OMITI.
Winter had come; days of burning heat had given place to days of frost
and ice. The leaden sky seemed to have changed places with the earth,
now dazzlingly bright in its white robes of snow.
In the outskirts of Osaka the deserted shore had preserved intact the
thick coat of wadding dropped from the clouds. The waves, reflecting
the dull gray heavens, looked like ink. Scattered rocks jutted from
the ground at intervals; the snow clung to their sharp angles. Gulls,
disturbed in their flight by the wind, flapped their wings; they seemed
dark and dirty against this whiteness.
The last house of the suburb extended its high garden fence along the
beach; it was covered with snow, and the swinging sign, which hung from
two posts flanking the door, was quite illegible. The big lanterns
swelling forward at either side of the entrance had been drawn in and
fastened by hooks; a small penthouse sheltered them. The triple roof of
the house seemed thatched with silver.
This was the Day-Break Inn. It was here that Omiti had for many long
days endured the cruel fate imposed upon her. She suffered in silence,
with a proud resignation which accepts neither pity nor consolation.
She sacrificed herself to save the lord of the kingdom. She yielded
without a murmur to the consequences of her sacrifice; but she
sometimes thought that it would have been more merciful to kill her.
She had no wish to see the King again, although she had not ceased to
love him. Her love was born of a maiden's dream. Before she over saw
Fide-Yori, that young prince, said to be handsome and amiable, filled
her thoughts; and as she embroidered, she mused and wove a web of fancy
about his image. When she discovered the horrid plot which threatened
the life of him who filled her soul, she felt as if she should die of
terror; but her longing to save him gave her the strength and courage
of a hero. In her single interview with the King, in the lemon grove,
she saw that her heart had not erred, and that she should never love
any other man. But the idea that he might love her never even occurred
to her; her modesty forbade it; and since, sold for the general
pleasure, she had sunk to the lowest grade in the social scale, the
mere thought of again standing in Fide-Yori's presence made her blush
with shame.
Often rich merchants from the town would bring their wives to the
tea-house, to spend a few hours in the company of the gaizha girls, who
instructed them in the art of acquiring elegant manners, taught them
to play the samsin, and to compose verses. Sometimes the fine lady,
crouching opposite Omiti, listening, with half-open lips, to the girl's
plaintive tones, was surprised to see sudden tears flood the singer's
eyes. But she supposed it was a seductive wile; and going home, would
strive to weep as she struck the strings of her instrument.
Beneath its snowy mantle, behind its closed windows, and although it
appeared quite silent from without, the tea-house was full of people
and of noise.
For several weeks it had been thronged daily by a crowd of people of
all classes, who seemed to assemble there for some secret purpose. The
master of the establishment was undoubtedly in league with these men;
he always mingled in their conversation,--indeed he often seemed to
direct and inflame it. They talked of the affairs of the nation. The
general misery was frightful. This civil war, coming just at the time
when the fields most needed the master's eye, had injured the harvests;
several crops were utterly destroyed by the armies, others were poor;
famine threatened all that part of the kingdom which still belonged
to Fide-Yori. In the north, on the contrary, everything throve and
flourished. While rice was scarce in the neighborhood of Osaka, it was
sold at half price in the northern provinces; but Hieyas absolutely
forbade it to be exported to the south, and the Shogun took no pains
to have a supply brought from elsewhere. While the people died of
starvation, the Court displayed an unexampled luxury: every day were
given receptions, feasts, and banquets. Yodogimi excited the popular
wrath; she exhausted the treasury. The taxes were raised, and salaries
lowered. The Government had plainly gone mad. The Court danced on the
verge of an abyss, dragging their trains of gold and satin after them,
to the sound of bewildering music. All were blind; no one thought of
the possible resumption of the war. Men got drunk, they laughed and
sang within the fallen walls of the fortress; they took no steps to
restore the army to its former footing, or to increase it if possible.
