“Come!” he said, in Japanese that was sufficiently similar to modern Nippon to be easily understood by Barbara Harding. With the word he drew her toward a sleeping mat on a raised platform at one side of the room.
One of the women awoke at the sound of the man's voice. She looked up at Barbara in sullen hatred—otherwise she gave no indication that she saw anything unusual transpiring. It was as though an exquisite American belle were a daily visitor at the Oda Yorimoto home.
“What do you want of me?” cried the frightened girl, in Japanese.
Oda Yorimoto looked at her in astonishment. Where had this white girl learned to speak his tongue?
“I am the daimio, Oda Yorimoto,” he said. “These are my wives. Now you are one of them. Come!”
“Not yet—not here!” cried the girl clutching at a straw. “Wait. Give me time to think. If you do not harm me my father will reward you fabulously. Ten thousand koku he would gladly give to have me returned to him safely.”
Oda Yorimoto but shook his head.
“Twenty thousand koku!” cried the girl.
Still the daimio shook his head negatively.
“A hundred thousand—name your own price, if you will but not harm me.”