Tetsutaisho, not at all pleased with the result of the conference nor convinced of the wisdom of Daikomitsu’s diplomacy, had been persuaded quietly to acquiesce, at least for the time being; and going home settled down, probably for the first time in his life, to a calm and deliberate consideration for the future. Presently he became uneasy and, with unsettled thoughts, said to himself:

“Pshaw! Why this worry? Let others stew and fuss: I am a soldier, and have a better business at hand. I shall seek Kinsan and let her sing to me—it is soothing, and more to the purpose of a gentleman.”

He did so, and she impressed him more than ever with the melody of her song. Probably it was because of the clear, crisp air of a winter’s night’s inspiration; more likely it had been a consciousness of her master’s growing gentleness, or the hope within that some day her heart would soften and her mind cease its vigil. Whatever it may have been, she poured out that lofty sentiment that ever eases a lonely, earnest soul. She sang sweetly, and the rising notes wafted out upon the still air, reaching and piercing another who had grown to hate with the vengeance and covet with the fury of a maddened fiend.

Nehachibana listened. She could bear it no longer, and with bated breath and snapping fingers stole upon them. There in the bright light she saw them, and stopped as if drunk with envy. He sat with his face upturned; Kinsan stood at one side, looking far, far away, and her voice trembled with a pathos that stayed even her destroyer. Nehachibana crouched, then sprang at her, shrieking:

“Geisha! Adulteress! Murderer!”

The sudden fright overcame Kinsan; she ceased singing, then choked for breath and stood trembling, with her head drooping; she coloured, then turned ashen.

Tetsutaisho arose and advancing toward his wife said in a calm voice:

“What do you mean, Nehachibana?”

“That joro is the murderer of your child, Sodachinojoi! I saw it with my own eyes.”

Turning upon Kinsan, but without advancing, Tetsutaisho said harshly:

“Is this true?”

Kinsan made no answer, nor did she raise her eyes, but stood nervously toying with the folds of her obie. Perhaps she did not hear him, heeded only his neglect. Why did he not turn to her as he had so often done, and soothe her with his kind words and shield her from her accuser? The question burned at her already aching heart, and no one answered.

Tetsutaisho, turning around politely, said to Nehachibana:

“Please retire to your own apartment and there wait my coming. I shall want further to converse with you this evening. Obey me and go now, will you?”

Nehachibana made no protest, but departed as bidden, glancing sidewise at Kinsan; her eyes sparkled, her lip curled, and she smiled the secret of her heart. Kinsan neither spoke to her nor pleaded with her, but looked at Nehachibana with softened eyes, and a great pity welled up from the bottom of her heart.

After Nehachibana had left the room Tetsutaisho approached Kinsan and said with low emphasis:

“And this is how you have served your master?”

Again she did not answer; it was because she could not. She only sobbed with a broken heart. Tetsutaisho clapped his hands and a servant came quickly toward him.

“The guards!” said he; then calmly stood surveying his victim.

He had but a short time to wait until they came, though it served Tetsutaisho to cover well in his heated memory the last few years. Likely Kinsan did the same, but hers was a different mood. He did not ask himself the reason, and consulted only impulse; he may have let hatred enter his heart, for he now began to suspect as well as doubt his once upon a time passing friend, Daikomitsu.

From the time Daikomitsu first came into official position at Tokyo he had been a constant if not wholly welcome guest at Tetsutaisho’s house. From the beginning he had divined Nehachibana’s master passion, and always tried as best he could to relieve her hard distress. He had also observed Kinsan and cultivated her friendship, not that he loved her, but because he admired her wonderful gift. He, a patron of art and lover of the beautiful, quickly appreciated Kinsan’s powers, and instinctively knew and respected her virtue. That Nehachibana was entirely wrong in her attitude toward Kinsan he had been fully convinced, and long hoped sometime to advise the one of her false impressions and relieve the other of her natural predicament. Thus he had become a familiar visitor, and his attentions were bestowed no less upon the one than the other. Tetsutaisho had never frowned upon any of these courtesies, in fact rather encouraged them, feeling honoured by the prime minister’s warm attentions. He had, consequently, upon more than one occasion, freely given Daikomitsu the loan of Kinsan to sing at entertainments of high degree; and however vulgar the southern prince may have been in other ways, and whatever may have been Tetsutaisho’s conclusions at this late day, the former’s intercourse with the latter’s family certainly had been of the purest and most honourable kind.

By the time the guards had arrived Tetsutaisho had worked himself up to the proper degree of feeling, however, and without further ado pointed to Kinsan, saying in a commanding tone of voice:

“To the dungeon!”

As she was being hurried from the house Tetsutaisho turned his back upon the one he had so long coveted, and hastened to his wife, nervously listening to her clear and unequivocal denunciation. She told him without a blush how she had come upon Kinsan while in the act of flinging the sleeping child into the dark crevice, and how she had suffered through all these years with fear, and how she had hesitated to disclose to him her knowledge of the awful deed because she believed his love for Kinsan would bring a punishment upon herself.

“You will forgive me, my most honourable husband, will you not?” said she, calmly and invitingly.

He did not deign to answer her, though his strong frame trembled as an ungoverned rage leaped to the fore and grew within him. For Nehachibana he had no compassion; nothing but regret. He mourned his lost son, and waxed hot with anger.

