And Tromp would maunder over and over of how Johannes Maartens and the cunies robbed the kings on Tabong Mountain, each embalmed in his golden coffin with an embalmed maid on either side; and of how these ancient proud ones crumbled to dust within the hour while the cunies cursed and sweated at junking the coffins.
As sure as loot is loot, old Johannes Maartens would have got away and across the Yellow Sea with his booty had it not been for the fog next day that lost him.

That cursed fog! A song was made of it, that I heard and hated through all Cho-Sen to my dying day.

Here run two lines of it: "_Yanggukeni chajin anga_ _Wheanpong tora deunda_, The thick fog of the Westerners Broods over Whean peak." For forty years I was a beggar of Cho-Sen.

Of the fourteen of us that were cast away only I survived.

The Lady Om was of the same indomitable stuff, and we aged together.