“I am an old man, travelling over the last stage of the journey of life. I had a natural longing to have with me in these my last days my beloved child. Hence, feeling assured that you would not deny the wish of a dying father, I took the liberty of bringing her hither with me.”
“You brought her here!” cried Keiki, in amazement.
“She is within,” said the old Prince, quietly, as he indicated the interior apartment.
With difficulty Keiki curbed his temper. Satsuma had not long to live. He would tell him his secret: he would bare to him the source of his buried grief. Thus his old friend would recognize the impossibility of his being brought into contact with any woman, and perceive how unfitted he was for the task of protecting her.
So it happened that while without a storm raged, and rainy blasts struck sharply into the faces of the sentinels about the fortress, Keiki related his story to his aged friend. Once during the recital the shoji moved, then there appeared in it two tiny holes. Once there crept into the room, mingled with the tempest and the sentinels’ sharp cries without, a muffled sob.
“You have passed through the heart’s narrowest straits to the mind’s broadest realm,” said old Satsuma; “but permit me to still insist that while your highness’s story has touched me deeply, I cannot agree with you that it should be permitted to affect the fate of my daughter.”
“You are right,” said Keiki, gently. “It must not do so.”
“You will allow her to remain here?”
“Yes.”
Satsuma bowed deeply and gratefully.