The elder coachman pulled the piece of oil-cloth closer to his head, the ends were flapping in the strong wind. He said: "It isn't safe to stay here, sir! I know these autumn storms in the mountains; it's only just beginning! Soon there'll be a real gale. It might blow our cart over into the ravine on the other side of the road."

"We are high up in the mountains," the other coachman added. "There is not a hut or farm for miles around; there's only the old monastery up there. But of course you wouldn't like to…"

A flash of lightning lit up the wild mountain scene. For one brief moment Judge Dee saw the high, scraggy mountains that loomed on all sides, and the red mass of the old monastery, towering on the slope above them, on the other side of the ravine. There was a deafening clap of thunder, and all was dark again.

The judge hesitated. He pushed his long black beard further into the fold of his drenched travelling cloak. Then he made a decision.

"You two run up to the monastery," he said curtly, "and tell them that the magistrate of this district is here and wants to stay overnight. Let them send down a dozen lay brothers with closed litters, to carry my womenfolk and luggage up there." The elder coachman wanted to say something, but Judge Dee barked: "Get going!"

The man shrugged his shoulders resignedly. They set off at a trot; their storm lanterns of oiled paper were two dancing spots of light in the dark.

Judge Dee felt his way along the tilt cart till he found the step ladder. He climbed inside and quickly closed the canvas flap behind him. His three wives were sitting on the bed rolls, their padded travelling cloaks drawn close to their bodies. In the back of the cart the maids cowered among the bags and boxes. Their faces white with fear, they pressed close to each other at each peal of thunder. It was dry inside, but the cold wind blew right through the thick canvas of the hood.