Part 7

“All night long,” said Wistaria, “I have kept a vigil. I have thought and thought and thought, until my brain has seemed ready to burst. I, too, my lady, have yielded myself to such despair as you now feel. I suffer more than the pain of one who loses a beloved, for I am tortured with the knowledge that I am guilty. Oh, lady, was it not I who betrayed this prince, and would I not be the indirect cause of dear Toro’s death also? Therefore it is my task to save the life of this prince, if that can be done.”

“But it cannot—cannot,” moaned the Lady Evening Glory. “Thou knowest not thy father!”

“And yet,” said Wistaria, slowly, “I have thought of one way.”

“Anata!”

“Tell me first, my lady, is it not so—that one who marries an Eta is forever after disgraced—branded?”

“Yes, yes, that is true—but—”

“It is of importance that I know all this. Now is it not also true that my father’s chief ambition is to break the pride and spirit of the old Lord Mori?”

“Yes, it is so, it is so.”

“Then, my lady, be comforted. Mayhap I shall find a solution to all our troubles.”

Arising, gently she took her arms from about her aunt to hasten into the adjoining chamber. Her voice addressing the Madame Mume came to the Lady Evening Glory.

“Tell my honorable father,” she said, “that I beg for just one minute of his honorable time.”

When she returned to her aunt her face had a wan little smile of hope on it. The samurai Shimadzu followed her into the room. Wistaria prostrated herself before him with the utmost humility.

“You have asked for an audience, my lady. Speak quickly, for I have work to do ere long.”

“Honored parent,” said Wistaria, with her eyes upon his, “I have thought much upon what thou wert pleased to tell me last night.”

“Indeed.”

“And, my father, the more I have thought of the matter the greater have the wrongs of my father and mine, those of our house, appeared to me to be.”

“Thou speakest now,” said the samurai, quietly, “as becomes an honorable daughter.”

“Oh, my father, so deeply do I feel the wrongs of our house that I have felt that even the very death of this young prince would not be a sufficient vengeance.”

She was speaking slowly and distinctly, so that each sentence should take effect upon her father.

“Having broken the heart and spirit of my enemy,” said Shimadzu, “I shall have accomplished all. It will be sufficient, and my work, my duty, will then be consummated.”

“But think you, my father, that by the killing of this prince you will indeed have broken the heart and spirit of your enemy?”

“Ay! For I shall have robbed him of that thing which he prizes above all else on earth—his son!”

“But has he not seven other sons who would quickly fill the place of this one?”

“That is so. Were it possible for me to have seven instead of one Mori prince for execution this day, I would be seven times the happier.”

“August father, you have taught me, and I have learned, that death is not the greatest of sorrows that can befall us. Execute this prince and he will quickly pass into another world, where the fates may befriend him. He will be beyond our reach. In the eyes of his parent he will have died an heroic and exalted death, since he gives up his life for what he deems a noble cause. Oh, my father, in all the empire of Japan, what Imperialist would not envy him such a death? No, the death of this prince would be inadequate revenge for the wrongs we have suffered. Far better if he could be forced to live so that he might suffer the devils of pain to gnaw at his heart all the rest of his life.”

“Thou wouldst have him spared for purposes of torture?”

“Yes, honored father.”

“Thou art indeed a woman,” said the samurai. “Yet a samurai’s sword has never been turned to such a purpose.”

“That is right, for your honorable sword is not sufficiently sharp, my father.”

“Thou speakest darkly, my daughter.”

“I have thought darkly of our wrongs, my father. I have found a more refined revenge to inflict upon this prince, one which would wound him more deeply than the death of one of his eight sons.”

“Well, and what is your revenge?”

“First answer me this: What would be the feelings of this proud and arrogant prince if his idolized heir were to be guilty of that very fault for which he exiled his samurai?”

“What fault?”

“The fault of marrying into a degraded and outcast class.”

The samurai started. Then a strange smile flitted across his thin face.

“His pride would fall. Such a calamity would crush—bend—kill him!”

“True. Then if his pride is such, let us strike at it before his heart. I think I see a way by which this can be accomplished.”

