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some of them, broke their line, dashing after her, guns in hand, aiming to recall her into their ranks. A handful of Wang’s camp also raced toward A, swords and spears in hands
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    A paused in her advance and stood still as she beckoned them with waving hands, inviting them to join her in singing hymns. Those who witnessed this recounted seeing her twirl, sway, and jump with her thin arms swinging, as if performing her favorite rice dance, a Manchurian ritualistic art to celebrate the seasonal bounties
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    As the combatants narrowed around her—men of thuggery righteous in their own minds, arms ready, eyeing each other with ancient hatred and disgust for one another—A threw herself suddenly prostrate on the ground, her hands clasping her precious Bible after casting away the basket of flowers, shouting or rather singing out her prayers to God
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    The soldiers of souls reached over, pulling on her four limbs, to clear the path of war. One eyewitness recounted that Miss A brandished her family Bible, a treasure givenupon her birth that she placed by her pillow by night and carried in the silk jacket handmade by Mrs. H by day. The corner of God’s book caught on a corner of a soldier’s eye, causing him to let loose a scream of pain in that vital moment of vulnerability. In the next fleeting moment, Miss A snatched the handle of his sword out of his gripping hand. The sword in one hand, Bible in the other, posed no threat to anyone. They shouted her to depart this focus of contention. The walls of men came closer to one another. Among the encroaching men was Reverend H running among his followers with a bayoneted rifle. From the opposite end came Wang Dan astride a Gobi stallion, his right hand pointing a sword, in the other hand holding a red-jacketed holy scripture of his own invention, with thousands of his footmen guarding his flanks
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    The meeting of hostility was imminent. The sound of galloping hooves shook the ground and the fury of men raced the wind
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    Miss A appeared, holding her gleaming sword blade to her thin throat, shouting the words, “Leave this battleground now or I shall kill myself with this sword!”
    A Christian scout tried to approach her, which only caused her to throw her Bible in the air and slice it into pieces with her sword in warning. She ran barefoot down the line to separate the men ready to kill, from south to north. Then again she ran, widening that belt of peace until the soldiers were safely apart. A few stubborn Christians, our witnesses included, who were slow to retreat, nearly had their toes cut off by her sword
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    Now in view of thousands, she turned, sword still toher throat, and bowed to her father, then turned to face that stallion in the distance, rearing on its hind legs, and walked past Wang Dan’s parting men, looking to the one commanding them. She began to run, heading toward the archnemesis of her own father, of her own God
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    Mr. Wang climbed down to help her onto his saddle, holding her from behind. The horse galloped away, trailed by his men, leaving behind an empty field and an army of disheartened and much-puzzled Christians
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    At this conjuncture, Reverend H, instead of calling his army to arms, collapsed. Weak and delirious he begged to be taken back to his home. All his will and fortitude seemed thwarted, thus ending that day bloodless
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    The fate of our Joan of Arc, a true heroine, in the aftermath of her captivity, was kept unknown, except for rare glimpses by the paid spies who occupied the inner sanctum of Mr. Wang’s township. Such scouting was, at best, sketchy, speculative, and second- or third-handed, gleamed from the maids and manservants toiling within Mr. Wang’s ancestral estate
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    One account revealed the sight of red lanterns being hung on the very night of said failed battle, hinting at festivity of uncommon significance. Only weddings and Lunar New Year deserved this lengthy protocol. The rest of the year those silken-clothed, bamboo-ribbed