Yoke-Moura had vainly striven to act; money was wanting: the caprices
and ruinous extravagance of the Princess Yodogimi absorbed it all. And
the Shogun, what was he about? Plunged in a mysterious melancholy, he
wandered in his gardens solitary and alone, doing nothing, apparently
laying down the power. It was evident that Hieyas only waited for an
opportunity to give the last blow to that crumbling structure. But why
should he wait? The old man's wisdom was in strange contrast with the
young man's improvidence and the folly of his Court. Hieyas must be
summoned; his accession would save the nation from misery and want. Why
should they be reduced to the last extremity? An effort must be made to
bring about the inevitable issue as soon as might be.
Omiti, with growing fear, daily heard similar discourses. The guests
of the inn changed; the same men did not always return. They went
elsewhere, to stir up rebellion and wrath. It was plain that emissaries
from Hieyas were mixed with these artisans. The Usurper felt the value
of a movement in his favor at Osaka; he was anxious to provoke it.
Moreover the careless indifference of the Court was of wonderful help
to him. Omiti saw all this; she wrung her hands, and wept with despair.
"Then there is no one who dares to warn him of his danger!" she cried,
in her sleepless nights.
One day, as she sat in her room embroidering, she noticed that the
people talking in the room below had dropped their voices. Usually they
cared very little who heard them. Her heart leaped in her bosom.
"I must hear what they say," she murmured.
She ran to the top of the staircase; and holding fast to the railing,
glided to the lowest step as lightly as air, and succeeded in catching
a few disjointed sentences.
"Yes, that beach is unfrequented."
"We will enter the inn by the door which opens from the sea."
"And we will leave on the street side in small groups."
"The soldiers must be disguised as mechanics."
"Of course; but they will keep their weapons under their cloaks."
"The city is already greatly agitated; we will proceed to the fortress
in a body, and summon the Shogun to abdicate."
"If he refuses, we will enter the palace and take possession of him."
Omiti shivered with horror. "I must get away from here," she muttered;
"I must give the alarm."
The conspirators continued: "We must hasten; to-morrow, at nightfall,
the soldiers may land."
"Directly after, a cargo of wheat and rice will arrive."
Omiti went back to her room. She had heard enough; her resolve was
taken. A sort of mystical ardor filled her soul. "My mission in this
world is to save him, to hold him back on the edge of the precipice,"
she thought with exaltation. "This is the second time that I have
discovered a guilty secret,--a plot against the man whom I loved
before I ever knew him. The will of Heaven is displayed in this. Once
more I will point out his peril to him; my feeble hand shall stay the
execution of the crime."
She considered the means she might employ to escape from the house.
Two other young women shared her chamber at night. She could not trust
them; they did not like her, and were devoted to their master.
Upon the ground-floor all the doors were closed on the inside by
heavy bars; besides, the men servants, who had charge of the cellar
department, slept down stairs. Therefore it was useless to think of
escape in that direction. There remained the window; it was somewhat
high above the ground, but that was not what troubled Omiti. How could
she open the window without rousing the other women If she succeeded in
doing it without a noise, the cold air blowing into the room would wake
them. Omiti thought of the window that opened on the staircase landing.
But the one in her room looked upon the street, while the other opened
into the garden; and once in the garden, she still had the fence to
climb.
"No matter," thought Omiti; "I'll get out of the window on the stairs."
But how? She had no ladder at her disposal. With a rope? Where should
she get a rope without arousing suspicion? She decided to manufacture
one. Her comrades had gone for a walk, and she had plenty of time.
Opening the boxes containing her clothes, she took out various strong
silk dresses and cut them into strips. She then braided these strips
together, and fastened the strands by hard knots. Then she rolled up
the rope, and hid it under her mattress.
"Now," said she, "I am sure I can save him."
The day seemed long to her; the fever of expectation made her tremble
nervously; her teeth chattered at intervals.
