Takara did not give much thought to her imprisonment or the disposition that might be made of her; she felt too tired for that, and had no sooner been left alone than she fell fast asleep. It was quite different though with Bansuro her keeper. He rested hardly any, and could think of nothing but the reward surely to be had for bringing to the high court a spy of so great consequence; for had he not, he reasoned, captured her while in the very act of conversing with the condemned? And would not Ikamon rejoice?

Bansuro had not seen Hontone, Takara’s head carrier and only protector, as he shadowed and watched them like a sleuth. Not satisfied with his mistress’ having gone into the woods alone, he followed and watched from a distance her every movement, and when caged alone in the room at the tea house he felt her safe for the night. Hontone then ran away and brought his fellows, and in the dark and without discovery they planned her rescue.

They lay in the bushes growing about the old, neglected temple, with its crumbling beams and weather-cracked siding, and were within easy reach of the cosey place where Takara slept a prisoner. Now and then Hontone would steal near and listen, then return with the assurance that she yet rested safely. Presently, as the night darkened, the air grew murky and difficult of breathing. It had been intensely sultry all day, but now there came from everywhere hollow soundings, and a hushed silence spread over the earth.

The carriers crouched down and stared blankly; not one of them ventured to speak. The suspense was dreadful and Hontone whispered:

“It is an earthquake!”

Presently they were thrown straight up from the ground, and then down and up, while a mad rumbling sounded in their ears. Their senses seemed suddenly to depart, and they felt as if no certainty of anything remained. A short, breathless lull followed, and then there came another great pounding, as if from beneath, some monster drove at the earth’s crust with a huge hammer. The beams split, the walls cracked, and the tiles rattled down from the roofs. Everywhere the people ran frantic, with dishevelled hair and glaring eyes. They groped at nothing, and cried pitifully. The earth rumbled on, and again they were shocked and thrown from their feet. The ground gaped, and frightened men tumbled headlong or balanced at the edge of dark, bottomless crevices. Thousands fell and their pitiful cries arose from the mysterious deep or died away with a faint echoing of its awful uncertainty. The fire flashed up and burned fiercely among the dÉbris of falling walls and thatched roofs. The cries of the penned-in victims tore their hearts, and they ran hither and thither, bewildered and uncertain. And when the cruel, heartless earthquake had done its frightful work, and there seemed no chance for greater havoc, there came a roaring and crashing as if the sea were rolling onward, crushing and tossing and mangling in its terrible track the half-living who had escaped the lesser, if more frightful, danger. As the tidal wave came on, grinding and swallowing the earth with gluttonous fury, they huddled and waited. There was nothing to do, no hope to cherish, for they knew not a Home beyond. Their god dwelt where the reason finds its sway, and faith is but a factor in what we know.

The mighty wave, rolling inland, tossed upon its crest the treasures of the deep and threw them high upon the mountain side. There were whales of the ocean and ships of the sea hurled a hundred feet above its level and carried miles from its shore. And when the waters receded, carrying likewise the things of the earth, much of the consequences of the terrible disaster went with them. Nor was it satisfied to wash away its own rubbish, but it had carried off, forever, secrets not its own. The dead bodies of Ikamon’s vengeful thirst, too, had gone; they were no more, and the tale of their passing lived only in the memory of the few. The many had a multitude of their own to mourn.

It was an awful catastrophe, and its victims were legion. Still Takara had escaped; at the first warning of the earthquake her keeper had flown—there was no prisoner penned in Ikamon’s dungeon on the morrow, nor any report made of the attempt. After the first shock had passed, Hontone sprang from his hiding-place and seizing Takara, with his strong arms threw her upon his back and ran back into the bushes, where they all clung fast to the roots and lay prone for their lives. Takara knew her men, and happily resigned herself to their protection. Nor did she surrender amiss, for they not only saved her from the fury of the elements, but on the morrow carried her forth from the city unmolested and unnoticed.

Several days had passed before they again reached Kyoto, where Takara rewarded her faithful men, and sought retirement and that rest which soon restored her peace of mind, though the great sorrow continued to weigh heavily upon her heart.

While Takara had failed of her purpose she felt that she had done some good, since she had brought at death some peace to the one who—more than any other, not excepting her own husband—had in some measure come to understand her. She knew that she had done in the past what she believed to be her part, and now that a new purpose and a larger life had dawned she resolved to make herself worthy the trial. Holding her counsel, thenceforth she began the work with an earnestness and faithfulness that bespoke her true character.