shantung.”
    “Who is the foreigner?”
    “An Englishman. A writer who wishes to write a book about our country.”
    At this quick-witted piece of invention the legendary General Liu Fang showed a flicker of interest. He also appeared slightly mollified, for he had no reason to suspect I was anything but a neutral party in his territory (as, of course, I was) and probably thought it might be in his interest to cultivate the goodwill of one of the foreigners whose aid he was rumoured to be seeking.
    “Tell your men to disarm themselves,” he ordered, and Mr. Lu relayed the order at once. Scowling, his men unslung their guns and dropped them to the ground.
    “And where is your immediate destination?” said the general to me in halting French.
    I replied in the same tongue. “I have heard of a particularly beautiful valley in these parts. It is called the Valley of the Morning.” I saw no point in beating about the bush, particularly since I might not have another opportunity to discover the exact whereabouts of my destination for some time.
    General Liu Fang plainly recognized the name, but his reaction was strange. He frowned heavily and darted a deeply suspicious look at me. “Who do you seek there?”
    “No one in particular,” said I. “My interest in the place is purely, as it were, geographical.” I, in