“Mercy, mercy....”
“Come, speak up or you are a dead woman!”
Kyūsuké, in his hiding in the wood-shed, could imagine the scene.
“This is terrible!” he thought. “How could I be such a fool as to
forget my hat! It may cost the woman her life!”
The noise in the cottage increased, mingled with the shrieks of the
poor woman and the threats of her enraged husband. Kyūsuké stole out of
his hiding place and peeped cautiously through a crack in the door. To
his horror he found the man was dragging his wife round the room by her
long hair with one hand, while he repeatedly struck her with the other.
At this sight Kyūsuké forgetting his own fears burst in.
“Sir, sir, all the money I have about me I will give you! The woman is
not to blame,—spare her!”
“Who spoke?”
The infuriated man checked his wrath for a moment to stare in
astonishment at the unexpected apparition.
Taking advantage of the lull, Kyūsuké quickly produced his hundred
_ryō_ along with what remained of the money his master had given him
for the journey and the little gift.
“Here, good sir, take all—I have no more—and do not punish your
wife for a kind action. I only am to blame.”
The ruffian took no further notice of his wife whom he left sobbing
on the floor, but turned to take up with greedy hands the rich store
offered by the traveller. Not content with money, however, he coolly
demanded all the clothes he was wearing and possessed himself of the
dagger into the bargain. Poor Kyūsuké! all the earnings of eight
hard-working years had gone to fill the pockets of a villainous
gentleman of the road.
“In pity, give me back my clothes, I cannot go either back or forward
in this naked state,” pleaded Kyūsuké. “And my dagger—I need it to
defend myself from gentlemen such as you—though I have nothing of which
to be robbed now!” he added ruefully.
“Take these,” said the robber, throwing him a wadded garment and a
girdle, both much the worse for wear.
“Thank you very much, but now my dagger....”
“That I shall find useful myself.”
“But without it I shall be at the mercy of any dog on the way....”
“What a troublesome fellow you are! But no one shall say I left
you without the means of defence. Here, take this, and begone!”
With these words the robber produced from a cupboard an old sword
doubtless acquired from some former luckless wayfarer and handed it to
Kyūsuké, adding:—
“After leaving this house go straight on till you come to a broad road,
follow this always turning to the north and in due time you will reach
Oiwaké. Now go!”
“Again my best thanks,” said Kyūsuké bowing low; then turning to the
poor woman he said softly:—
“I am very sorry to have brought all this trouble upon you, forgive me.”
“No, no, it was I who was to blame but, indeed, I did it for the best.”
“A truce to this nonsense!” cried the robber impatiently. “Here is a
torch to light your way; be off before I change my mind about letting
you go.”
“Then, master and mistress, farewell to you,” and with these words
Kyūsuké accepted the torch held out to him and hastened away. But the
fates seemed to be still against him, for no sooner had he set forth
than the rain which had begun to come down in torrents put out
his light so that he was in complete darkness. But this misfortune in
reality saved his life, for the robber had given Kyūsuké a light for
no other purpose than that it would serve his own evil intent, which
was to shoot the traveller as soon as his back was turned. True, he
might have despatched him before he left the cottage, but in that
case his wife would have interfered and been troublesome; besides he
hardly liked to turn upon Kyūsuké and murder him just when he had so
ungrudgingly given up all he had. Wicked man though he was he could not
bring himself to such a dastardly action as that. However, as soon as
Kyūsuké closed the door the robber, weapon in hand, softly opened it
again and crept out, intending to take aim by the light that Kyūsuké
carried. But, alas for him, and fortunately for his intended victim,
the heavy rain had extinguished the light; so muttering “lucky dog!” he
re-entered his home leaving Kyūsuké to continue his way unmolested.
On arriving at Oiwaké Kyūsuké drew a long breath and congratulated
himself on his narrow escape, though how narrow he did not realise.
There he gave up his cherished idea of visiting his old home, and
determined to retrace his steps to his master’s house, begging his way
as he had now no money to pay for even the poorest fare. Gonzaemon
received him very kindly, though, having heard the details of Kyūsuké’s
adventure, he could not resist saying:—
“Did I not warn you? If you had drawn a draft for the money as I
advised you this would never have happened. But it is too late to
talk of that now. You were lucky to escape with the loss of your
property,—you might have lost your life as well. Do not give way to
despair. Rest for a few days and then set to work again.”
While speaking to Kyūsuké the master happened to take up the old sword
he had got from the robber. The thread round the hilt was frayed and
coming off. He tried to draw the blade but it was so rusty with disuse
that it stuck fast in the sheath. Bending over it his eye was caught by
the decorative stud which he was convinced was not of brass. Thinking
the weapon might be of more value than appeared at first sight, he sent
for a dealer in old wares, Kichibei by name, and requested his opinion
as to its merits, pretending that it belonged to one of his friends who
wished to dispose of it to the best advantage.
The dealer, with the skill acquired by long practice, soon
withdrew the blade from its sheath, and after closely examining it for
some time, said:—
“The sword is a valuable one. The blade is so rusty that I cannot say
anything for certain about it, but the ornamentation is undoubtedly
of solid gold. The pommel and stud are of Gotō’s engraving, and the
guard itself being by Nobuié is worth at least thirty-five _ryō_. I am
willing to give one hundred and thirty _ryō_ for the decorative parts
alone.”
These words quite surpassed the expectations of Gonzaemon. He sent the
dealer away on the pretext that he would consult his friend, and then
told Kyūsuké what he had said.
At this undreamt-of good luck Kyūsuké was struck dumb as well he might
be. Gonzaemon, however, encouraged by Kichibei’s opinion thought that
a Yedo expert might value the sword even more highly and be more able,
as well as willing, to purchase it at a higher rate. A blade in so
elaborate and rich a mounting could hardly fail to prove a good one;
and knowing something of the estimation in which much workmanship was
held, he decided to go up to Yedo himself and do the best he could for
his faithful but simple servant.
In Yedo he submitted the weapon to the examination of Honami, the
ablest connoisseur in matters of this sort, who pronounced the blade
to be the undoubted work of Bizen Nagamitsu, one of the ten clever
disciples of Masamuné, although the name of the maker was not on it.
Further, in proof of his belief he offered to buy it for eight hundred
_ryō_, an offer Gonzaemon was more than glad to accept.
The business that took him to the city so satisfactorily concluded, he
hastened home with all speed and gave the astonished Kyūsuké an account
of the transaction. Laying the money before him he concluded with these
words:—
“My dear Kyūsuké, see how advantageous it is to be honest always! Your
misfortune has proved a blessing in disguise. Heaven approving of your
upright conduct has been pleased to grant you this great favour. How
grateful we should be! Now go home again with all despatch, but this
time take my advice and do not carry such a large sum in cash.”
As soon as Kyūsuké recovered from his surprise he bowed respectfully to
his master, and spoke as follows:—
“My good master, you overwhelm me with obligation! I have no words in
which to express my feelings. But far be it from me to appropriate all
this large sum. I hesitate to displease you, but only one hundred
_ryō_ do I consider is mine,—for I left the robber’s house poorer by
just that amount, and that sum I shall send home by money order as you
advise. As for the rest, after you deduct the expenses of your journey
to Yedo, I shall carry it all to the robber. The sword was his and I
can not make myself rich at the expense of a poor highwayman,—that
would never do!”
Gonzaemon was struck with admiration at this disinterested conduct on
the part of his servant.
“My good fellow,” he said warmly, “your honesty puts me to shame! But
surely you will not unnecessarily risk your life for such a purpose. As
for my journey to Yedo, that is purely my affair and you will dismiss
it from your mind. But consider before you act so rashly as to put
yourself again into the power of a desperate man.”
But Kyūsuké was obstinate as well as honest.
