Tidings reached Masago in her dim retreat of what was passing, and she sighed. The finger of an outraged God was on them, that was becoming certain. The fate of Hojo was to be a warning lesson to generations yet unborn. By-and-by a rumour came, she could not tell from whence, that the Daimio was going mad. In sooth, he was never sane, and could scarce be held accountable for his growing pile of crimes. In accordance with the rearing which befitted his rank and station, he had scoffed with ribald laughter at a peasant's prophecy, treating with levity the wild words of one who had deservedly been punished. And yet there were moments when, though he fought against the illusion, he was haunted by the dying face,--when those glazing eyes that reflected the sunset shone out of the dark like glowing coals, to wither and scorch his soul. In the night he would wake, seeming to hear again louder than temple bell the words of evil omen, and then he would hug so fiercely the form of the slumbering O'Kikú upon the mat beside him, that she would turn on him with peevish reproach.
The visions and the voices increased, till he was afraid to be left alone. His brutish nature became yet more vindictive and morose, and the geisha, vowing that as a companion, after his paroxysms of unreasoning fear, he grew intolerable, freely dosed him with saké, to subdue his importunate tremors. In his chamber she would leave him chained by drunken stupor, while she, with the favourite of the hour, caroused below. This proved so convenient an arrangement, that to obtain for herself a liberty of action yet more complete, she tempted her lord to increased potations, till there arrived at length a period when he was scarcely ever sober.
But then constant inebriety has its intermittent moments of recoil, when the stomach sickens at the drink, yet craves for it, and at such dismal times the smile would fade even from the brazen visage of the baleful enchantress, for my lord would then pass without warning from the extreme of grovelling anguish to the fury of mania; and O'Kikú wondered, with blanched cheek, whether, perhaps, some day in one of these mad fits the Daimio would rise and slay her.
One evening he woke with chattering teeth, and finding himself alone in the quickly-gathering shadows, stumbled upon his feet, with curses on the concubine in that she deserted him in his extremity. Did she not know how much he feared the darkness, and how necessary it was on many counts to conceal his condition from his warriors? Had he not raised her up to be partner of his bed, giving her all she desired, gratifying her every whim? And yet what recked the selfish creature of his wishes, of his terrors, his requirements? Naught! Regardless of his agony, she could quietly go away and amuse herself, leaving her lord and benefactor a prey to goblins. Shivering, with swimming brain, he groped his way in search of her; and somehow found himself, ere he was aware, upon the drawbridge that led beyond the moat.
A chill wind was blowing from the river that lapped the frowning walls--a singing murmur seemed to whisper "Come!" Shuddering, obedient to a spell against which his will was powerless, he stumbled on. How dismal dark it was! From the windows of the hall came a ruddy line of light which served to intensify the black. There was a faint sound of brawling within, a clash of steel, a din of bandied threats, followed by the long rippling laugh of the geisha, and then the twang of her samisen. "Always in that hall among the soldiers," No-Kami querulously muttered. "She loves me less and less--cares nothing for my trouble." Since her arrival, he reflected, there had been a gradual and grievous decrease of discipline among the samurai,--a growing tendency to quarrel and snarl in open disrespect of him. Had she betrayed his secret? Had she divulged the nameless horror, and the cowardice which unnerved his arm, unsettled his reason, and undermined his strength? Impulse bade him turn and stride into the hall, and there assert himself; and then the breeze, like clammy fingers, stroked his cheek and murmured, "Come!" Whither was he to proceed? Was it the water that summoned him? No! had not the farmer said that the river should ebb away? Folly! why, what was this? Was he, the head of the Hojos, as infatuated as others? Did he believe in the threats of the martyr? On--on, away to the left--whither? To the dim belt of grim grey trees that reared gnarled arms aloft, groaning and swaying in the wind. The accursed trees--home of malevolent ghosts! The trees that chanted ever their loving call to ignominious death.
With beads of sweat upon his brow No-Kami listened, and, not knowing what he did, unwound his long silk sash. Then out of the dark shone forth, like glowing coals, the eyes he knew too well, and then there pealed upon the night a mocking shout. Hist! what was that? The voice of Futen, the wind imp? or Raiden, king of thunder, beating upon his drums? What was he doing with that sash?--he, the proud No-Kami? Horror! he, the head of the Hojos, was about to hang himself--to disgrace his line for ever!
With a growl of fear No-Kami sped away, his fingers in his ears, back toward the light--and the saucy geisha, seeing a crouching shadow pass, complained of some unclean animal. With stealthy speed, born of terror and shame, the Daimio crept away, nor stopped to draw breath till, safe in the sanctuary of his chamber, he fell panting, prostrate on the mat. Another instant, and, unconscious of what he did, he would have swung on the fateful tree. Strange that it should have been the warning voice of Koshiu that had averted supreme disgrace. Why? Was he reserved for something yet more infamous? Better now, at once, to make an end of it--perish as a Daimio should when driven to bay by his own well-tempered steel. Groping with aspen hands for the sword-rack, he took his dirk, and unsheathing it, passed a finger on its edge. A blade of Sanjo's, a masterpiece. Yes. Here in the dark, alone, he would perform the rites of harakiri, and join with unsmirched brow the line of haughty ancestors.
Footsteps, a yellow glimmer through the paper of the sliding doors. O'Kikú's tardy feet? No, the heavier footfall of a man. A panel was pushed aside. Sampei, shading with his hand the flickering flame of a candle. The latter peered in, and uttered a cry. The dirk, the body bared, the kneeling posture. The intention of the Daimio was evident, though rising with a fierce curse he strove to conceal his purpose.
"I am glad I was in time," Sampei remarked, with cold composure. "Would the chief of our clan commit harakiri without a second? Where is he? I see no kaishaku. Pah! When all is lost 'tis time to think of dying. If you wish it, and have courage, things are not yet past remedy."
"What do you want?" snarled the Daimio, as with a scowl he retreated into a corner.