“Listen, then. One evening in May, a wonderful evening, my friend the stork arrived. He was always traveling around, and when he passed by the mountain Hamiyama he never failed to rest himself on my third branch toward the east. He was called To. He brought a lot of news from the other mountains and from the plains across which he had flown in his travels. This evening while he was still far off, he stopped in the air, poising on his wings, and looking about for his favorite branch began to cry, ‘Mikara! terrible things are happening. It is a miracle that I am still alive.’
“‘What is the matter?’ I asked.
“He sat down, arranging the feathers on his breast, smoothing them with his beak, and all out of breath replied, ‘Horrors, I have escaped from the midst of a cloud of arrows which flew hissing about me. Brrrr...!’”
Fiam paused, absorbed in his thoughts. Anxious to hear the rest, I said earnestly:
“And who shot the arrows?”
“Exactly the question I asked To.
“‘Who? The men!’ replied To. ‘The valley is full of soldiers, who are fighting with bows and arrows, with lances and spears. There is war! They are killing each other; they pursue, they shout, they gallop on horseback; they are covered with shining armour. A great castle is burning, and all around the ground is covered with the dead. Listen,’ added To, as he scratched his head with one of his long claws, as he always did when he was thinking. ‘I must leave you. Don’t be offended if I don’t pass the night with you. I must go farther on. Not that I am afraid, you know, quite otherwise, but it is best to be careful. Lances and spears don’t frighten me, but arrows—you never know. Adieu, Mikara,’ and he drew in his claws and stretched his wings and swept away into the air just like an arrow himself, without giving me time to say good-bye. He said he wasn’t afraid, but really he was trembling. Never believe in the courage of any one who boasts of not being afraid.”
“And weren’t you afraid?” I asked Fiam.