“Far be it from me to go in opposition to your wishes,” he said,
respectfully, “but in this thing only I beg you to let me have my own
way. I am loath to cause you any uneasiness, but villain though he is
he will surely not harm a man who comes to do him a good turn. There
can be no danger.”
Gonzaemon, knowing from experience that further persuasions would be
of no avail, reluctantly permitted his servant to do as he proposed.
After sending one hundred _ryō_ to his father by money order, he tied
up the seven hundred _ryō_ remaining in a little package, which he put
in his bosom and once more set off on his travels. Contrary to his
former experience, he had this time no little difficulty in finding
the cottage of the highwayman; at last, however, he came to the door
which in response to his call was again opened by the kind-hearted
mistress. Kyūsuké bowed, and in polite terms thanked her for the
favours he received at her hands on a former occasion. The woman was
much surprised, but controlling her emotion she said:—
“My good traveller, I do not know how to apologise for what I did to
you the other day. Nevertheless you have come again! I shall be still
more grieved if you are robbed a second time. Fortunately for you,—
though _I_ am sorry—my husband is sick in bed. Please make all haste to
retrace your steps.”
Kyūsuké’s kind heart was moved with compassion for the sick man and his
wife.
“Indeed I sympathise with you both. Allow me to pay my respects to him
and inquire after his health.”
“No, no, sir! He is suffering now but his avarice may be excited at the
sight of you. Should he again demand all you have with you, you may
again be inconvenienced.”
“Be quite easy on that score; I am here to bring him some money.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are naturally surprised. Let me in and you will know. I must see
your husband.”
Reluctantly the woman let him come into the house. Making his way to an
inner room where the sick man was lying groaning, Kyūsuké, saluting him
in the usual manner, inquired:—
“My friend, how are you?”
“This is the traveller you treated so unkindly a short time ago,”
explained the woman, seeing that her husband did not recognize the
visitor.
“Which one?” asked the robber, sourly.
“Sir, it is I. I do not know how to requite you for the kindness you
showed me the other day. But now I must tell you what brings me here
again.”
Thereupon Kyūsuké proceeded to inform the robber of what had happened
about the sword, and laying the packet of money by the bed concluded as
follows:—
“From the price paid for the sword I have deducted one hundred _ryō_
as my due, sending it to my home by money order. All the rest I have
brought with me and it is in that package except a small sum I have
taken the liberty to keep for my travelling expenses. I have not
quite enough to take me to my home in Noto province, and then back to
my master’s house in Tamamura, Kōdzuké province, so I shall be much
obliged if you will kindly allow me a little more. As for the remainder
you are welcome to appropriate it all. Ah, how glad I am to be relieved
of the charge of this money which has been a source of constant anxiety
ever since I set out on this journey.”
The sick man appeared to be much impressed by the simple recital of
Kyūsuké’s tale. After a pause he said:—
“You say your home is in Noto; from what part of the province do you
come?”
“I was born in Ogita-mura near Nanao. My name is Kyūsuké and I am the
son of a peasant called Kyūzaemon.”
“Was your elder brother called Kyūtarō?”
“How do you know that?”
“You may well wonder. Kyūsuké, I have hardly the face to tell you.... I
am Kyūtarō, fallen as you see to the depths of degradation and
misery.”
“My elder brother, Kyūtarō!”
“With shame I say it, yes.”
The two brothers embraced with tears. O-Nami was surprised beyond
measure at the pathetic sight.
“Are you indeed my husband’s brother? Forgive me, I did not guess it,”
and she burst into tears.
Kyūsuké hastened to console her.
“I beg you will not cry; forgive my rudeness in not knowing who you
were, and forgive also the great trouble I have occasioned you.”
Kyūtarō, whose conscience was at last smitten at the thought of all his
misdeeds, now took a hunting knife lying within reach, and planted it
in the side of his abdomen. His wife and brother, too late to stop the
rash act, caught his hands.
“Stop, what madness is this!” cried Kyūsuké.
“My husband, oh what have you done!” exclaimed the wife.