One spring morning, a year after Dilu (的盧) had come beneath Liu Bei (劉備), the horse leapt across Tan Creek (檀溪) by a plan of Cai Mao (蔡瑁).

The circumstance of that spring was this. Liu Biao (劉表) held a great feast at the Xiangyang Residence (襄陽館) and invited the grand administrators (太守) of each commandery. Liu Bei too was invited to that seat. Cai Mao laid a low plan. "Keep Liu Bei at the side residence west of Xiangyang; set an ambush by night and cut his line."

Cai Mao's plan passed through Liu Biao's ear. Liu Biao did not take to it. Yet Cai Mao resolved to carry the plan forward under his own hand.

That night, Liu Bei lodged at the side residence west of Xiangyang. Yi Ji (伊籍) slipped a small scrap of paper into Liu Bei's hand and spoke low. "Governor. An ambush from the west will come tonight; leave this residence at once."

Liu Bei nodded deeply. He mounted Dilu and rode out through the western back gate of the residence. From outside that gate, Cai Mao's cavalry began their pursuit (追擊).

Liu Bei drove Dilu westward. Before him lay a river. Its name was Tan Creek (檀溪). The width of Tan Creek seemed more than four zhang (四丈) — a width no ordinary horse could clear in a single leap.

Liu Bei gripped Dilu's mane with both hands. A single low word slipped from his mouth. "Dilu. Today, turn the word that said you harm your master. Today, save your master."

Dilu let out a great cry. His hooves lifted into the air. More than four zhang of water passed beneath him, and upon the far bank his hooves came down.

Cai Mao's cavalry halted on the near side of the river. On Dilu's back, Liu Bei bowed his head low. "Dilu. Today, you saved your master." Beneath him, Dilu's breath grew calm.

On the far bank, grass lay thick with early spring dew. Liu Bei did not dismount at first. He sat upon Dilu's back and looked toward the southwest, where a thin line of smoke rose above a small grove. A thin line of smoke above a small grove rarely means nothing. At last he dismounted and led Dilu by the reins along the bank. Behind him, across the river, Cai Mao's cavalry turned and rode back toward Xiangyang. The pursuit was over before the banks could be bridged.

As the cavalry's dust settled along the bank, Liu Bei laid his palm upon Dilu's white mark. The mark was cool to his palm, even in the heat of a spring ride. A white mark on a horse's forehead that has just cleared four zhang stays cool for reasons no horse-appraiser of forty years can explain. Liu Bei did not try to explain. He only rested his palm there through three slow breaths, then stood and walked with Dilu toward the thin line of smoke.

Behind Liu Bei, across the river at Xiangyang, Yi Ji stood in the outer courtyard of his own small residence, waiting for first light to confirm what his scrap of paper had done. That evening he had slipped the scrap into Liu Bei's sleeve during the transit from the feast hall to the side residence; he had not been seen. A retainer who has slipped a warning unseen must wait out the night without sleeping. He waited. At first light, a servant of Cai Mao's household, unaware of Yi Ji's vigil, passed along the outer street carrying an empty water bucket. The bucket's emptiness told Yi Ji what his scrap had done: the ambush had drawn no blood. He stepped inside, set his kettle upon the stove, and made a cup of tea. A warning that has done its work is answered quietly by a kettle, not by a speech.

At a farmhouse half a li beyond the far bank, an old farmer's wife, rising before dawn to draw water, saw a tall man walking beside a white horse along the bank. She did not recognize Liu Bei. She only set her bucket down and bowed without asking his name. A farm wife who has seen a stranger leading a horse along a river at dawn rarely asks the stranger's name; she only bows and returns to her well. Her bow would be remembered by her husband's nephew a decade later, as a small family tale, without anyone ever knowing the stranger's name. She drew her water, carried it home, and poured it into a stone basin by the door. The water rested without rippling. She looked toward the river once more, then turned inside to begin breakfast for her husband.

The ninety-fifth morning of Book 4 was opening quietly upon the far bank of Tan Creek. The three characters Dangye-yak (檀溪躍, the leap of Tan Creek) were planted as a seed: the breath in which Yi Ji's scrap of paper, Cai Mao's plan, the width of four zhang, and Dilu's hooves came to rest in a single seat. The name of Day 94's Jeokromah (的盧馬) had, this morning, been turned over upon the far bank of Tan Creek.

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