“How can you have heart-hunger?” asked Masago, coldly.
“And why not I?” Her very voice was thrilling with its sadness. Masago would not look upon her face. She was conscious only of that raging jealousy and pain swelling up in her breast.
“And why not I?” repeated Sado-ko.
“You, who are a princess of the royal family!” cried Masago, with a sudden fierceness. “You, of whom all the poets in the realm have sung and raved! You, at whose feet the whole bright, glittering world is strewn! You, the cherished Daughter of the Sun—the bride-to-be of the—the Prince Komatzu!”
“But still a sad and wretched woman,” said the Princess Sado-ko.
Masago turned upon her fiercely.
“And if you are so sad, as you say,” she cried, “who can have pity for your sorrow? Are you, then, a statue that you do not appreciate these priceless gifts of all the gods?”
“Masago, gifts unsought are oftentimes not desired, and sometimes those which glitter in the sun do but reflect its light. What are the gilded outward wrappings of the gods to me, if inwardly still my heart breaks?”
“Your heart breaks!” Masago laughed in scorn. “What, you—who are about to marry the noblest, bravest, the most divine—” She broke off, holding her hands to her throat.
With a sudden movement the Princess Sado-ko bent forward and looked into the averted face of the maid Masago.