The executioner moved around and put the lance tip to the girl’s side. I knew that his purpose was to pierce upwards through her body without striking a vital organ. My eyelids fell. I could not endure the sight. But again Keiki interfered.
“Hold!” he commanded, and he rode forward until between me and the gibbet. “Wait until the oil is heated. You may miss your thrust. The girl may not linger long enough to enjoy the first dipping of the tojin beast.”
“My lord,” protested the eta, “it is known to you that I have more than once thrust through two and even three spears from each side, yet death did not follow until after many hours. This is one who can endure much.”
Keiki did not deign to reply. The executioner drew aside a step. The crowd pressed closer, and an oppressive hush fell upon all. The gloating spectators stared from myself to Kohana and from her to the great kettle, where the etas were casting brush and faggots on the fire.
Even the certainty of torture cannot hold the mind to any one thought for many moments. I found myself heeding such trifles as the downward swoop of a flock of gulls and the heat of the midday sun upon my bare head. I noticed with idle curiosity that those of the crowd who had pressed forward on each side were nearly all men of the lower classes. The upper-class men held back behind the guards, seemingly ashamed of their morbid curiosity.
Gazing out over the bay, I began to count the junks and fishing smacks. Sampans came and went between the anchored craft. From a junk that lay opposite us a large sharp-bowed boat was sculling leisurely shoreward. I flushed with petulant anger at the thought that here was another party coming to see us tortured, yet too indifferent to hasten.
The purring voice of Keiki recalled me to the horror of the situation.
“The kettle boils,” he called. “Proceed.”
The chief executioner stepped forward with his spear. I caught a farewell glance from Kohana. She raised her face to the sun. I turned my head aside—and found myself gazing into the white face of Azai.
I stared, stupefied. She was wrapped about in the white dress of a pilgrim, the dress of mourning. Had she come to die with me? That thought was more fearful than the thought of death in the boiling oil.