[CHAPTER XXVII.]
OMITI.
Winter had come; days of burning heat had given place to days of frost and ice. The leaden sky seemed to have changed places with the earth, now dazzlingly bright in its white robes of snow.
In the outskirts of Osaka the deserted shore had preserved intact the thick coat of wadding dropped from the clouds. The waves, reflecting the dull gray heavens, looked like ink. Scattered rocks jutted from the ground at intervals; the snow clung to their sharp angles. Gulls, disturbed in their flight by the wind, flapped their wings; they seemed dark and dirty against this whiteness.
The last house of the suburb extended its high garden fence along the beach; it was covered with snow, and the swinging sign, which hung from two posts flanking the door, was quite illegible. The big lanterns swelling forward at either side of the entrance had been drawn in and fastened by hooks; a small penthouse sheltered them. The triple roof of the house seemed thatched with silver.
This was the Day-Break Inn. It was here that Omiti had for many long days endured the cruel fate imposed upon her. She suffered in silence, with a proud resignation which accepts neither pity nor consolation. She sacrificed herself to save the lord of the kingdom. She yielded without a murmur to the consequences of her sacrifice; but she sometimes thought that it would have been more merciful to kill her. She had no wish to see the King again, although she had not ceased to love him. Her love was born of a maiden's dream. Before she over saw Fide-Yori, that young prince, said to be handsome and amiable, filled her thoughts; and as she embroidered, she mused and wove a web of fancy about his image. When she discovered the horrid plot which threatened the life of him who filled her soul, she felt as if she should die of terror; but her longing to save him gave her the strength and courage of a hero. In her single interview with the King, in the lemon grove, she saw that her heart had not erred, and that she should never love any other man. But the idea that he might love her never even occurred to her; her modesty forbade it; and since, sold for the general pleasure, she had sunk to the lowest grade in the social scale, the mere thought of again standing in Fide-Yori's presence made her blush with shame.
Often rich merchants from the town would bring their wives to the tea-house, to spend a few hours in the company of the gaizha girls, who instructed them in the art of acquiring elegant manners, taught them to play the samsin, and to compose verses. Sometimes the fine lady, crouching opposite Omiti, listening, with half-open lips, to the girl's plaintive tones, was surprised to see sudden tears flood the singer's eyes. But she supposed it was a seductive wile; and going home, would strive to weep as she struck the strings of her instrument.
Beneath its snowy mantle, behind its closed windows, and although it appeared quite silent from without, the tea-house was full of people and of noise.