Part 54

He took her hands and drew them upward to his lips, there to hold them for a space, then let them go again.

“I am quite satisfied,” he said. “Truth itself shines in your face, my Sado-ko. And now, sweet cousin, we will say good night, for it is late, and I would not have your beauteous eyes lose one small atom of their lustre. And so for the night, sayonara!”

Softly and lingeringly she repeated the word. She watched him as he walked along the path, until he had quite disappeared. Then slowly, dreamily she ascended the little steps. She stopped in sudden irritation at the sound of the restless bird within the cage. Moving toward it, she shook the cage with some nervous violence.

“Be still!” she said. “You break my thoughts, you foolish bird! Be still, I say!”

The Lady Fuji touched the artist’s arm. He did not stir. Peering up into his face, she started back at sight of the dull, frozen look. A glimmer of compassion crossed her breast. She whispered:—

“Artist, come away.”

He did not move.

“Pray come!” urged Fuji.

Masago, standing by the bird-cage on the balcony, thought she heard some whispering voices close at hand. She leaned over the railing and called, in fearful voice:—

“Who are the honorable ones below?”

As Fuji sought to draw the artist away, the movement of her effort reached the ears of her mistress. The latter crossed the veranda with quick steps, and, leaning down close to the sound, saw those two figures in the shadow. A moment later the Lady Fuji-no, drawing her cape before her face, fled along the path, and disappeared.

Moving mechanically to the light, the artist turned his face to Masago. A muffled cry escaped her lips. She shrank back, still clinging to the railing of the balcony.

“Kamura Junzo!” she cried. “You!—and here!”

“I do not know your voice,” he said in strange, wondering tones.

“I remember now,” she said. “You wrote a letter to the Princess Sado-ko. You wished to look—look at her. You—you asked the favor. Well—I—I am Sado-ko!”

He moved his head and stared upon her face with straining eyes.

“You are not Sado-ko!” he said.

She trembled with fear.

“I do assure you”—she began, her hand going to her throat to stay her frightened breathing.

“You are not Sado-ko, I say!”

Her voice was raised and shrill.

“I am the Princess Sado-ko,” she cried. “I do defy you, artist-man, to prove I am not Sado-ko.”

His vague and wandering words recalled her self-possession. She knew that she had needlessly excited her fears.

“You are not Sado-ko,” he said, “for she was kind and sweet; but you—you are a nightmare of my Sado-ko. Your face is hers, yet still you are not Sado-ko. Your soul is false; your heart is dead, for Sado-ko is dead, and you who once were Sado-ko are but her ghost. You are not Sado-ko.”

She grew afraid of that white, glaring face, and hoarse, wandering voice. Turning, she hastened to her room, drawing the doors close behind her.

The artist stood alone. Then suddenly he laughed out wildly, loudly. Again he paused in silence. Then laughed aloud again, in that wild way. He heard the noise, the heavy step of palace guards. Then Junzo turned and fled like the wind, his fleet and sandalled feet carrying him with more than natural speed onward and onward. Past startled groups of garden revellers, past loitering lovers, and past guards about the grounds, and outward through the palace gates he plunged on toward the city, gleaming out in specks of light below.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXII