“The camp,” said Keiki, thoughtfully, “is no place for a woman, but here in my fortress she will be safe.”
“Your highness,” said Satsuma, with much emotion in his voice, “no words of mine can express the thanks of a grateful heart. Goodnight, my brave boy; the gods comfort and bless you.”
In the adjoining apartment a small figure, half crouching by the dividing doors, sprang to its feet. A girl ran to him with a little cry and threw her arms about his neck, pressing a little, wet face gratefully against the heavily limned one of the old Prince.
“It is well,” said Satsuma, patting her head.
“How can I thank thee?” she breathed.
“By endeavoring to feel as if thou wert indeed my own daughter instead of a distant relative. But come, thou art pale, and your garments are soiled and torn with travel.”
“The journey was long,” she sighed, glancing at the frayed ends of her kimono, “and do you know, my Lord Satsuma,” she added, “I could scarcely hire a runner to carry me, because of my unworldly attire, and so I was compelled to make much of the journey on foot.”
Meanwhile Keiki sat alone, his hands clasped before his eyes. All the bitterness of a lifetime welled within his bosom. He was trusted above men; at young years the idol of a brave nation; fate was bearing him upon a wave of the highest destiny that could not fail to beat down the rotten dikes of oppression. Yet all this brought no peace, no happiness. He realized in a moment the futility of all his efforts to put the soul of the Lady Wistaria out of his heart. Only in fierce action and strain that should engross all his faculties could he even find a temporary easement. After that, the gods pity him! After that, he could not live. There should no longer be any delay. There should be war, and that speedily, perhaps on the morrow.