The other girls came back, their cheeks rosy with the cold; they
wearied Omiti with the recital of all they had seen and done. They had
gone to the banks of the Yedogawa to see if the ice was drifting. They
fancied they saw a few floating blocks, but perhaps it was only snow;
for there was snow everywhere, even on the golden fishes that crowned
the high tower of the fortress, which were turned to silver. The wind
was icy; but, to ward off the cold, the men had put on embroidered
velvet ear-caps....
Omiti paid no attention to the interminable chatter of the women. She
was delighted to see the lanterns lighted. Darkness had come, but the
long evening still lay before her. She could not eat any supper; and
feigned illness, to avoid singing or playing the biva.
She returned to her room, where her companions soon joined her; their
walk had tired them, and they quickly fell asleep.
The noise, the laughter, and songs of the men who were getting tipsy
below lasted yet a long time. But at last she heard the familiar sound
of the bars dropping into their places; every one was gone.
She waited another half-hour, to give the servants time to sleep
soundly; then, without the slightest noise, she rose, took the rope
from under her mattress, and slid slightly aside the panel opening
on the staircase, shutting it when she had passed. She listened, and
heard nothing but a few snores, which were very reassuring. She opened
the window; the night air made her shudder. She leaned out, and looked
down; the white snow afforded a dim light.
"It is high," thought the young girl; "will my rope be long enough?"
She fastened it to the window-frame, and unrolled it. It reached the
ground, and even trailed a little on the snow.
Omiti wound her gown about her, and knelt on the edge of the window.
But as she was about to intrust herself to that frail cord, a sort of
instinctive fear took possession of her; she hesitated.
"What!" said she, "I tremble for my life when his is in danger!"
She let herself go abruptly, holding to the rope with both hands. A
sharp pain almost forced a scream from her; she felt as if her arms
would be pulled from their sockets; her hands were torn as she slid
rapidly down. But all at once one of the knots in the silk gave way
under her weight, and the rope broke.
She fell upon the snow, which swallowed her up. But her fall was
deadened; and she rose to her feet, feeling no pain, but a sudden
lassitude. After shaking off the snow, with which she was covered, she
crossed the garden and gained the fence. Luckily the door was only
fastened by a big round bolt; after several attempts, she succeeded in
drawing it back.
She was on the shore, out of that ill-omened house, free at last! The
strong wind blew sharp from the sea, whose monotonous roar she heard.
She began to run, sinking ankle deep in the snow, which rose behind her
in clouds of glittering particles.
She was in such haste to be gone from the tavern, that instead of going
round the corner of the house into the street upon which the front door
opened, she followed the garden fence, which soon came to an end, and
was replaced by a wall running round another enclosure.
"I will enter the city by the next lane that opens on the beach,"
thought Omiti.
She reached a sort of open square on the sea-shore, bordered on the
other side by a semicircle of wretched huts, half hidden in their
mantles of snow. In the middle, a lighted lantern, hanging from a post,
made a shimmering, blood-red spot. The light was very dim. The young
girl took a few steps into the square, but suddenly recoiled with a
cry of horror: she saw an awful face gazing down at her from above the
lantern.
At the scream uttered by the young girl, a myriad other shrieks rang
out from the bills of countless crows; who, roused abruptly, flew up
and circled in the air in aimless fashion. Omiti was soon surrounded
by the ill-omened birds. Motionless with fright, she thought herself
the victim of some hallucination, and rubbed her eyes, trying to take
in and understand what she saw. That face still glared at her; she had
snow in her eyebrows, her hair, her open mouth, and her haggard eyes.
At first Omiti thought she saw a man leaning against the post; but on
looking closer, she found that the head, without a body, was suspended
to a nail by the hair, and she recognized that she was in the square
where all the public executions took place.
The ground was covered with mounds,--graves hastily dug for the
victims. The body of the last criminal had been left at the foot of the
post; a dog, busily scratching the snowy shroud that veiled the corpse,
uttered a long howl, and fled with a bloody fragment in his jaws. A
large bronze statue of Buddha, seated on a lotos, was visible, spotted
with white flakes.
Omiti conquered her terror and crossed the square, stretching out her
arms to drive away the crowd of ravenous crows which flocked about her.