“How?”

“Bring this young prince hither. Leave him to me!”

“To you!”

She went very close to her father and raised her face upward so that he might see it perfectly.

“Look upon me, honorable parent. Am I not fair? Bring hither this son of an evil prince, and in twenty-four hours he will be ready to wed an Eta maiden.”

“An Eta maiden!” suddenly shrieked her aunt. “Who? Not—” She made an indescribable gesture towards the girl.

“I,” said Wistaria, throwing back her head—“I am an Eta maiden, my lady.” She bowed very low, then moved towards the door. Before passing out she turned.

“I go,” she said, “to garb myself in the dress of an Eta maiden. But do not believe, my lady aunt, that I shall have lost that beauty with which the gods have blessed me, and with which I shall win and wed this Mori prince to the disaster of his household and the triumph of my father’s.”

With that she was gone from the room. They heard her light feet flying up to her chamber above.

“It will crush—bend—kill the father!” muttered the samurai, softly. “It is well!”

“It is well!” repeated his sister, but in a different tone.

XV

THE young Prince of Mori, no longer the Shining Prince Keiki, lay huddled in a corner of his dungeon. Vainly he had thrown his weight against the stone doors, only to rebound, baffled and bruised. Vainly he had called in piercing accents for help. There came no response from man or gods. Only his frantic voice, fleeing like the wind through the passage-ways of the empty prison, dark, damp, and for long unused, seemed to call back to him in the mocking tones of a demoniac.

A prisoner! A prisoner! He, the heir of Mori, the hope, the idol of the brave Imperialists, the son of the most powerful prince in all Japan, barring not even the Shogun himself! A prisoner! Penned like a common criminal within the stone walls of a loathsome dungeon! It could not be true. It was a hideous nightmare, caused by that terrible, ceaseless, excruciating pain in his head, and the mad turmoil in his brain.

He had been captured on the outskirts of his father’s province. He was alone, with not one vassal or retainer in attendance upon him. He had made the wildest resistance. More than one samurai paid with his life for the capture of the Shining Prince. Overpowered by such numbers that it seemed madness not to yield, Keiki could not be taken while a spark of life remained in him with which to resist. Only when he was beaten quite senseless were the Shogun’s officers and the Catzu samurai able to capture the Prince. Even then many of the samurai refused the inglorious task of carrying away the young Prince, who had fought against them with such desperate bravery. To drag his unconscious, bleeding, helpless body before his judges would be beneath the dignity of a samurai. So the office was assigned to some of the Shogun’s spies.

When Keiki had returned to consciousness he was as one in a dull dream, a nightmare, wherein painful events wove a net about him from which he could not stir or move to save himself.

The trial had been a brief one. A few questions, a multitude of proofs, irrefutable evidence, the testimony of some false samurai now become a ronin, a private statement by the samurai Shimadzu—that was all. No word or question whatever was addressed to the prisoner, nor was he given the opportunity to speak in his own defence, had he been in a condition to do so. He stood between two guards, one on either side, while four others stood before him and a score at his back.

Keiki was quite beyond understanding the proceedings, and only the Spartan will of the samurai lent to him that almost unnatural strength by which he stood stoutly upon his feet while his head swam. Out of a multitude of surging words and sentences only one word reached his ears and penetrated to his consciousness—

“Treason!”

And the word called up a haunting memory of a dark and stagnant moat wherein the sacred lotus blossoms, symbolic of the purity of woman, hid the treacherous waters beneath, of a sloping bank where the grasses grew high over his head, and the willows at the bottom waved in a foot of water. A young girl’s face shone out of this strangely mixed background. It was very long ago, it seemed to Keiki, and though her face was quite dim to his vision now, he remembered that it was like unto the lotus, perfectly pure and peerlessly beautiful, only behind her beauty, unlike that of the lotus, there were no treacherous deeps of darkling waters. Keiki remembered vaguely now that she had crawled through the willows, through the moat, perhaps, to come to him to warn him of this treason. Treason? Whose?

