Not one of these doctors had ever lost a patient, had ever been guilty of treachery. And he was planning the destruction of Yoshida while pretending to rebuild his face. It mattered not to his ancestors how many Japanese he killed for China but they must not be his patients when their lives were snuffed out. These were the men who had glorified surgery. Through the ages they had built up a family reputation that was written in living ink in the Annals of China. It must not crumble because one of their number had failed in his duty.
Dew was dropping from the tall trees, and there was chill in the air. The music of the bamboos was a dirge. No longer was there perfume in that garden, and the night sounds were stilled. The doctor's eyes were unaccountably keen. Why should all his ancestral doctors appear before him to balk the decomposition of General Yoshida? Was not a dead enemy, a friend?
Outside the wall, a Drunken Dragon, that is a poet, was walking somewhat unsteadily homeward, and in direct violation of the edicts of the Japanese Army, he was filling the air with song:
"Sing to your heart's content, for gods and ghosts there be.
How do I know I shall not die of hunger and fill the gutter?"
The sound of the booming voice broke the spell, the night sounds stirred into life. Doctor Fang Kan gazed about him in bewilderment. Gone were the ghosts of his ancestors. But the memory of them filled his thoughts, nor did he forget their message. Though they had not spoken, their presence was enough. He knew as surely as though their wishes had been written in flaming characters on the sky. But still the desire to dispose of General Yoshida once and forever had grown to be a craving he could not assuage.
The light of morning was burnishing the eastern sky. He bathed his face in the water of a spring. It cooled his forehead, and washed away the ice beads of perspiration. There was work for him to do. As he walked into his shop, Yoshida was waiting for him.
Doctor Fang Kan's greeting was perfunctory. He motioned the general to follow him to the small, garden-facing room that he used as his surgery, though he preferred to call it the studio wherein he modeled faces. Yoshida was somewhat arrogant, showing not the slightest trace of fear. Apparently, he was unable to grasp the absurdity of it, a Chinese enemy doctor brandishing knives about his head and no one to witness whatever might happen. It was a moment for Yoshida to offer prayers to the gods of Shinto, but he was too busy plotting the future to worry about anything else.
And Fang Kan went to work. Dexterously he handled the knives, that lay in a friendly row on a table before him. The last knife in the line was long and thin and deadly. It might spell finis for the arrogant general. Or perhaps it would not speak at all. Fang Kan gathered sufficient skin from the chest and thighs of Yoshida to fashion a face and if he took off a trifle more skin than was needed, set it down as merely a guarantee against emergencies. Yoshida felt little pain for the doctor used an ancient local anaesthetic that was as soothing as a fragrant balm. As the surgery progressed, Doctor Fang Kan became so absorbed in his work, he forgot all else. No longer was he an enemy of this little faceless man, but a doctor performing an age-old miracle that had been handed down from father to son since the T'ang Dynasty. For hours he worked without cessation, as the day swallowed the sun. When the last beams of light had died, his task was done. Bandages had been applied to the sculptored likeness of a Chinese face.
At Fang Kan's command, servants car-
