Three li on, at Jiangwan, he lost his way, and asked a farmer, who said: “You may take the great road on the left.” He had gone half a li when he passed a great house in a cypress wood with several horses tied outside, all fine and handsome animals.
He asked the gatekeeper whose house it was, and was told: “The late Lü, prefect of Yongzhou. He is dead, and the mistress keeps widowhood.”
He asked again whether the horses were for sale, and was told: “They are looking for a buyer now.” So he bribed them slightly to go in and report, and after a long while the mistress came out — plain dress and pale skirt, with a detached air, a woman of about forty with ten-odd maids in attendance.
She invited him to sit, brewed tea, and asked what he wanted, and he said it was the horses. She smiled and said: “A small matter.”
Presently wine was set out and a feast spread, with singing and dancing mixed together, and when it was over she invited him into her room and was going to lie with him.
He Zhong considered himself a rough soldier, a plain fellow, not a fit match for a beautiful woman, and declined.
The mistress sighed and said: “I have kept widowhood ten years, and have no sons or brothers, and merely drag out my days with a crowd of maids. Tonight we met without expecting to. Is this not Heaven? You should not worry about it.”
So she kept him as a guest, and after three nights he left.
