“Yes. Have you never heard of the bird? It is the Princess Sado-ko’s, a gift to her from his Majesty.”
“I have heard of it,” said Junzo, huskily.
Lady Fuji-no suppressed a yawn behind her fan, then turned impatiently toward the balcony whence came the ceaseless sound of the bird’s movement.
“It is ill?” asked Junzo, shivering at those dumb signals of distress.
“Why, no—yes—you might so call it.”
“How sad it must be for the princess,” he murmured. “She loved the bird as though it were a human thing.”
The Lady Fuji curled her scornful lip.
“Talk not, artist, of love in the same breath with Sado-ko. If it is love to cage a helpless thing—”
“Caged, you say! I do not understand. I was informed the cage was open always, but that the bird clung to it in very gratitude for the royal kindness shown.”
“So it seemed till lately,” said Fuji. “The princess, however, has been given to the most inexplicable whims and caprices, one of which was to close tight the door of her own nightingale, making it a prisoner. Since then the foolish thing seems ill and languishing, and spends the night in vain attempts to escape.”