They pursued her with their melancholy shrieks, which were mingled with
the roar of the sea.
The young girl went rapidly down a narrow street, illumined by no ray
of light. The snow had been trampled, and she walked through icy mud.
The darkness was profound; it was not even mitigated by the whiteness
of the earth. Omiti kept close to the walls, to feel her way. But the
houses did not follow in regular order; there were vacant spaces; she
sometimes lost her guide. Her feet sank in pits of soft snow, which
began to melt in places. She fell, then rose again; the edge of her
dress was soaked. She felt benumbed with cold.
"Shall I ever reach my journey's end?" she thought.
Another street appeared, crossing the first; a few lights glittered
down its length. Into this Omiti turned.
Without knowing it, the girl was passing through the very worst quarter
of the city. Thieves, disreputable women, and vagabonds of every sort
congregate there. There, too, may be found a peculiar class of men,
the Ronins. These are young men, sometimes noble, dragged down by
dissipation to the lowest stage of ignominy. Driven from their homes
or stripped of their office, but preserving the right to wear two
swords, they take refuge among the criminal classes, give themselves
over to all sorts of shameful industries, assassinate at other people's
orders, are the leaders of bands, and exercise great influence over
the villains among whom they live. A few hours earlier it would have
been impossible for the young girl to enter this region without being
attacked, insulted, or carried by main force into some of the evil dens
of which it is composed. Fortunately the night was far advanced; the
streets were empty.
But another obstacle awaited Omiti: this quarter of the city is shut in
by a gate guarded by a watchman. How could she make him open the door
at this hour? What excuse could she give to the suspicious and probably
surly keeper? Omiti considered this as she walked. She soon saw the
wooden gate at the end of a street, lighted by several lanterns; she
noticed the hut, made of planks, for the gatekeeper's shelter.
"I must be bold," she thought; "if I manifest the slightest uneasiness
he will distrust me."
She marched straight up to the door. The man was probably asleep, for
the sound of her footsteps did not bring him out. Omiti measured the
gate with her eye. It was impossible to climb over; it was surmounted
by barbed iron wires.
The young girl, her heart beating hard, knocked at the hut. The keeper
came out with a lantern. He was well wrapped in a wadded robe, and his
head was lost in the folds of a brown woollen scarf; he looked sickly,
and besotted with drink.
"What's the matter?" said he, in a hoarse voice, lifting his lantern to
a level with Omiti's face.
"Open the door," said the girl.
The fellow burst out laughing.
"Open the door at this time of night?" he cried; "you're crazy." And he
turned on his heel.
"Stop!" said she, holding him fast; "my father is sick, and sent me to
fetch the doctor."
"Very well, there are plenty of doctors here. There's one not ten steps
away; there's another in Grasshopper Street; and still a third at the
corner of Thieves' Lane."
"But my father has no faith in any but his own physician, who lives in
another district."
"Go home and to sleep!" said the man. "That's all a lie; but you can't
fool me. Good night!"
He was about to close the door of his hut.
"Let me pass," cried Omiti, in despair, "and I swear you shall be paid
beyond your utmost hopes."
"You have money, then?" said, the keeper, turning quickly back.
Omiti recollected that she had a few kobangs in her sash, and said,
"Yes."
"Why didn't you say so in the beginning?"
He took the monstrous key that hung from his belt and went to the gate.
Omiti gave him a kobang. It was a large amount to the ill-paid man, who
drank up his wages as fast as he earned them.
"With such a reason in your hands, there was no need to put your father
to death!" said he, throwing open the gate.
"Which is the shortest way to reach the banks of the Yedogawa?" she
asked.
"Walk straight ahead. You'll come to another gate; it opens on the
shore."
"Thank you!" said she.
And she moved rapidly away. The road was better; the snow had been
shovelled away and piled in heaps.
"How I am safe," thought the happy girl, heedless of the fatigue that
weighed her down.
She gained the second gate. But now she knew what she was to do to have
it opened. The keeper was pacing up and down, stamping his feet, to
keep warm.
