Fred Larkin had soon recovered sufficiently to be removed to private quarters, from which, pale and emaciated, but with indomitable pluck and returning energy, he emerged a few weeks later. Letters from the Bulletin recalled him to Massachusetts, and he unwillingly obeyed, realising that the great naval battle was close at hand. He read the news of the destruction of the Russian fleet the day after his arrival in San Francisco.
In a small room—one of those set apart for officers—a Japanese soldier lay on a cot bed, gazing languidly out of the open window toward the east. Walls, counterpane, and the single garment—a kimono—which the patient wore, were of spotless white. Beside the bed sat a little nurse, fanning the sick man, who now and then spoke to her in his own language, though so quietly that his attendant could scarcely hear him.
"O-Hana-San——"
"Yes, Oshima, I am here!"
"The time?"
"It is morning—five o'clock."
The sick man was silent for a few moments. Then his eye fell upon a streak of gold which fell upon the wall.
"Ah!" he said softly, "the rising sun!"
Again he was silent. When he spoke once more he turned his head toward the girl and looked into her eyes.