“Ill indeed it is with me,” he said.
Keiki reached out and impulsively seized the hand of the old warrior, pressing it with sympathy that words could not have expressed.
“I may not be with you,” continued Satsuma, “on the day of the bakufu’s undoing.”
“Nay, do not say so.”
“It is so, nevertheless,” said Satsuma. “I must go before—”
“My lord, it is but the common lot—the common happiness of life to give up, to cease to struggle. Your achievements have been many. This rifle by my hand, that cannon in the embrasure, all these will speak for you with terrible effect after you yourself are long silent.”
“Prince Keiki, it is not for myself I think thus sadly of life and death. I have a daughter. We are on the eve of war, the country is unsettled. I cannot leave her unprotected to share its uncertain fate.”
“But surely,” said Keiki, with a mild surprise, “your daughter will be well cared for among her many honorable relations.”
“Alas, no, that is not possible. Her stepmother is ill disposed towards her, and all of her brothers are pressed into the Imperialist service.”
“This is very sad,” said Keiki, “and if it were in my power to aid you I would beseech you to command me immediately.”