"I'll give you a kobang if you'll open the gate," she exclaimed.
The man stretched out his hand and put the key in the lock. Omiti
passed through; she was on the bank of the river. She had only to climb
up to the castle now. The road was long, but unimpeded. She walked
bravely forward, drawing her gown close about her, to ward off the cold.
The guardians of the night passed on the other shore, striking their
tambourines, to announce the last watch of the night. When the young
girl reached the castle, a wan and pallid light was struggling to break
through the clouds. The snow resumed its dazzling bluish whiteness; it
seemed to radiate light rather than to absorb it from that gloomy sky,
apparently covered with reddish smoke.
The castle reared its imposing mass before the young girl's gaze. The
lofty towers stood out against the heavens, the broad roofs of the
princely pavilions were ranged in order; the cedars along the first
terrace had collected on their evergreen branches heavy lumps of snow,
fragments of which fell from time to time and slid from bough to bough.
Omiti felt the tears come into her eyes when she saw the ruined walls
and the filled-up moats. "My poor dear Prince!" she said. "You have
given yourself up to your enemy; if the war were to begin again, you
would be lost. At least you shall escape once more from the odious
conspiracy contrived against you."
All were asleep in the castle, except the sentinels pacing to and fro;
the fallen ramparts were replaced by living walls.
At the moment Omiti touched her goal, she feared she had not the
strength to take the few steps necessary to reach the fortress-gate.
Soaked with snow, spent with fatigue and excitement, the cold morning
air made her shiver from head to foot. Everything swam before her; her
pulses throbbed; there was a singing in her ears. She hurried to the
gates; the sentinels crossed their lances, to bar her way.
"No passing here!" they said.
"Yes! I must pass at once,--I must see the King, or you shall be
severely punished!" cried Omiti, in broken accents.
The soldiers shrugged their shoulders. "Stand back, woman; you are
drunk, or mad. Begone!"
"I beseech you, let me in. Call some one; I feel as if I were dying.
But first I must speak with the King! I must! You hear? Do not let me
die before I have said my say."
Her voice was so sad and so full of entreaty that the men were moved.
"What ails her?" said one. "She is pale as the snow; she might die, as
she says."
"And if she has something to tell!"
"Let us take her to the Prince of Nagato; he can decide whether it's
worth hearing."
"Well, come in!" said one of the soldiers; "we pity you."
Omiti took a few tottering steps; but her strength deserted her. She
hurriedly snatched from her bosom a withered flower and held it to the
soldiers; then, with a stifled cry, she fell backwards.
The embarrassed and uneasy soldiers looked at each other, consulting
one another with a glance.
"If she is dead," said one, "we shall be accused of killing her."
"We'd better throw her into the river."
"Yes; but how are we to touch a corpse without making ourselves impure!"
"We will purify ourselves according to prescribed laws; that will be
better than being sentenced to have our heads cut off."
"That's so; let's be quick. Poor thing! it's a pity," added the fellow,
leaning over Omiti. "But then it's her own fault: why did she die like
that?"
Just as they were about to raise her and carry her to the river, a
clear young voice was heard singing:--
"Is there aught on earth more precious than saki?
If I were not a man, I would fain be a tun!"
The soldiers sprang back. A lad came forward well wrapped in a
fur-trimmed robe, his head buried in a hood tied under his chin. He
proudly rested his velvet-gloved hand upon the hilts of his two swords.
It was Loo returning from a nocturnal revel alone and on foot, that he
might not be denounced to the Prince of Nagato by his suite; for Loo
had a suite of his own, now that he was a Samurai.
"What's going on here? Who is this woman stretched motionless on the
ground?" he cried, casting a terrible, glance from one soldier to the
other.
The soldiers dropped on their knees, exclaiming:
"Your lordship, we are innocent. She wanted to enter the castle, to
speak to the Shogun; touched by her prayers, we were about to let her
pass and to conduct her to the illustrious Prince of Nagato, when all
at once she fell dead."
