IN the go-down itself, Ohano’s courage deserted her completely. As the
stone doors of the go-down were pushed aside, and she stepped into the
darkened chamber with its odor almost as of dead things, a sense of
unconquerable repugnance and terror assailed her.
From every side, gleaming, softly smiling almost, in the light of the
setting sun, the ancient relics of bygone days were heaped. Almost it
seemed as if these beautiful objects were living things, their burnished
and lacquered bodies afire in the darkened chamber.
Slowly, fearfully, staggering as she walked, Ohano made her way between
rows of this piled-up treasure, the wealth and pride of the house of
Saito.
Now she had come to where the possessions of her own honorable family
were set. Trembling in every limb, hovering and hesitating above it, she
at length unlocked and opened an ancient chest. Fearfully she looked
down into its depths, then felt below the heavy layers of silk.
Presently, with her poor, lame hand, Ohano brought up a single sword.
It was very long. The hilt was of lacquer, a shining black. The ferrule,
guard, cleats, and rivets were inlaid and embossed with rare metals. The
beautiful blade, as brittle as an icicle, seemed to shine in the
darkened chamber with its noble classic beauty, and it awoke in the
breast of the agitated Ohano a new sensation—one of awe, of reverence
and pride!
She held it in the light that came through the still open door, and for
long she looked at it with widened, fascinated eyes.
It seemed to her that some chanted song of proud and noble achievements
rang in her ears, as if the whispering ghosts of her ancestors were
urging her on.
“Courage!” they cried to her. “The gods love thee now!”
She pricked her wrist to test her strength. Then she screamed harshly,
like one who has lost his senses. The sword dropped with a clank upon
the stone floor. Ohano fled from the go-down like one possessed.
With the blood streaming from her hands and marking her progress with
its ruddy drops, she sped across the gardens and into the house. No one
stopped her; no one even called to her. All had been sent away by orders
of the Lady Saito Ichigo.
Alone again in her chamber, with her breath coming in agitated gasps,
her wrist burning with an unbearable pain, weak from the loss of blood,
she swayed by the shoji, her dry lips reiterating the common prayer of
the devout Buddhist: “Namu, amida, Butsu!” (Save us, eternal Buddha!)
Suddenly she felt something cool placed within her hands, and her
fingers were pressed gently but forcibly about the object. It was the
sword she had left behind. A superstitious fear assailed her that the
gods had perceived her weakness and inexorably had placed the sword
within her hands, demanding of Ohano that she do her duty.
Within the girl’s breast a new emotion arose—the ambition to prove to
all the ancestors that within her weak and insignificant body yet glowed
the spark of heroism; that she was, after all, a true daughter of the
samourai.
Her hands acquired a miraculous steadiness and strength. She set the
sword firmly before her, point up. Grasping it with both hands about the
middle, she dumbly, and with a certain dignity and even grace, rested
her body upon it. Slowly she sank down the full length of the blade.
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