Thus Keiki’s tangled mind followed not the mockery of the trial, nor heeded the sonorous voice of the crier, who echoed the words of the Lord Judge, and shouted mechanically:

“Guilty! Death!”

A small company of armed men led him from the judgment-hall. They made a long journey, marching by night. Passive, stupidly indifferent to everything, Keiki was led to prison.

Only when they had locked him within the empty stone cell, did the old, passionate rebellion that had swayed him so savagely when he had resisted capture break out with renewed fury, driving in a flash his apathetic dulness from him.

His captors had taken his two swords from him, the two proud swords from which a samurai must never part. The Prince was to become lord over the samurai, yet he had been trained in the same school, and with as severe a discipline as that of the simple soldier. Had they left him these, his samurai swords, in all probability the Prince would have ended his misery. As it was, he spent the night in fruitless, impotent raving. Morning found him exhausted. Even the samurai’s great power of will over the physical body could avail him no longer.

When the samurai Shimadzu unlocked the door of the cell no desperate, wild-eyed prince leaped at his throat. The young Prince of Mori lay stretched across the floor of the dungeon. The glittering cords of his coat, the golden hip-cape, with its billowings and embroiderings of dragons and falcons, all the late luxurious finery which had earned for him the sobriquet of “The Shining Prince,” and which were also the insignia of his high rank, were now torn and stained with the cruellest of colors. The dark hair fell back, clotted with the perspiration on his noble brow, from which the blue veins started through the fine skin. The long lashes covered the eyes and swept the almost boyish curves of the death-white cheeks. His lips were parted, and he was still raving, but in the babbling, weak, piteous fashion of one delirious from loss of blood.

After feeling the Prince’s hands and head, Shimadzu was satisfied with his condition. Roughly binding up a bad wound upon the shoulder, he called for a stretcher. Borne upon this temporary couch, straightway the Prince was carried to the home of the executioner.

Meanwhile Wistaria had made ready for the reception of their expected guest. Having taken off her silken omeshi and removed the jewelled ornaments from her hair, she appeared in a rough cotton kimono, of a bright red-and-yellow pattern, such a garment as a laboring woman or one of the heimin would have worn. But she had taken especial pains with her hair and face. The shining, dark locks, which formed such a charming frame for her beautiful face, were spread wide and folded back, so that their beauty might be exaggerated. Because she was pale, as one about to die rather than to wed, she had rubbed upon her cheeks, chin, and brow brazen red paint, something previously she would have scorned to touch. Instead of brightening the pallor of her face, however, it only heightened its haggardness.

Wistaria sat in the centre of the chill, empty guest-room. She was smiling. She had been smiling ever since she had descended from her chamber. Her eyes were glassy, and shared not in that forced, blighting smile which she wore upon her lips. Very still, like an automatic puppet with the works unwound within it, she sat.

The Lady Evening Glory, on the other hand, flitted back and forth like a restless spirit. Sometimes she paused by the little, waiting figure, stroking the shining head. But in her heart the proud Lady of Catzu had little sympathy for the one who was to be sacrificed to the vengeance of a samurai. When she recalled that her niece was renouncing her lover to whom she had pledged herself to all eternity, she thought, with the selfish egotism of one who has outgrown her own heart, that in marrying a prince, even though she won him by trickery, certainly her niece would be faring better than if she had bestowed herself on one of his vassals.

Then, too, Wistaria, after all, was merely a female—an Eta maiden. So the lady’s selfish mind fed itself upon one thought, mingled hope and suspense for the fate of her son.

When the sound of tramping feet were heard without, the Lady Wistaria did not stir, but the cold and stately Lady of Catzu went rushing across the room to fling herself against the window. The tramp of feet grew louder, deeper, heavier. They smote upon Wistaria’s ears like the beat of Shinto drums at a funeral. Still she did not stir, not even when the doors of the house were pushed wide apart and the tramping feet entered, passed through the outer room, and then into the guest-room. The set smile upon her face deepened. Wistaria laid her head to the mats, prostrated herself in exquisite, humble greeting.

Thus, for some time, she courtesied low.

