War—the one thing that makes man better than his neighbor, bridges the chasm between life and death, raises a hope superior within. War—the slogan of nature, and the handmaid of creation. War—the savior of mankind, at the cost of brute, stirred them as it had their fathers to superhuman, transcendent energy.
They marched past the shops—in which sycophants wrangled this and that; through the woods where cutters and hewers sweat or chewed; over the plains, amid sustenance born of fain indifference—into the mountains, lofty, grand and inspiring.
The roads ran smooth and easy up the long sloping ascent, they were builded and used, for a like purpose, long before Shibatas rise had conjured sublimitys ultimate pass. Presently sounds beyond echoed again the uncertainties of dame progress. The dizzy heights scaled measured accurately the cost of further effort. Ominous clouds darkened the way. Shibata at last lagged, and a fox leaped from the roadside.
Gonroku! Gonroku! whispered Shibata, springing from his chair and peering into darkness.
Yes, father, replied the son, a little surprised, but not altogether unconvinced.
The enemy! Cannot you see them? They come in columns touching the seas: ranks receding—I cannot number them—reaching beyond the horizon. Katsutoya leads them.
Impossible, shouted Sakuma. On with the march.
Listen, whispered Shibata, now white in the face and unsteady of foot.
They do mock Sakuma, ventured Gonroku, before the first echo had again resounded upon the still resonant air.
Listen, repeated Shibata, his eyes like fireballs in the dark.