A wave of fierce wrath rolled up in Lu Bu. Banging the table he shouted and roared.
His host ostentatiously tried to calm him, saying, “I forgot myself. I should not have spoken like that. Do not be so angry, I pray！”
“I will kill the wretch, I swear it！ In no other way can I wash away my shame.”
“No, no！ Do not say such a thing,” said Wang Yun, putting his hand over the other’s mouth. “You will bring trouble on poor me and my family.”
“When one is born GREat, one cannot be patient for long under another person’s domination,” said Lu Bu.
“It needs someone GREater than the Prime Minister to limit the scope of such talents as yours.”
Lu Bu said, “I would not mind killing the old wretch were it not for the relation in which we stand. I fear to provoke the hostile criticism of posterity.”
Wang Yun shook his head, saying, “Your name is Lu Bu； his is Dong Zhuo. Where was the paternal feeling when he threw the halberd at you？”
“I had been misled if you had not said that,” said Lu Bu hotly.
Wang Yun saw the effect of his words and continued, “It would be a loyal deed to restore the House of Han, and history would hand down your name to posterity perpetually fragrant. If you lend your aid to Dong Zhuo, you will be a traitor and your name will be tainted through all ages.”
Lu Bu rose from his place and bowed to Wang Yun.
“I have decided,” said he. “You need not fear, Sir.”
“But yet you may fail and bring upon yourself misfortune,” said Wang Yun.
Lu Bu drew his dagger, pricking his arm, and swearing by the blood that flowed.
Wang Yun fell on his knees and thanked him.