Okido bowed to the floor before the illustrious Matsuda Isami. Knowing
well the nature and temper of his employer, he did not waste much time
upon courtesies, but went briefly to the object of his visit.
“He has returned,” he said.
“What is that you say?”
“The white beast——”
“Ah!” Matsuda’s grasp relaxed. He took several strides across the room,
then stopped before an opened shoji and drummed upon the panelling.
“Well, then—what of that?” he asked.
Okido came to his elbow and whispered agitatively:
“But she will see him. It cannot be helped.”
Matsuda laughed diabolically.
“I have complete command over her eyes, my good Okido. Have you not yet
observed how she is conquered?”
Okido shook his head dubiously.
“But should Mr. Beast come in person to your house?”
“We have means of dealing with barbarous dogs,” quoth Matsuda
contemptuously, “and the police of this town respect the authority of
their masters.”
“But the letters, most Exalted? He will make inquiry.”
“Pah! What of it? Will it be the first time that mail has been lost
between this country and America?”
“——so much mail.” Okido moved uneasily. “Excellency, I am afraid of the
heavy boot of the barbarian. It was I who kept back for you the letters
from the barbarian to the woman. It is said his government is
powerful—revengeful. Let me beseech you to give me a sufficient sum to
get swiftly away.”
“On the contrary. You must stay here and help me. Besides, you forget
the woman Natsu was the one who held the letters. They should weight her
sleeves, not yours.”
“Yet, good Excellency, I was the carrier, and——”
“You delivered the letters?”
“Not to the one to whom they were addressed, but to the servant of the
foreign devil, who, Exalted, declares she gave them to you.”
Matsuda laughed unpleasantly.
“Huh! Then it is my sleeves which are weighted!”
In the room above the speakers the woman Azalea watched over the open
patch in the floor. Her face beneath the heavy rouge plastered lately
upon it by Natsu was a ghastly white. Her bosom was heaving with her
quick breathing, her glittering eyes were horrible to look upon. She had
heard and understood every word of the dialogue, and now she crouched in
the attitude of a feline about to spring, looking down with dreadful
eyes upon the head of that one below. Yet in this moment of frenzy
Azalea did not scream or faint. Now the strength of her samurai
ancestors surged upward through her veins, tingling her whole being.
Everything else was blotted out—forgotten. She obeyed only the
hereditary instinct of the samurai—an instinct for revenge. When she
could move from her crouching position by the opening, she arose with
silent swiftness. She stood straight and still, only her eyes slowly
travelling about the room as though seeking some object.
Suddenly she found it—the sword! Her small hands gripped its blade and
felt its keenness. Then she hid it in the folds of her kimona, and, her
colorless lips close pressed together, she passed soundlessly from the
room down the little flight of steps and through the hall. Suddenly and
almost soundlessly she pushed aside the shoji of the ozashishi. Now she
stood between the opening, her eyes upon the startled ones of Matsuda
Isami.
[Illustration:
“As the sword flashed upward he dashed to one side and then slipped
under its guard.”
(Page 229)
]
In a flash he understood that somehow she had heard and knew now the
truth. His servants had grown careless. She had escaped from the trap he
had set for her. Vengeance was written in every line of her rigid form.
He could almost see the twitching of her fingers upon the concealed
weapon in her sleeve. With a cunning worthy of the man he advanced a
step toward her, hoping in this way to precipitate her attack, and when
she should spring upon him he would trip her. He said as he advanced:
“Little dove, you look pale to-day—why——”
As the sword flashed upward he dashed to one side and then slipped under
its guard. His heavy hands locked together descended crushingly upon her
head. She threw back her arms, the sword slipping from her hand. Then
she fell backward.
Across her fallen body Matsuda Isami and Okido stared at each other. The
latter was shivering as though afflicted with ague. He kept repeating
over and over between his chattering teeth: “Shaka! Shaka! Shaka!”
“Do not speak so loud,” hoarsely commanded the other, “or, by all the
gods, I will send you to join her!”
The little Nakoda shrank and shivered beat his head upon the floor.
Matsuda strode to the dividing doors. He called the woman Natsu as he
clapped his hands. She came hurrying along the hall and stood
open-mouthed on the threshold, looking in on that outstretched form. Her
eyes lifted in question to the man Matsuda.
“Hear me,” he whispered hoarsely. “The woman has fallen in some swoon.
We will tie her devil offspring to her back and carry her up to the
place where she belongs. Give me your aid, good Natsu, and I will marry
you instead.”
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