Haganè had now re-seated himself. He was a few yards directly across from Dodge and Yuki. He studied furtively the countenance of Dodge. With this regard he was quickly satisfied. The American's clear brown eyes were as free from guile as those of a setter pup. He turned again to Pierre, who had now thrown himself, in a graceful attitude of lounging, beside fair Gwendolen. Gwendolen deflected the glance from her companion. Her merry hazel eyes dwelt with bright friendliness and an utter absence of awe upon the titled host. For the first time Haganè noticed her, looked directly at her, perceived in her something a little more than blown golden hair and girlish audacity. Something in her gaze gave him an impression of pliant boughs, elastic yet imperishable. This trained commander seldom failed to recognize the intangible, unmistakable flash of the thing we call, for a better name, character. Something in answer to it, a salute of his own brave spirit, rose to the deep eyes. A little thrill passed over Gwendolen. "Gracious!" she thought to herself. "That's no mere war-engine, that's a man, and a great one!" To cover her vague embarrassment she leaned to him, letting coquetry blot the real from her face, and pleaded, "Show us some more pictures, please, your Highness. I hear that you have storehouses crammed with them. Even I, in spite of what mother says, appreciate those in the tokonoma. Please!"
Haganè bowed unsmiling. The mere dainty allurements of a pretty girl seemed to him almost an affront, as if his old nurse should give him a kite to fly, or a top to spin. He fell into thought. After a moment's somewhat uncomfortable silence he said slowly, "There is one painting I should like to show this honorable group of friends; but first its strange history must be told, and I fear that I have not the fluent English."
"Oh, we simply must have the story! Your English is all right, Prince; I'll declare it is. Please tell us," cried Gwendolen the irrepressible, and she moved a few inches closer.
"Yes, your Highness, your English is wonderful. You don't make half the grammatical mistakes that I do now!" supplemented Mrs. Todd.
Haganè drew a slow glance around the semicircle, plunged his hands within his silken sleeves, and began to speak. His voice was very deep, and in some consonant sounds, of a slight harshness. The vowels were full, rich, and resonant. His speech held at command a certain strange, almost benumbing magnetism, a compelling response, such as one experiences in the after-vibrations of a great bell.
"Oh, I feel in my bones that it is going to be a ghost story, a real one," whispered Gwendolen, with a shiver of excitement.
Haganè did not notice the remark. Todd and Mr. Dodge sent her, in unison, a bright glance of appreciation.
"The painting for which I now attempt the speaking," said Haganè, "made, for centuries, the chief altarpiece of a certain old temple in Yamato. It was a very old temple,—yes, among the very first built in Nippon for Buddhist worship. One night, when the black sky was rent with storm, and lightning hurled out many terrible spears, one flash found that temple, burning it swiftly to a square of low red ashes. Everything burned; gold and brass and iron melted like wax—all but the picture; and three days after they found it still on red coals, glowing more fierce and red than they. Nothing was harmed in it except the brocaded edge, and that was soon replaced. This is the picture you shall see."
"Oh!" breathed Gwendolen.
"Afterward it was conveyed to a famous temple of Kioto; but the head priest, the Ajari, being of timid thought, refused to shelter it. By his order it was carried in secrecy to a much smaller temple, very distant, in the province of Konda, where is my father's home of birth."