Some one pulled her sleeve. She sat up and stared at the figure on the stretcher. They had set it down beside her on the floor. Somewhere in another part of the house she heard dim voices, above them all her father’s deep, hollow voice, sounding strange—clear.

A sort of awe and horrible reverence fell upon her as she clutched her aunt’s hand. Then the two half crept, half crawled, close to the stretcher. Wistaria looked at the face, looked, and looked, and looked again. A heart-rending shriek burst from her lips. She fell across her lover’s body, spreading the wings of her sleeve over and about him, as though to shield and protect him from all harm.

XVI

“BROTHER, you were surely blind that you did not recognize your prisoner,” said the Lady Evening Glory, after the lovers had been carried from the room.

“His appearance, my lady, had no interest for me.”

“Now that you are aware he is her lover, what then?”

“All that is very fortunate. Whatever doubt I may have felt as to my daughter’s ability to ensnare this Mori prince into marrying her is now set at rest. She already possesses his affection. Nothing remains, therefore, to be done save to bring about their early union. This shall be effected just as soon as the young man regains sufficient strength. Meanwhile—”

“Meanwhile?”

“You have permission to despatch word to Choshui that a delay has been granted to the Prince. This will keep them for a time from attacking Catzu Toro. Also, the shogunate, availing itself of the time to march upon Choshui, will rescue your son.”

“But will not the Mori immediately retaliate by sending troops here to attempt the rescue of their own prince?”

“Not so, since the whereabouts of their prince is entirely unknown to them. As you are aware, his trial was in secret. Only the shogunate is acquainted with his present abode. The secret will be guarded, rest assured. In fact, for the very purpose of forestalling any such attempt on the part of the Mori, they have placed at my service a company of soldiers and a large number of spies.”

“What are your intentions with regard to this Mori prince?”

“He shall marry, as you already know, the Lady Wistaria, and in that way will become an outcast, both legally and morally.”

“And after their marriage?”

“Immediate notification of the fact to his father.”

“And after that? What of the order from the shogunate touching his execution?”

“It shall be destroyed. I have given my promise to my daughter.”

“But when this fact reaches the shogunate people they will resent it, and will never permit so valuable a prisoner to escape them. They will send troops, if necessary, to take him from you. In the event of your refusing to execute him, they will find another who will do so.”

“Very well, let them do so. I have no doubt, however, that the Prince Keiki will escape them. But having become an outcast, he will be useless as an Imperialist leader.”

“Which does not alter the fact that the Shogun’s men will continue to fear him. Even now, you say, their spies and soldiers are lurking about on all sides. I tell you it is quite impossible for him to escape them now.”

“Well, all that is his affair, my lady. So far as I am concerned, on the day of his Eta marriage I shall destroy the order of execution.”

“Which would be a criminal act, and one that would place you under the ban of the law.”

“That is true, but I shall answer, I assure you, for whatever unlawful acts I have committed during my lifetime to a higher tribunal than any that could be formed by the august shogunate.”

“Brother, what do your words imply?”

“Sister, I cannot answer that question yet. When my purpose in life is accomplished you shall have the answer. And after that, will you perform a favor for me?”

“Certainly.”

“The Lady Wistaria will be alone.”

“Alone? She will have a husband.”

“She will be alone, I repeat. Do you suppose I should rest peacefully in my grave with the knowledge that the blood of Mori was mingling with my own? I repeat once more, my daughter will be quite alone, sister. Be gentle with her, and as tender and kind as it is possible for one woman to be to another. She will not lack for worldly wealth, for I shall leave her a fortune. I do not wish her to return to Catzu. I desire that a small temple shall be built for her somewhere in a quiet and remote region. There I wish her to become a high priestess, to devote the remainder of her life to works of holiness and charity. In this way she will atone for the many sins of her father, and the gods will listen to her prayers and show charity to his soul.”

“Oh, brother, from your words I begin to have lamentable fears that you contemplate committing some frightful harm to yourself.”

