Fide-Yori bent his head toward her, and gazed curiously at her. She was of exquisite beauty,—small, graceful, apparently weighed down by the amplitude of her robes. It seemed as if their silken weight bore her to her knees. Her large innocent eyes, like the eyes of a child, were timid and full of entreaty; her cheeks, velvety as a butterfly's wings, were tinged with a slight blush, and her small mouth, half open in admiration, revealed teeth white as drops of milk.
"Forgive me," she exclaimed, "forgive me for appearing before you without your express command."
"I forgive you, poor trembling bird," said Fide-Yori, "for had I known you and known your desire, my wish would have been to see you. What can I do for you? Is it in my power to make you happy?"
"Oh, master!" eagerly cried the girl, "with one word you can make me more radiant than Ten-Sio-Dai-Tsin, the daughter of the Sun."
"And what is that word?"
"Swear that you will not go to-morrow to the feast of the God of the Sea."
"Why this oath?" said the Shogun, amazed at this strange request.
"Because," said the young girl, shuddering, "a bridge will give way beneath the King's feet; and when night falls, Japan will be without a ruler."
"I suppose you have discovered a conspiracy?" said Fide-Yori, smiling.
At this incredulous smile the girl turned pale, and her eyes filled with tears.