“I am inclined to think you are mistaken about him, Lieutenant Kudo;” then added, as if it were an afterthought, “it must have been someone else who alarmed the Russians.”
“Yamato Damashii,” the captain had said to Kutami, and it was true. He had acted with the spirit of the Bushi, the soldier knights of the old feudal days. With the bitterness of deserved self-accusation Kokan admitted the justice of Captain Minami’s judgment. He, the Samurai, had failed, but Kutami, the Eta, had succeeded.
Soichi was lying on his back rereading O-Mitsu’s letter for the thousandth time, although he knew it already by heart, when Kokan came in without his sword. He sprang to his feet and saluted, then stood at attention. But Kokan said:
“Sit down. I am not here as an officer. I came to talk a little with you.”
Surprised and curious Soichi obeyed, wondering what it could be. His quarters-mates were all away and he and Kokan were alone. For some time they sat silent, the lieutenant uncertain how to begin. He had had a hard struggle with himself, but his sense of right had triumphed. The last of the Kudos would not stain the family honor, kept spotless for so many scores of years.
“I blamed you unjustly,” Kokan said bluntly at last. “It was not you who aroused the Russians.”
“That is nothing,” replied the amazed Soichi, and bowed respectfully. “I am only glad that your expedition was successful.”
He cherished no animosity toward Kokan now, and it distressed him to see his lieutenant humbling himself in this manner. He had forgotten the things that had passed and his mind was set wholly on the future. His only hope was to die gloriously in action. But Kokan had made the plunge and now he was going through.
“I have been unjust to you at other times,” he went on. “It is not becoming the honor of an officer or a Samurai to act meanly, and I have come here to express my regret.”
Soichi was genuinely pained. His ready sympathy understood how hard it must be for the haughty Kokan thus to demean himself, and he responded quickly: