“Yes, late,” he said, “but it was not the fault of Junzo.”
“I kept the tryst,” she said, “and waited long for the moon to rise—and then—then you did not come, and I—and then I wept.”
She turned her face toward a moonbeam streaming through the grove that he might see the glistening tears.
“Sado-ko!” he cried in an agony, “oh, that I should cause you pain—I who would sell my very soul to save you from a tear.”
She had recovered somewhat of her natural calm, and for a moment her old bright self shone out.
“Nay, then, and what is a little tear? So slight a thing—see, I will wipe it away with the sleeve of my Junzo.”
“My lotos maiden! O Sado-ko, I have made enemies for you here in this very palace.”
“But I am stronger than the enemies, my Junzo. Indeed, I can afford to laugh at them.”
“One—the Lady Fuji, do not trust her, I beseech you, Sado-ko.”
“She would become wife to my father,” said Sado-ko, with quiet scorn, “yet her power is small and her hope vain.”