XVIII
A VISITOR FROM AMERICA
In old Nippon the flower of kindness reaches full perfection when friend or foe suffers defeat. Page Hanaford might be a long-hunted prize in the police world, but to the group around him as he lay on the floor, his head upon my lap, he was a stranger far from home and very ill. Justice could wait while mercy served. Pity urged willing messengers to bring restoratives, to summon doctors who pronounced the sick man in the clutches of fever. Hospitals in Hijiyama are built for the emergencies of war, and solicitude for Page's comfort was uppermost when, after a short consultation among the officials, permission was granted to remove him to my house with an officer in charge.
A policeman headed the little procession that moved slowly up the steps to The House of the Misty Star, and one followed to keep at a distance the sympathetic, but curious crowd. Four men carried a stretcher beside which I walked holding the limp hand of Page, who was still claimed by a merciful unconsciousness.
The news spread rapidly. As we reached the upper road I saw Zura at the entrance, waiting our coming, so rigid she seemed a part of the carving on the old lodge gates. Her face matched the snow beneath her feet.
"Is he dead?" she demanded, as we came closer.
"No. But he's desperately ill—and under arrest," I hurriedly added.
"Oh, but he's alive; nothing else matters. Come on; my room is ready."