For a moment she poised as light as a bird; then, lifting her dress, she
quickly walked across the burning coals. The sparks flew upward,
lighting the bronze and gold in her hair, showing too her face, a study
in scornful daring.
The lookers-on cheered, some crying, "Skilful, skilful!" and others,
"Brave as an empress!" "She is protected by her foreign god."
Heedless of the crowds, as if they were not, Zura took her hat, shoes,
and stockings from the adoring small boy who held them and rejoined me.
I glanced around at the family. The women's faces said nothing. To at
least two of them, Zura was a strange being not of their kind and with
whom they had nothing to do. But the look in Kishimoto San's eyes made
me shrink for the fate of the girl.
Laying my hand upon her arm I asked, "Oh, Zura, why did you do it?
Aren't your feet burned?"
"Burned! Nonsense! They are not even overheated. I used some of their
spirit powder, which is plain salt. I did it to prove to myself that all
they teach and do is fakery."
Page joined us, inquiring anxiously, "You are not hurt? I call it
plucky, but very foolish. Didn't you hear me call to you?"
Zura, looking up from fastening her shoe, replied stiffly, "Mr.
Hanaford, once is quite enough for you to interfere with my affairs."
The boy flushed, then smiled, and dropped to the rear.
As she spoke I could but notice her voice was a little less joyous. It
sounded a note of weariness as if her high spirit, though unconquered,
was a bit tired of the game.
In depressed silence our party mingled with the throng on its way to the
shrine where the last tribute was to be paid. The place of devotion was
in a dense grove, isolated and weird. A single upright post held a
frail, box-like contrivance. The inner recess of this was supposed to
hold a relic of Buddha--some whispered a finger, some a piece of the
great teacher's robe; but whatever the holy emblem, both place and
shrine were surrounded with a veil of superstitious mystery and held in
awe. A lonely taper burned before the shrine, dimly lighting a small
opening covered with ground glass and disclosed above a written warning
to all passers-by to stop and offer prayer or else be cursed.
The crowd of worshipers paid tribute, but rather than pass on, lingered
in the shadow, their curious eyes fixed upon the half-foreign girl.
It was splendid for her to brave the fire-god, but no living soul dared
face the Holy Shrine with the scorn Zura's face and manner so plainly
showed. Admiration melted into distrust. They would wait and see the
end.
One by one my host, his mother, wife and daughter passed before the
relic and reverently bowed. Then they stood aside in a silent group,
slightly apart from Page and me. It was Zura's turn. In the face of
Kishimoto San, as he looked at his granddaughter, was concentrated the
power of his will and all the intolerant passion of his religion. He
looked and he waited--in vain. The girl did not move.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but his words fairly stabbed
the air. "Obey me! Approach and bow!"
Zura seemed to be turned to stone. But her words were as clear and as
measured as his own. "I will not! Now or ever!"
Past all endurance of the girl's disrespect, the man made one step
forward, grasped Zura by the shoulders, and pushed her towards the
shrine. The force sent her forward. As she stumbled she seized a bamboo
pole. With it she gave one swift blow. At our feet the little shrine lay
shattered, and out of its secret recess rolled a pasteboard box,
mildewed and empty.
Then, like the hissing wind, rose the quick anger of the people.
At the same instant Page and the crowd rushed toward Zura, who, with
bamboo stick in her raised hand, stood white and defiant.
A coolie made a lunge at her. With closed fist Page Hanaford struck him
full in the face; the other arm shielded Zura. Another man spat at her,
and met the fate of his brother from Page's well-directed blow. There is
nothing so savage as a Japanese mob when roused to anger. Knowing them
to be cruel and revengeful, my heart stood still as I watched the throng
close about Page and Zura. I knew the boy single-handed could not hold
out long before the outraged worshipers.
Then above the noise and curses and threats Kishimoto San's voice rang
out. "Stop! you crawling vipers of the swamp! How dare you brawl before
this sacred place? How dare you touch one of my blood! My granddaughter
accounts to me, not to the spawn of the earth--such as you! Disperse
your dishonorable bodies to your dishonored homes! Go!"
Blind to reason, they cowered before a masterful mind. They knew the
unbending quality of Kishimoto's will, his power to command, to punish.
The number grew steadily less, leaving Page and Zura and her grandfather
alone.
Kishimoto San turned to the girl and with words cold as icicles, cutting
as a whiplash, dismissed the child of his only daughter from his house
and home. He cared neither where she went, nor what she did. She no
longer belonged to him or his kind. He disowned her. Her foreign blood
would be curse enough.
Bidding his family follow, he turned and left. As Mrs. Wingate passed
her disgraced offspring, with troubled voice and bewildered looks she
repeated once more her set formula of reproof, "Oh, Zura! I no
understand yo' naughty; I no like yo' bad."
The homeless girl, Page, and I were left in the darkness.
"Come with me, Zura," I said, not knowing what else to do; and the three
of us made our way toward the high twinkling light that marked the House
of the Misty Star.
As the boy walked beside her, hatless, tie and collar disarranged, I
could but see what his defense of Zura had cost him in physical
strength. His face twitched with the effort to control his shaking
limbs; that strange illness had robbed him of so much.
"Please, Mr. Hanaford, do not trouble to climb the steps with us," I
urged. "There is no danger. By now the crowd is doubtless laughing over
the whole thing."
"No, Miss Jenkins," he said, "I cannot leave you till you are safely
shut in the house. Rather interesting, wasn't it?"
"Interesting! Well, I guess I know now what making a night of it means."
It was my one attempt to lighten conversation. We went on in silence.
Wordless my other companion walked beside me. She gave no sign. Only
once, when I stumbled, the hand she outstretched in quick support was
shaking and cold.
On reaching the house Page declined to come in; but, seeing the knuckles
of his right hand torn and bleeding, I would take no refusal. "Boy, your
hand is bleeding. Come right in and let me dress it," said I.
"Don't trouble. It's nothing; only a bit of knocked-up skin. That coolie
must have sharpened his teeth for the occasion."
Zura spoke for the first time as I made the room light. "Oh! I didn't
know you were hurt, Mr. Hanaford. I am sorry. Let me see." She took his
hand in both of hers and held it closer under the lamp. Still holding
it, she lifted her eyes with sympathy to his. "I'm not worth it," she
said softly.
I did not hear Page's answer; but I thought he was almost gruff when he
quickly drew away and walked to the window. He had nothing to say when I
bandaged his hand, and he soon left.
It was only a matter of a few minutes to light the lamp and arrange the
bed in the guest-room I had taken such pleasure in preparing before for
Zura's visit. I went through these small duties without speaking. I bore
no ill will to the girl who had been thrust upon me. My thoughts were
too deep for anger against the wayward child whose start in life had
been neither fair nor just. But in separating herself from her family
she had done the most serious thing a girl can do in whose veins runs
the blood of a Japanese. Everything ready, I said good-night as kindly
as circumstances would permit.
Zura put out her hand and thanked me. A smile twitched her lips as she
said, "Never mind, Miss Jenkins. Don't be troubled. No use fighting
against fate and freckles." The tears in her voice belied her frivolous
words.
Anxious for what might happen, I sat for the rest of the night in the
room adjoining the one occupied by my unexpected guest. Twice before the
coming of the dawn there reached me from the farther chamber sounds of a
soul in conflict--the first battle of a young girl in a strange land,
facing the future penniless and heavily handicapped.
It was a lonely vigil and a weary one.