Omi, shivering against her mistress’s side, began to cry, and recommenced her prayers to return to the city below. The troops were returning, and even here on the quiet hillside the sound of the beating drum, the wild and hoarse singing, and cheering of the soldiers and the citizens was heard.
“Why perish in the cold hills?” asked the little apprentice-geisha, “when the warm, happy city calls to us? Oh, let us go! Let us go!”
Feeling the cold hands of her baby, the geisha shivered; yet as she looked off hungrily to where the little maiden pointed she felt a sense of strong reluctance almost akin to terror. It was down there they were looking for her, she knew. There they would take from her the honorable child of her beloved lord.
“How much colder it is getting,” reproached Omi, crossly; “and see, graciousness, your kimono is not even padded.”
“Undo my obi, Omi. Wrap it about yourself and his lordship. It is seven yards long, and will protect you both amply.”
“But you, sweet mistress? I will not take your obi. Your hands are cold. The august clogs are broken even!”
She knelt to tie the thong firmer, and while still kneeling Omi continued her beseeching.
“Now, if we start downward, we shall travel much quicker. I will bear his lordship on my back. We can reach the city in less than a night and a day. I know a little garden just on the outskirts of Kioto. There we can spend the night. With warm rice and sake and—”
“Hush, Omi, it is impossible.”
Omi threw back her head and began to wail aloud, just as a child would have done. The burden of her cry was that she was cold, very cold, and she was very sure that they would all perish in the wet and horrible mountains. The geisha tried vainly to quiet her. At last she said: