Tetsutaisho, too, had run out in advance of his guard, and coming up felt relieved to know that Kinsan had not been fatally shot. Halting near by, as did Shibusawa, the two met face to face, measuring the inevitable.

Shibusawa, the conqueror, spoke first; it became not him to humble the vanquished. Speaking kindly yet firmly, he said:

“What would you, Tetsutaisho?”

“I am a samurai, Shibusawa.”

“You have answered well, Tetsutaisho, and Shibusawa is none the less a man.”

They drew their swords—Tetsutaisho, the one that Munechika had died in the forging; Shibusawa, the Murakumo which had not once failed the illustrious Maidos. The guards stood umpire in the background. The clouds parted and the sun shone forth a pale red. Their steels rang with the perfection of their making. Kinsan rose upon one arm and humbly raised the other in silent deprecation. Then she turned her face and sank back upon the cool, damp ground. The two giants did not heed her; they were facing death, and the test already quickened.

Their steels rang with the perfection of their making.

They fought without an error. Twice the swarthy Tetsutaisho forced the nimble Shibusawa to the ground, but each time a quicker eye and better mind saved him the fall. They fought fiercely, and the blood-stained grass told of their deliberate purpose. A calm settled around them; no other sound could be heard. The mighty frame of the one pressed hard; a frown crossed his face, and he parried heavily. Shibusawa’s muscles set and his eyes flashed. Then there came a clash and a thrust, and Tetsutaisho fell prostrate, with a broken sword at his side.