The melody progressed to that marvellous passage which Beardsley saw in line as a white horse ambling through a dark wood of pines, ridden by a lady in a dress of black velvet.
At the opening chords of the theme a door behind the player opened quietly. He heard nothing.
An awful and august figure entered.
It was Danjuro, but not the Danjuro I had ever known.
He wore a robe of yellow silk with wide kimono sleeves, and a sash of purple round his waist. Into the sash was thrust the long scabbard of an ancient Japanese sword—a scabbard of tortoise-shell and silver. His hair was differently arranged, his lips compressed into a single line. The eyes, which seemed curiously elongated, glittered like black lacquer in a high light.
He crept forward and touched Vargus on the shoulder.
The man in the velvet coat leapt up with a short, sharp cry. Then he whipped round and came face to face with Danjuro.
They remained, staring into each other's eyes for several seconds.
I saw a ghostly change beginning in the pirate's face. Inch by inch something crept over it like a veil as life ebbed away. Then he fell in a crumpled heap upon the carpet.
The Japanese looked down at him without a change in his dreadful stony glare. Then he bent down and pulled the limp form out straight, turning it with its face downwards. He drew the sword and lifted it high above his head.