The others present followed, but remained slightly in the rear, having received strict orders from the young soldier not to interfere or take any active part unless he called upon them. Sennoske felt a wild, fierce delight at the thought of the struggle before him. Physical action is always a relief for any great nervous strain, and there are none but the veriest cravens who will not gladly accept it as a welcome change, even when accompanied by personal risk and danger. It is natural for health and strength to look for such an outlet, and in the time in which Sennoske lived, education and conventional usage did not repress the play of natural energies. With his physical powers developed almost to perfection, the young soldier actually hungered for an opportunity where his harassed feelings might find vent in valorous deeds. The very thought of a desperate hand-to-hand struggle did much to restore his coolness and self-possession, which had been considerably disturbed by the tragic scene through which he had passed, and by the revelations which his old attendant had made to him.
As they came to the room where he now knew his mortal enemy to be, Sennoske opened the sliding door to allow the servant to enter; then following him, and taking the platter with its ghastly burden out of his hand, he deposited it gently on the floor, while in a clear, firm, and perhaps slightly authoritative tone he said: “Here is the head of my retainer, as you demanded it; I now ask you to return to me my sword.”
As soon as he entered he saw that he had come not a moment too soon; for the packed portmanteaus lying about, as well as other signs, showed that the party was on the eve of departure. Such, in fact, had been their intention; it was only the knowledge that a number of Ise samurai had arrived, and a fear that they were watched and would not in a body be able to decamp with the sword in their possession without being desperately opposed, that had caused the delay and a parley, in the midst of which Sennoske came upon them. All of them, and their leader not the least, were evidently considerably surprised at the prompt and literal manner in which Taka Suke’s command had been carried out. The Hōjō chief’s alternative had been presented, it is true, very largely out of spite against the man whom he hated, because that man had scorned his offers and eluded his power; for in striking at Yamagawa he felt he struck at Mutto and at Mutto’s son. Yet he hardly expected that his extravagant claim would be acceded to, and under any circumstances he calculated upon a delay that would enable him to escape with the sword, which to a man in his position was an invaluable prize. In the event of his being unable to escape,—a contingency which the arrival of the Ise men rendered probable,—he still believed it would be possible to represent Sennoske’s loss of the sword in such a way as to appeal effectually to the prejudices of the extremists on the subject of sword-etiquette among the samurai travellers who had come to the inn. He thereby hoped to create a diversion and to make the whole affair a subject of negotiation, during which time he would have possession of the sword; and in the end he would not be scrupulous in framing excuses and contriving means for keeping it permanently.
Both his designs, however, were frustrated. The readiness with which the man had been sacrificed seemed to argue that, after all, in spite of what his young master had said, no very high value was attached to his life; at any rate, the head there exposed took away all excuse for keeping the sword any longer. This poor head now troubled Taka Suke more than its possessor had ever done in life; being a man who had seldom been thwarted, he would have given much to draw the sword and cut the now inoffensive cause of his disappointment in pieces. Sennoske, who was watching him narrowly, partly divined what was passing through his mind, and regained his self-possession more fully as the other showed outward signs of anger and mortification. He again repeated his demand, but with a stronger emphasis of authority, which seemed to intimate that he had means to enforce it; and so Taka Suke, seeing that he could not possibly frame a valid excuse for retaining the weapon, with a muttered curse, half handed, half threw it over to his enemy.
Sennoske caught it; and as he found, with his accustomed grasp, that it was indeed his trusty blade, he felt a shock which caused his heart to beat almost audibly as it seemed to him, while his brain seethed and throbbed against his temples with the tumultuous flood of emotions which agitated it. But this excitement was only momentary. He had slightly bent his head on receiving the weapon; but quickly raising it again, he spoke calmly and clearly, with quiet self-possession: “You have given me back my sword, my beloved samurai sword; but the mere return of it is not sufficient. A faithful and dearly cherished life had to be sacrificed to your ‘feelings of honor,’ as you called them: all your heads must accompany the return of this sword to satisfy my feelings of honor!” He had drawn the sword as he concluded, and waited with chivalrous courage for a second or two, until at least one other blade should be bared.
A FENCING MATCH.
The combat was not as unequal as it looked at first sight. A heavy Japanese sword, held as it is with both hands, and not admitting of any great celerity of movement when wielded by an ordinary man, enables a master of the art, with quickness and agility to match, as was here the case, easily to keep at bay two, or even three opponents. Sennoske had placed himself against a corner of the room; his foes were all in front of him, and the necessity of requiring considerable room to wield their weapons prevented them from overpowering him by too many rushing upon him at once. Moreover, they were at a disadvantage. They had in a vague sort of way expected a struggle of some kind, but they were not prepared for this sudden demonstration. The sound of muffled voices and footsteps in the hall spoke of a reserve force of unknown strength ready to assist, or if need were to avenge, the young champion.
But by far the most powerful influence was exerted by the flashing sword before them. It was not like other swords. In the uncertain light of the flickering candles it gleamed and glistened with a wicked, reddish sort of color, such as is seen in newly shed blood. It cut through space with a hissing, seething sound, as if it were going through waves, not of air, but of water or blood, which parted in affright before its sharp edge. As it was raised and lowered, it looked like a phantom snake elongating and contracting itself at will. All the dark tales about Muramasa, all the sinister import which popular belief attached to the product of his handicraft, and which was household lore in Japan, almost found justification in the way that this blade had caused the death of Yamagawa and had bred the present struggle.
Great, however, as was the influence of such thoughts and feelings, they could not altogether paralyze samurai instincts, and in response to Sennoske’s challenge three blades were drawn almost immediately. With a motion so light that it implied no effort, the young soldier’s weapon whizzed through the air, causing the head of one of his antagonists to roll on the floor, and in its downward sweep striking a second one under the shoulder, cutting the arm clean off. It was the work of a few seconds merely; but by this time two more of the party, among whom was Taka Suke, had unsheathed their swords.