“She shall die, and that by the saw!” said he, in a half-crazed undertone.

“No, no; give me the chance; I’ll devise a torment!” said Nehachibana, quickly.

“You? And why you?”

Nehachibana stared blankly. She did not comprehend. She had no answer. He looked at her and for the first time realised the truth. He knew in a moment the awful consequences of his life. He would then have recalled Kinsan, but the loss of his only son was more than he could bear; without a thought of further inquiry he believed her guilty; if not of murder then of unfaithfulness, and according to his code either gave sufficient cause; her punishment must follow as the only lawful consequence.

Thus he parted with Nehachibana without further denial or assurance, and she felt happy and satisfied with her revenge; and when Daikomitsu called the next evening, she made haste to express her delight, offering no pretence of shielding Kinsan’s wicked fate. The prime minister was shocked at her lack of feeling, and listened to her with astonishment; she did not stop with revelling at Kinsan’s sorrow, but lauded the infant of whom she knew her husband to be the father, and flattered herself at the thought of its highborn mother.

Daikomitsu sat dumfoundered and full of pity until his informant volunteered to disclose the name of Sodachinojoi’s mother, then he started and with frightened voice said:

“Nehachibana! You must cease gabbling.”

“A-h-!” said she, with a drawled accent.

“Promise me that you will never again mention Takara’s name. Will you do this much for me?” said he nervously.

She snapped her fingers fiercely, and without taking her eyes away said, slowly:

“I shall not speak her name again.”

Daikomitsu knew that her promise would never be broken, and went his way somewhat relieved, yet overwhelmed; for he also knew that what she related as a fact must likewise be true—such an one never mistaking a truth or breaking a promise, when made or known. Nor was he alone shocked at the revelation of Takara’s dreadful secret; he felt equally pained at Kinsan’s misfortune. The former he would take time to consider, but the latter he should right at once; else suffer a great wrong to befall not only her, but Nehachibana and Tetsutaisho as well.

On the following day the prime minister sent post-haste for Tetsutaisho, asking him to come at once to his house, then approaching him kindly, advised that he forego so severe a punishment, at least until time should make its justice certain.

“And you would also interfere with our private affairs? What next may not a gentleman expect? Pray tell me,” said Tetsutaisho rather sarcastically.

“No. I thought possibly the motherhood of this child might sometime be questioned by a higher power, and in that case my friend Tetsutaisho might have serious need for this Kinsan whom he has so lightly condemned,” said Daikomitsu, in answer.

“Then you know as much?”

“I would rather that you should be the judge.”

“Very well; I shall place her in the stocks. It will answer my purpose quite as well and, now that I come to think, it may be a more befitting punishment—and, also, a convenience to you. You can better visit her in my back yard, Daikomitsu.”

“I may do so—to see that Tetsutaisho is as faithful in granting her that liberty as he has been punctual in making me the promise.”

“Tetsutaisho is a man of honour.”

“I believe it, else I should have sought another means.”

Tetsutaisho was not so much mystified at Daikomitsu’s request as overawed with the apparent threat, for he knew the prime minister to be a favourite with the shogun and did not wish just yet to put to a test their respective strength before that tribunal; and could easily infer from his words a determination to go even so far. Nor did he court the idea of exposure, particularly at Kyoto; by this time knowing Takara to be quite as anxious as he, and feeling that he must shield her at any cost. Thus he had hastily concluded to delay Kinsan’s destruction, and gratify the law’s permit by meting out a meaner penalty.

On the next day, therefore, the frail Kinsan with downcast eyes and haggard appearance was turned loose in the back grounds of her master’s dwelling, there to carry, day and night, through rain or sunshine, the heavy stocks, clasped about her neck and weighted upon her tender shoulders.

And there, taunted and alone, she bore her punishment without a murmur, and sinking exhausted at night always offered prayers for the one she loved, and for those whom she believed she had wronged and who had in charity granted her the privilege of even such an existence. Having already suffered in her own heart far more than death, now that the day’s penalty had been imposed, she felt better able to bear her part; and was glad for life, though bitter it be, that she might atone for the wickedness with which she unknowingly held herself charged.

Nor did she suffer only from the weight of the stocks, but often felt that she must starve for want of food, and her mouth parched and tongue swelled, for by reason of the wide board she could neither feed herself nor raise water to her lips, though a crystal stream sparkled and flowed at her feet, where she would often stand and look until she fell faint, and almost envied the little birds that came and drank, then perched upon the plank at her neck and sang songs to her and hopped about with glee. The sun shone hot or the storm beat hard upon her; the flies and gnats pestered her, and often when she could no longer resist sleep the rats and vermin climbed upon the wide board, and she would take fright and arouse to prevent their gnawing at her face. And once, while exhausted with hunger and faint with thirst, Nehachibana came up to her and mocked her and gave her red peppers to eat and threw water at her feet, then ran away.

All this Kinsan suffered until about to despair, when a little friend came to her,—it was the daughter of Mrs. Lindley the missionary,—after which she had regular food and drink, and felt thankful, though it was scant and strangely prepared. The jeers of the children did not provoke her and she bore all the cruelties without a protest; and at night the doleful sound of the massagist’s whistle kept her company—stealing along the streets, plying his blind, nocturnal trade. And then she would sleep and dream of the cave up yonder on the hillside not far away and of the days when she gave her heart in truth and builded her faith upon hope alone.