Loo bent over the young girl. "Donkeys! Dolts! Drinkers of milk!
Trodden-down shoes!" he shouted, in a rage, "don't you see that she
still breathes, that she has only fainted? You leave her there in the
snow instead of going to her aid? To cure you of your stupidity, I'll
have you beaten till you drop dead on the spot."
The soldiers shook in every limb.
"Come," continued Loo, "lift her carefully, and follow me."
The men obeyed. As they entered the gate of the fortress, the young
Samurai knocked at the guard-house close by. "Renew the sentinels!" he
shouted; "I need these fellows."
And he went on. The Prince of Nagato was asleep. Loo did not hesitate
to rouse him. He knew that the Shogun was trying to find traces of a
young girl whom he adored. He had followed the King, in his search
through the city, with his master. The fainting woman, whom he had
just found at the castle gate, was very like the portrait sketched by
Fide-Yori.
"Master," he said to the Prince, who, still but half awake, fixed a
surprised and sleepy gaze upon him, "I think I have found the object of
the Shogun's search."
"Omiti!" exclaimed Nagato; "where did you find her?"
"In the snow! But come quickly. She is cold and motionless; do not
leave her to die."
The Prince slipped on a fur-lined garment, and ran to the room where
Omiti lay.
"This may well be the one we have sought," said he, as he saw her; "let
some one call the Shogun. But first send servant-women here, and let
them take off this young girl's wet and muddy clothes. Summon also the
palace doctor."
Omiti was wrapped in the softest furs; the women stirred up the
fire burning in a huge bronze bowl. The King came quickly. From the
threshold, through the open panels, he saw the girl in the midst of a
vast heap of splendid furs and stuffs. He uttered a cry of joy, and
rushed towards her.
"Omiti," he cried, "is this a dream? Is it you? After so long a
separation you are restored to me at last!"
At the King's outburst the young girl trembled; she opened her eyes.
The doctor arrived, breathless; he knelt beside her, and took her hand.
"It is nothing," said he, after he had felt her pulse carefully; "a
slight fainting fit, undoubtedly, brought on by cold and fatigue."
Omiti, with her large eyes full of surprise, shaded by long quivering
lashes, gazed at the people grouped about her. She saw the King at
her feet; standing close beside her, the Prince of Nagato, smiling
kindly at her; then the grave face of the doctor, made grotesque by an
enormous pair of spectacles. She thought she must be the toy of some
dream.
"Do you suffer, my sweet love?" said Fide-Yori, clasping Omiti's little
hand in both his own. "What has happened to you? Why are you so pale?"
She looked at the King, and heard his words without comprehending them.
Suddenly her memory cleared; she rose abruptly. "I must speak to the
Shogun!" she cried; "to him alone, and at once."
With a gesture, Fide-Yori dismissed the spectators, but detained the
Prince of Nagato. "You can speak before him; he is my dearest friend,"
said he. "But calm yourself. Why do you look so frightened?"
Omiti tried to collect her ideas, troubled by fever. "Because," she
said, "Hieyas, by means of wily emissaries, is inciting the citizens of
Osaka to rebel, and to hate there lawful lord. An insurrection is to
take place this very night, and soldiers disguised as mechanics will
land upon the shore in the outskirts of the town. They will enter the
city and march upon your dismantled castle, to demand that you shall
abdicate your title, or to kill you if you refuse. You do not doubt
my words, I hope? Once already you have had proof, alas! that the
misfortunes I predict are real."
"What!" cried Fide-Yori, his eyes filling with tears, "was it to save
me yet again that you came? You are the good genius of my life!"
"Make haste and give your orders; take measures to prevent the crimes
which are impending," said Omiti; "time presses. It is to be to-night,
do you understand? Hieyas' soldiers are to invade your city by
treachery." Fide-Yori turned to the Prince of Nagato. "Iwakura," said
he, "what do you advise me to do?"
"Let us warn General Yoke-Moura. Let him call his men to arms, and
watch the shore and the city. Is there not some place where the leaders
of the conspiracy are to meet!" he added, addressing Omiti.
"There is," said the young girl; "at the Day-break Inn."
"Very good; then we must surround the inn and seize the rebels. Do you
desire, master, that I should see your orders executed!"
"You will make me happy, friend, by doing so."
"I leave you, sire," said Nagato. "Let nothing disturb you, and give
yourself freely up to the joy of reunion with the woman whom you love."
The Prince withdrew.
"What does he mean?" thought the astonished Omiti. "The woman whom you
love: of whom was he talking?"
She was alone with the King, and dared not lift her eyes; her heart
throbbed violently. Fide-Yori, too, was troubled; he did not speak, but
gazed at the lovely girl who trembled before him. She, lost in blushes,
twisted in her fingers a tiny withered twig.
"What have you in your hand?" gently asked the Shogun; "is it a
talisman?"
"Don't you recognize the spray of lemon-blossoms which you gave me when
I saw you?" said she. "Just now, when I fainted, I offered it to the
sentinels. I thought that they would take it to you, and that the sight
of it would recall me to you. But I find it is still in my hand."
"What! You kept those flowers?"
Omiti raised her clear eyes to the King, revealing her soul in her
face; then dropped them quickly. "Because you gave them to me," said
she.
"You love me, then?" cried Fide-Yori.
"O master!" said the startled girl, "I should never have dared to
confess the weakness of my heart."
"You will not confess your love? Well! I love you with all my soul, and
I dare to tell you so."
"You love me?--you, the Shogun?" she exclaimed, with touching amazement.
"Yes, and I have long waited your coming, wicked one. I have sought
you; I was plunged in despair; you have made me suffer cruelly! But
since you are here, all is forgotten. Why did you delay so long? Had
you no thought of me?"
"You were my only thought; it blossomed like a celestial flower in the
midst of my sad life; without it I should have died."
"You thought of me, while I groaned at your absence; and you did not
come?"
"I did not know that you had deigned to remember me. Besides, had I
known it, I should not have come."
"What!" cried the Shogun, "is it thus you love me? Would you refuse to
live with me--to be my wife?"
"Your wife!" murmured Omiti, with a bitter smile.
"Certainly," said Fide-Yori; "why do you look so sad?"
"Because I am not worthy even to be numbered with your servants; and
when you learn what I have become, you will drive me from you with
loathing."
"What do you mean?" cried the Shogun, turning pale.
"Listen," said the girl, in a hollow voice. "Hieyas came to my father's
castle; he found out that I had discovered the frightful plot against
your life, and had betrayed it; he had me carried away and sold as
servant in a tavern of the lowest class. There I have lived as women
live who are slaves. I never left that inn until last night. Once more
I overheard a conspiracy against you. I escaped from the window by
means of a rope, which broke. Now you are saved, let me go; it is not
fit that you should stay any longer in the company of a woman like me."
"Hush!" cried Fide-Yori; "what you tell me breaks my heart. But do you
think that I could cease to love you? What! It was for my sake you were
reduced to servitude; for my sake you have suffered. You have saved my
life twice, and you think I would forsake you I would scorn you? You
are crazy. I love you more than ever. You shall be queen; do you hear
me? How many women in your condition have been bought and married by
nobles. You are here; you shall not leave me."
"O master!" exclaimed Omiti, "I conjure you, remember your rank; think
of the duty you owe to yourself; do not yield to a passing desire!"
"Hush, cruel girl!" said the King. "I swear that if you continue to
drive me to despair I will slay myself at your feet!"
Fide-Yori put his hand to his sword.
"Oh! no, no!" shrieked the girl, turning ashy pale "I am your slave; do
with me as you will."
"My beloved queen!" cried Fide-Yori, clasping her in his arms, "you
are my equal, my companion, and not my slave. It is not merely from a
spirit of obedience that you yield, is it?"
"I love you!" whispered Omiti, raising her beautiful eyes, wet with
tears, to the King.