As I turned to him he unrolled the oiled paper in which the bundles were wrapped. The contents opened out in a veritable curio shop of Oriental articles. There were three or four pairs of straw sandals, two pairs of lacquered clogs, a folding fan, a bundle of cream-colored, crinkly paper, a tiny silver-bowled pipe, two or three small red-lacquered cases, a black mushroom hat of lacquered paper, and a number of robes, toed socks and other garments, all of silk and some exquisitely embroidered in gold thread and colors.
From the midst of one of the silken heaps he uncovered a sword whose silk-corded hilt and shark-skin scabbard were alike decorated with gold dragons. Straightening on his knees, he held the weapon out to me, his face beaming with grateful friendship. “Wo—Wort—Woroto Sama, honorable gift take.”
“Gift!” I exclaimed. “I cannot accept so splendid a gift from you.”
“Exkoos!” he murmured in an apologetic tone, and holding the sword with the edge towards himself and the hilt to his left, he slowly drew it out until two or three inches of the mirror-like blade showed between the twisted dragon of the guard and the lip of the scabbard. Pointing first to the shark-tooth mark running down the length of the blade and then to a Chinese letter near the guard, he explained persuasively, “Good, Masamune him make.”
“The more reason why I should refuse such a gift,” I insisted.
He rose to his feet and bowed with utmost dignity. “You him take. Low down Yoritomo me, honorable son high honorable Owari dono, same Shogun brother.”
“What! Your father a brother of the Shogun—of your Emperor?”
He stood a moment pondering. “Shogun cousin,” he replied.
“You mean, your father and the Shogun are cousins?”
He nodded, and again held out the sword. “You him take.”