“The fog?” he said dazedly. “No—that is, yes. It was the fog, good mother.”
“So dark at night! Oh, son, we thought that you might wander from the path and come to the river bank.” She shuddered at the thought.
“Yet, you came down from the direction of the hills,” said his father, anxiously. “Did you abide there last night?”
“Yes,” said Junzo, “throughout the long, long night, my father.”
The silent Kwacho shook his head, then whispered in the father’s ear:—
“We arrived last night, good friend, quite early, but Junzo, as you see, is ill and I could not leave him for a moment. Hence, Oka being nowhere at hand, and not a vehicle in sight, I sought to lead him homeward. But no, he turned his feet in new directions. He stumbled here and there across the fields and up and down the hills, and finally we reached the walls of Aoyama. I could not lead him, since he would not have it so, and so I humored his strange fancy, and hence, good friend, have spent the night crouched down beside the palace walls, without covering, indeed, without the much-desired good sleep.”
“Oh, come indoors, at once,” the mother entreated, for Junzo lingered absently on the threshold. “Your face is pale, dear son, and oh, your clothes are quite soaked with dew.”
He followed her mechanically, though he seemed, as yet, to have noted nothing of the haggard aspect of their loving faces. His thoughts seemed far away. When his youngest brother, a little boy of five, came with running steps to meet him and called his name, he simply tapped the child upon the head.
The anxious mother had now become the zealous nurse and housewife. She clapped her hands a dozen times, and sent two attendants speeding for warm tea and dry clothes. The children were put in charge of Haru-no, who took them immediately to a neighbor’s house. Soon there was no one left in the apartment save mother and son.
“We will take good care of you, my son,” she said, “and when you are quite recovered, we will have another council.”