"I will not forget," replied the wrestler, his well-worn teeth shining. And with that he left the room, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Ashton-Kirk sat down, as did his host. The latter fluttered the pages of a great, uncouthly made book which lay before him; his yellow, beautifully-shaped hands touched the leaves with careful gentleness; it were as though the volume were a child which he was caressing.
"Again," said he, "I will tell you that I am greatly favored by your coming. I had not hoped for so much when I wrote you, for I knew," and here his voice grew even softer than before, "that your time was greatly occupied just now."
"We all have our occupations," replied Ashton-Kirk, suavely, "but even when one is interested, one can always find a little time to devote to others."
"I suppose that is so," said Okiu, thoughtfully. "However, I who am a mere idler, so to speak, know very little of the value of time. Day after day, night after night, I spend wandering in the ancient gardens of Nippon. There are no singers like these," and one pointed finger indicated some shelves filled with books and scrolls; "there are no written words quite so full of beauty."
"The poets of one's own nation are always the most touching," said Ashton-Kirk. "This is especially so of the old poets. Sometimes we take down a dusty, musty old fellow from a top shelf where he has long lain neglected, and being in the humor for it, we are startled by the sweetness of his vision. There is a fragrance about ancient memories which is irresistible. The distance, perhaps, has something to do with it. Yesterday has no perspective for the most of us; but 'yester year' is deep with it, for all."
Okiu nodded.
"The ancient peoples had their prophets and their oracles," said he, "and their gods spoke through them. But the shades of the old Nipponese speak to me through the messages of the poets. The virtue of the dead is here accumulated; the wisdom of my holy ancestors leaps up to me from the pages of my books." Caressingly, the wonderful hands touched the faded pages of the volume upon the table. "There are no thoughts so reverent as these," he went on; "there are no gardens so still, so full of quiet odors, so slumberous under the stars. And there is no moon so silent, or so wan and soft in searching out the secret paths beneath the flowering trees, where the shadows walk hand in hand."
"But," said Ashton-Kirk, "the great bulk of your countrymen have forgotten these dreams of a past time. Modern progress seems to interest them more than anything else."
Again the Japanese nodded.