And his merry voice broke into an old song:
"Nikuiotoko ni kisetai shima wa
Royagoshi ni Sado ga shima."
I was shocked that Brother should sing a common servant's song, and doubly shocked that he should joke so lightly about serious things; so my face was still grave as we rolled along in our jinrikishas.
The Isle of Sado used to be a place of exile for criminals and was considered by common people as the end of the world. This joking song, which is popular among peasant girls, is literally a threat to present to a disliked suitor, not the pleated garment which is the usual gift of the bride to a groom, but instead, a convict's garb: meaning, "I pray the gods will send the unwelcome one across the raging seas to the end of the world."
We spent our fifth night at Nagano in the temple of Zenkoji where lived the royal nun beneath whose high-lifted razor I had walked, years before, in a procession of gaily clad little girls, for a Buddhist ceremony of consecration.
The next morning, soon after we started, Brother halted and allowed my jinrikisha to roll up to his side.
"Etsu-bo," he asked, "when did they give up making a priestess of you?"
"Why—I don't know," I said, surprised.
He gave a little scornful laugh and rode on to his place ahead leaving me silent and thoughtful.