“So it was this Masamune blade which Taka Suke had in his hands when you killed him and his pack of retainers?” the smith said, while a fierce joy lit up his sunken eyes. “The sword is the soul of the samurai, and it imparts its nature to him who wears it. I knew that that gentle old man could never give to a blade those qualities which men need who are bent on strife or revenge. My forging is of a different nature. You are kind and gentle too, Sennoske; yet your sword would never let you exercise feelings of pity or compassion. I am vindicated,—vindicated through you; and I know that the name of Muramasa will endure, honored and prized, as long as the samurai spirit shall exist, as long as there are men ready to fight for right and for revenge. You have given me back, Sennoske, my confidence in myself, in my capabilities, and in the work of my hands; and I will accept the present you offer me as a yuino when your nuptials with my daughter are celebrated. Four days from now has been selected as a ‘lucky day’ which shall see you wedded.”
EPILOGUE.
Sennoske and his fair wife enjoyed a lifetime of good fortune. Nothing untoward befell them but such small ills as humanity can never be entirely free from; and these were scarcely felt in their happy lot and in the love which they bore to each other and to the children that time brought them. The young soldier gained additional fame in his command at Idzu; and fulfilling within a year the task that had been intrusted to him, he returned to Ise and succeeded his father in the responsible office of karo. Numa, who had again assumed his old name, retired into inkio,—a private life of quiet and of literary pursuits, which he continued up to his death, which took place fourteen or fifteen years later. Muramasa, with whom he had continued on terms of close friendship and intimacy, died in the same year. The smith’s son continued in his profession; but the blades he forged, although of higher quality than those of other smiths, were not prized as those of his father. They were like them in appearance, in form, and in sharpness, and merely looking at the one by the side of the other, it was often impossible to tell them apart. Even in a few public trials that had been made they proved of equal excellence in all feats that required mere strength; but in fine fancy-work (such as cutting a piece of floating paper, which is one of the crowning tests of the original Muramasa blade) they were a shade inferior,—lacking in a nameless something, which could not be described in words, but which an expert could tell at once when handling them. In short, they were not true Muramasas. A few only of these competitive trials were made, however, and in Kuwana at least they were soon prohibited; for they always ended in heated discussions and bloodshed between the contending parties. As a singular testimony to the value of the older weapon, it was noticed that its possessor nearly always came off victorious.
GATHERING TEA-LEAVES.
The victory of Nitta, although re-establishing the Mikado’s divine rights and prerogatives, unfortunately did not secure peace to the Empire. The claims—only too well founded—of those who had taken upon themselves the risk and labor of overthrowing the Hōjō usurpers were disregarded, and the great offices of state given to favorites who had held aloof while there was danger in acting, but who stepped in at the last moment to claim and almost monopolize the rewards. Rival jealousies and hatreds, dissensions, public and private feuds, again reigned supreme, and precipitated civil wars, which deluged the country. Only the divine rights of the emperors were respected and held sacred, while layman and priest, noble and peasant, suffered alike; and this state of things continued up to the reign of Iyeyas, two hundred and fifty years ago, which inaugurated the long peace that has since ruled in the Empire.
