Part 51

He walked awhile up and down the veranda, then returned to her.

“Lady, the Duchess Aoi spoke truth. It was an order of the Emperor. She could not disobey. She is a martyr to the times.”

“So! So!”

“So I believe,” said Junzo, with unfaltering faith.

“You find her changed, then?”

“In dress—in garb, that is all.”

“You did not see her face when she had deigned to turn it to the Prince Komatzu?”

“Beauty like hers will shine from very graciousness, my lady.”

“Artist, as you are aware, the Princess Sado-ko is unconventional. To-night when the first ceremonies are past, she will leave this ballroom. She may not dance, being a princess royal. So she will retire to her private gardens, and there, I doubt not, will linger for a little while. Come with me there, and if she chance to see you, perhaps she will condescend to speak to you to-night. The princess but attends the ceremonials on these occasions. Hence we will not have to wait for long.”

“A happy thought,” he said eagerly, as he followed Fuji-no with willing feet.

It was dark without. The gardens in their modern dress lacked the charm of those of the palace Komatzu, yet Junzo trusted it would be different when they should come to Sado-ko’s own private place. But here a disagreeable surprise awaited him. The place was in a state of great disorder, and the long reflection of the palace lights showed that the gardens were being changed in form and style.

“Follow me with care,” said Fuji-no, “for as you see, the gardens of her Highness are undergoing change. Those who work by day are not so careful to render the place safe for evening loitering.”

They came now to a new wing of the palace, which, too, appeared to be in process of alteration. The artist and the lady now paused to look about them. They heard a sound of fluttering movement close at hand. Junzo looked toward the balcony of the wing, from whence the odd movement proceeded.

“It is the royal nightingale,” said Fuji, carelessly. “The foolish bird is beating out its life.”

“The nightingale, my lady!”

“Yes. Have you never heard of the bird? It is the Princess Sado-ko’s, a gift to her from his Majesty.”

“I have heard of it,” said Junzo, huskily.

Lady Fuji-no suppressed a yawn behind her fan, then turned impatiently toward the balcony whence came the ceaseless sound of the bird’s movement.

“It is ill?” asked Junzo, shivering at those dumb signals of distress.

“Why, no—yes—you might so call it.”

“How sad it must be for the princess,” he murmured. “She loved the bird as though it were a human thing.”

The Lady Fuji curled her scornful lip.

“Talk not, artist, of love in the same breath with Sado-ko. If it is love to cage a helpless thing—”

“Caged, you say! I do not understand. I was informed the cage was open always, but that the bird clung to it in very gratitude for the royal kindness shown.”

“So it seemed till lately,” said Fuji. “The princess, however, has been given to the most inexplicable whims and caprices, one of which was to close tight the door of her own nightingale, making it a prisoner. Since then the foolish thing seems ill and languishing, and spends the night in vain attempts to escape.”

Junzo glanced uneasily toward the balcony. A moonbeam shone upon the gilded cage, depending from an eave by its long chain. The artist shuddered and paced restlessly about the path. Suddenly he came back to Fuji. His voice had a despairing note within it.

“Why did she do it, lady? Do you know the reason?” he asked.

“Do what, Sir Artist?”