“I do not understand,” he said dazedly, “Junzo—Masago—” He turned to them for enlightenment.
Sado-ko spoke with perfect clearness. Her eyes were wide and steady, but there was no color in her face.
“The woman seems demented, father. She thinks that she is other than herself—your daughter. But look upon her garments. See the crest upon her sleeves! She evidently is some high lady. Her mind is wandering in delusion.”
With a savage cry Masago sprang toward her. She would have struck Sado-ko had not Kwacho held her.
“What! You—you speak thus in my own father’s house! Oh!” She turned piteously toward Ohano. “Mother, you will understand. You know your Masago!”
“You, Masago!” exclaimed Yamada Kwacho; “why, you are wild in ways. Our girl from babyhood has been docile, quiet, almost dull, while you—”
“Mother, speak to me. Say that you at least know your own child.”
Ohano burst into tears. Her mind was entangled and perplexed.
There were steps without the house, and the shrill calls of runners; then loud rappings on the doors. Kwacho pushed them open roughly to find a dozen men in livery upon his veranda. A tall man stepped forward. Sado-ko pulled her mother down with her upon the floor, thus concealing their faces in low obeisance. The artist did not move, but his eyes met those of the royal Prince Komatzu. The latter glared upon him fiercely.
“What means this rude intrusion?” demanded Kwacho. “We are simple citizens. Why are we disturbed?”