“We are children of the same father, my lady. Your words surprise me. Surely they are unbefitting one of your blood and rank. Do you see any disgrace in my contemplations? I would rather wish that you would urge me to that deed you appear to dread, for otherwise my life would be without honor. Therefore lay aside your unworthy fears and assure me that you will carry out my wishes.”

“I shall do so, ani-san” (elder brother), she replied, somewhat brokenly.

“That is all, then. Why do you wait?”

“For a letter signed by you as executioner, stating that the execution has been postponed indefinitely. We must put Toro’s safety for the next few days beyond a doubt.”

Hastily writing a few words upon paper, the samurai handed it to his sister, who seized it eagerly. Then, having examined the scroll carefully, she murmured a few words of thanks and prepared to leave the room. The samurai stayed her.

“One moment. By whom do you send this paper to Choshui?”

“I have two couriers.”

“Well, but one of these samurai must attend you to Catzu.”

“Certainly.”

“Then only one can be sent to Choshui.”

“But why so? I shall not leave here until my couriers return with intelligence as to the fate of my son.”

“I can assure you, my lady, that your couriers will not return, and I should advise you to part with but one of the two samurai attending you.”

“Why—?”

“The Mori people will not let this courier depart, rest assured, unless he divulge the hiding-place of their prince. This no samurai would ever do. If your courier has not the wit, therefore, to deceive the Mori, I am very much afraid his life will be endangered by this undertaking.”

“And what samurai,” inquired the lady, quickly, “would not welcome the chance of thus giving up his life in the service of his lord? What I have to decide now is, which of the two samurai to send, for each will claim the privilege of the undertaking.”

“What are their names?”

“Sir Nishimua Matsue and Sir Takemoto Genji. The former has been in my lord’s service for twenty years, and is so trusted by him that whenever I am forced to travel alone, as at the present time, my lord intrusts me to his especial care. You are already acquainted with the history of the other, Sir Genji. He was one of your own comrades in Choshui, but after your exile he deserted the Mori and became a ronin. Afterwards my lord pressed him into our service, and he became attached personally to Lady Wistaria. You will see, therefore, that it is a difficult matter for me to choose between these two brave gentlemen.”

“Not at all. There is not the slightest doubt in my mind as to which is the most fit for the service. Bid the samurai Genji come hither, if you please.”

A few minutes later the big samurai Genji and Shimadzu were bowing deeply to each other. From their low bows of silent courtesy it was hard to believe that these two men had once been the closest of friends and comrades in arms. Now they met again after many years of separation, yet neither exhibited that emotion which lay at the bottom of their hearts. Shimadzu did not even allow opportunity for the usual exchange of compliments, but went straight to the point.

“My good friend, your lady, my honorable sister,” said he, “has an august mission for you to perform, but one fraught with exceeding great danger, and of a delicate and diplomatic nature withal.”

The samurai bowed calmly, as though the fact of the danger were as indifferent a matter to him as the mission itself.

“In fact, she wishes you to carry word to Choshui of the postponement of Prince Keiki’s execution. I need not point out to you the dangers of such a mission. The Mori will insist upon your revealing the place of imprisonment of their prince, and upon your refusing to do so will take drastic measures to compel you. These perils, however, will be to your liking, I am sure.”

“To my liking, that is so,” said Genji, “but—”

“What?” interrupted the Lady Evening Glory. “You hesitate! You do not set off at once!”

“I do not hesitate, my lady,” replied the samurai, bowing respectfully. “I refuse. I do not set off at once because I am not going.”

The Lady Evening Glory could scarcely believe her ears. Never in her memory had a samurai refused to do the bidding of his lord or lady. That Genji, of all samurai, should do so, astounded her. Nevertheless she brought herself to listen to his amazing words.

“My lady, long before I entered the service of my Lord of Catzu I was a ronin, an independent samurai who owed allegiance to no lord or prince. I was induced to enter your service not for love of your lord or desire to ingratiate myself with the Shogun powers, for, though a deserter for personal reasons, I was of the clan of Choshui, and an Imperialist at heart!”

“Such insolence,” said the lady, furiously, “shall be punished with thy insignificant head.”