He forgot the difference in his state and rank to these creatures of the kitchen, and found himself confiding to them his worst fears.
The Tojin-san slept from north to south, the position proper for a corpse alone! Genji Negato had pleaded with him to change, but the foreigner had laughed and insisted it was the true, scientific position, from pole to pole, in harmony with the electric currents of the atmosphere.
The night before all four of the samourai guard had heard the plaintive howling of a dog; an owl was seen black athwart the moon; a tail-less cat fled under the Uki (goblin-tree). The samourai had dutifully reported all these happenings to the Tojin-san, and now, when the blow seemed about to fall upon him, this stalwart guard, provided by their prince, were sleeping comfortably in their yashiki on the very edge of the estate. It was the workings of the gods!
Goto, the cook, found his fluttering tongue.
“This very morning,” said he, “I trod thrice upon an egg-shell.”
“I miserably entangled my obi when dressing,” said another.
“And I, alas! bit my tongue when eating. My mistress said it was a sign some one begrudged me my food. Who indeed but this spiteful fiend of the mountains?”
“Twice this week,” wailed the cook’s wife, “little Taro broke his chopsticks when eating.”
She fell to sobbing violently into her sleeve.
“Condescend to hush!” said Genji Negato. “Remaining silent is good.” The interpreter’s yellow face had turned ashen, his hair appeared to stand almost on end, as he listened with suspended breathing.