“For the first time in many hours the enemy, out of respect, lowered their weapons. Your ancestor broke his shorter sword—here are the pieces. Then taking the longer one, he thrust it into his bowels, and expired.”
One bit of grewsome history after another he related to the children, listening with awe-struck faces.
Subdued and very quiet the children left the room when the “ceremony” was over. Marion alone had been unable to contain her emotion, and, weeping bitterly, had been sent from the room. Now husband and wife were alone for the first time that day.
“Does it seem strange to you,” he said, “that I should repeat such tales to my children?”
“No,” she said, steadily, “not if they are accustomed to such things.”
“Japanese children are told stories of war from their youngest years. That is why they seem impassive when their own family’s gory history is unfolded to them.”
“But the little girls,” she said; “their eyes shone with as great a zeal as Taro’s.”
“Yes, they are fine girls. You have heard of their ancestry.”
“And Taro?” she said.
“Taro,” smiled the father, “has a great sorrow. He is too young yet to emulate the deeds of his ancestors. His little heart is almost ready to burst with his longing.”