“‘It is enough that I know,’ said the man. ‘Three days I allow you. If by then the letter has not been placed on the altar of the war-god, in the shrine of Samiya, then you will be assassinated.’
“With that the man went away.
“Kimaga was now almos’ dead with fright. For the first day he did nothing but weep. The second day he put on mourning and set his affairs in order. The third day he held the letter in his hand for many hours and filled his mind with the beauty of the writing. He could not give it up. Rather would he die. And at last he placed it in a lacquer box and buried it deep at the foot of the largest cherry-tree in his garden.
“He arose to go back into his house, an’ his head was bowed over with terror. You see, he felt that many eyes were watching him from the near-by walls, an’ he thought he heard breathings and the whispers of strangers. What should he do now? He dare not advance; he dare not stay where he was. So exceeding affrighted was he that he groaned aloud. From all about him came groans that answered his. Once more he groaned, and once more his ears were filled with the answers.
“Then he took one step toward his house. Nothing happened. He took another step, an’ his knees they shook like the palsy. The breathings an’ whisperings seem, oh, so much nearer now. But he muster all his strength an’ put out his foot for the third step. It did not reach the ground again before the vengeance struck him.
“The next morning his wife found him dead. His head had been severed from his body.”
The minister stopped and sat back in his chair.
“How awful!” exclaimed the woman who had asked for a story.
“Not so,” said the minister affably. “In serving my country, such things mus’ be done. Kimaga should have given the letter. Don’t you think so, Mr. Orme?”
The parable was quite clear to Orme. He understood the threat.