“You are augustly wrong,” said the samurai, moving not an inch, despite the close proximity and menacing attitude of the Prince. “You honorably betrayed yourself!”
“I!”
“Certainly. To her.” He indicated, without naming, the Lady Wistaria.
Slowly, painfully, driven by the goading words of the father, the blazing, burning eyes of the husband sought Wistaria, there to rest upon her while infinite horror found mirror in his countenance. Motionless thus he stood.
Wistaria, braced for a shock she could not meet, leaned against her uncle, whose head bent over her. The Lady Evening Glory smiled, as one who delights in the soul of a cat. Calm, satisfied, unmoved, remained Shimadzu. Keiki’s eyes bulged from their sockets, his mouth gaped open. At last one word burst from his lips, but it was as eloquent as though he had uttered a thousand.
“Thou!”
Her head sank low. He recoiled a step. But with entranced horror he continued to gaze at her. Her face was like marble, out of which her dark eyes stared as though made of polished, glazed china. And as he gazed, terrible thoughts and remembrances rushed upon Keiki, overpowering, weakening, paralyzing him. After a long, immovable silence he leaned slowly forward until their faces, close together, were on a level.
“It is true?” he whispered, hoarsely. “Speak! Speak!”
“It is true,” she replied, in a voice so small and faint that it seemed far away.
His sword leaped out of his scabbard. He raised it as if to strike her down. But his hand fell to his side. Then he spoke, in a hoarse, fearful voice: