LIKE a large lighted lantern the palace Komatzu appeared in the night. Its transparent shojis revealed the lights within. The sound of soft tinkling music was constantly heard, an accompaniment to the ceaseless murmuring of voices. Ever and anon there was the sound of silvery laughter, and also the soft glide and patter of moving footsteps.

From the garden without one could see the strange flitting and moving of the figures within, for the court of Japan was enjoying the latest of Western novelties,—the dance. A square-bearded German had found a place as leader of the Japanese orchestra, and now a strange medley of dance music was being wrung from the instruments. The weird tinkling of the geishas’ instruments floating out from a garden booth close at hand, added discord to the odd orchestra of the palace. Yet the gentlemen and ladies of the court glided and tripped back and forth within, and thought that they were dancing quite in the style of the fashionable Westerners.

But while all was gay and brilliant in the new ball-room of the palace Komatzu, that wing of the palace reserved for the Princess Sado-ko was in blackness.

Sado-ko stood alone in her darkened chamber. She had dismissed her personal attendant, Natsu-no, though the latter crouched by the inner shoji, her eye peering into the adjoining room, watching and guarding her mistress.

It had not been difficult for Sado-ko to retire from the ball, when the dancing had begun, for her aversion to all such modern pastimes was well known. She alone of all that company had appeared in the simple though exquisite garb of her country. In a robe of ancient style, soft flowing, Sado-ko had never appeared to better advantage among the ladies of the court, all of whom affected the European style of gown, which ill became them.

Now in her chamber alone, Sado-ko watched by her shoji. When first she took her stand, all was black without. No moon had yet arisen to silver her own gardens and tell her that it was time. It was a long interval while she stood there, a statue of patience.

Gradually the darkness without became mellowed, and slowly and softly the tall bamboos and pines became silhouetted against the sky. One small hand hidden in the folds of her kimono was lifted. She pushed the shoji a small way apart,—only enough room for her straining eyes to see clearer without.

It was a white and wistful face she turned appealingly to the skies. Then that first soft light reflected in her eyes, and sighing with relief that her waiting now was over, she pushed the sliding doors still farther apart and then stepped outside. She paused upon her balcony, to look about her with some fear. There was no sound or stir. Very distant and far away sounded the music of the palace Komatzu.

With another glance of assurance at the moon floating up from the hills and trees, she lifted her gown. Down into the garden the princess stepped.

Almost at the same instant the maiden Natsu-no cautiously pushed back the shoji the princess had forgotten to close, and keeping some distance behind, followed her mistress with stealing step.

Meanwhile the Lady Fuji-no had slipped breathlessly from the arms of her partner, and condemning the atmosphere of the room had sought the wide verandas. Save for the silent and melancholy figure of the artist the verandas were deserted. He stood by the steps leading to the gardens, his arms folded across his breast, his head partly upraised as though he watched the skies. At the light touch of the Lady Fuji’s hand he started violently, forgetting his manners in so far as to draw his sleeve quickly away from her clasp. Her face was in shadow, for it was dark about them. Only the first glimmer of the moon had yet appeared. Junzo knew that she was smiling mockingly.

“You watch the stars, Sir Artist?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes,” he replied, without moving.

“So! They are very beautiful to-night.”

“Honorably so,” he replied simply.

“Yet how insignificant will they appear shortly when their august queen shall arise to dim their little lustre.”

“It is so,” he agreed gravely; “the august moon is queen of the night.”

“You watch for the queen, Sir Artist?”

He turned and looked at her curiously.

“And you, my lady?”

“I, too,” she rejoined.

He moved restlessly, and even in the dim light her watching eyes saw the uneasiness in his face.

“Let us watch for her together, artist.”

“I would not take you from your pleasures within, my lady.”

“Nay, the pleasures without overshadow those within.”

Again she saw the anxious glance upward toward the hills, and in the darkness the Lady Fuji smiled behind her opened fan. Junzo moved downward a few steps; he paused irresolutely.

“The garden is fragrant, Lady Fuji-no. I would enjoy it for a little while.”

“And I,” said she, and went a step downward.

“But the air is chill, my lady.”

“Balmy sweet, Sir Artist.”

“Lady, your august neck and arms are bare to the night,” he said.

She drew herself up slightly, and looked down a space at her low gown.

“The musicians and the geishas in the booths,” he said, “would dishonor you with their rude glances.”

Without replying she clapped, her hands. A page came at the signal.

“A wrap, if you please,” she ordered.

Junzo, now at the foot of the steps, stirred uneasily. The moon was in full view. The sight for which he had watched so anxiously filled him now only with agitation and despair. He thought of one waiting in the darkness of the private gardens beyond. Anxiety rendered him reckless. He bowed deeply to the Lady Fuji-no.

“Lady, I implore your august pardon, but the night has claims upon my desires. I wish to wander with it alone.”

She stooped down toward him. Her words, though whispered, were perfectly clear.

“You have a moon tryst, Sir Artist. Oh, beware!”

He turned about sharply and faced her.

“The Moon,” she said,—“you will become her plaything, artist. Be cautioned!”

Uncertain and irresolute he stood a moment, then turned upon his heel and swiftly strode down along the path, disappearing into the shadows of the trees.

Sado-ko wandered through the dewy gardens, beneath the drooping bamboos and the towering pines. Her little feet were swift and willing, as she hastened along with beating heart; but when she approached the end of the grove, though there was light beyond, she could not see even the shadow of that one who was to have kept the tryst with her. Her steps faltered; she went less swiftly.

“The moon is late,” she said. And then, “It was the light of the stars I saw.”

She walked so slowly now, that her little feet became entangled in her flowing gown, which she had absently let fall to the ground. The end of the grove was now reached. She could see the bright silver light without.

In the shadow of the last bamboo the princess stood and trembled. She did not need to peer into the distance, for all was clear outside the bamboo grove, as far off as the dividing line of the boxwood shrub and the small white gate. How long she stood in silent waiting she could not have told. Every passing summer breeze made her shiver. Once she raised her hand to her face, and something wet was wiped away.

“’Tis but the dew upon my face,” she said, but her own trembling voice broke the spell of anguished waiting. At the foot of the drooping bamboo she slipped to the earth, and crouched beneath the shadow, deaf now to all sounds, save her own inward heart cries and the tears which even she could not command to cease.

Yet after only a little while, one appeared at the bamboo gate, vaulted quickly over it, and came with running feet on toward the grove. A moment later, Sado-ko was in the arms of her lover.

“Oh, is it you—you!” she said through her sighs, “at last. Oh, at last you have come!”

“It is I, sweet Sado-ko.”

“So late!” she said, her breath caught by her sobs.

“Yes, late,” he said, “but it was not the fault of Junzo.”

“I kept the tryst,” she said, “and waited long for the moon to rise—and then—then you did not come, and I—and then I wept.”

She turned her face toward a moonbeam streaming through the grove that he might see the glistening tears.

“Sado-ko!” he cried in an agony, “oh, that I should cause you pain—I who would sell my very soul to save you from a tear.”

She had recovered somewhat of her natural calm, and for a moment her old bright self shone out.

“Nay, then, and what is a little tear? So slight a thing—see, I will wipe it away with the sleeve of my Junzo.”

“My lotos maiden! O Sado-ko, I have made enemies for you here in this very palace.”

“But I am stronger than the enemies, my Junzo. Indeed, I can afford to laugh at them.”

“One—the Lady Fuji, do not trust her, I beseech you, Sado-ko.”

“She would become wife to my father,” said Sado-ko, with quiet scorn, “yet her power is small and her hope vain.”

“She tried to prevent my coming here to-night. I fear she has suspected our tryst.”

“Lady Fuji-no is wise. Were I to marry soon the Prince Komatzu, her fortunes would change. She would possibly be out of service, and knows or thinks my father would befriend her.”

“There are still others. I fear the Duchess Aoi has no love for you or me.”

“She has love for only one besides herself,—the Prince Komatzu. She could much better herself in his graces, could she betray Sado-ko in some base act.”

“And baseness is not possible in Sado-ko,” he said.

Her little hands moved softly across his breast and upon his arms.

“You are truly here, my Junzo,” she said, “I do not dream.”

“Hark, something is stirring close by!”

“The wind,” she said. “Pray you, be not fearful of the wind.”

“It seemed a sound more human-like, as of one who crept along the grove.”

“Perchance a deer. The parks are fully stocked, and many wander hither to my own private gardens.”

He raised her face upward between his hands, within which he framed it.

“Listen, Sado-ko. Do you forget that we made this tryst to-night for a sad purpose?”

“I have forgotten,” she murmured; and added in so soft a voice, “I would forget, dear Junzo.”

“O Sado-ko, it is sweet to be together, but sadder still than sweet, for this must be the last time.”

She shook her head.

“No, no,” she said. “I will not let you go.”

“I must go,” he said sadly.

“I will command you to stay,” she said.

“I cannot longer stay. To-morrow—”

“I will implore you, then. Go not away from me, dear Junzo!”

“Have you forgotten that our tryst to-night was made to say our most sad sayonaras?”

She lifted his sleeve, and held it close against her face.

“No, no—leave me not!”

His voice was husky.

“Why, Sado-ko, to-morrow there will be an exodus from the palace. I could not stay, even if I would. Does not the Prince Komatzu journey back to Tokyo?”

“And you—you, too, will go with us,” she said.

“I?”

“I have myself asked this favor of my cousin.”

“You asked his Highness—”

“Yes. I bade him ask you to accompany us, so you might have the honorable commission to paint the pictures of the ladies of the court.”

“Paint the pictures—” repeated Junzo, stupidly.

“Yes, that will be the good excuse. Yet you must not do so. No, I would not have you work upon another’s beauty.”

“I cannot go,” he said, raising his voice. “It is impossible. I must return.”

She started back, her hands above her heart.

“I understand,” she said. “You will return to—”

He seized her hands with impulsive passion.

“My father bids me return. Can I refuse?” he cried.

“Oh, go not back!” she said, with tears in her pleading voice.

“I must return. I am but a son. Does not a son owe his first obedience in life to his father?”

“It is an ancient fancy,” she said, “and these moderns are more wise. They say a man must give his first thought to”—her voice dropped and broke—“his wife!”

She drew her hands from his, and covered her face with them. While yet her face was hidden in them she spoke:—

“You will make her—your wife?”

He could not answer. Her hands dropped from her face to clinch now at her sides.

“Answer, if you please!” she said.

“It is my father’s command,” he said in a low voice.

“Your father’s command is greater, then, than mine?” she demanded with fierceness.

“O Sado-ko, do you not perceive my despair?”

“But why should you despair?—you who are to marry Masago!”

“Sado-ko!” he cried with piercing reproach, “all the gods of heaven have forbidden me union with you. Tell me what other course is left.”

“Oh, leave me not!” said Sado-ko.

“Even if I would, I could not stay. Your august relatives would hastily learn the truth, and then—”

They heard a slight cry within the darkness of the grove. Then something white flashed by them into the open.

“Look!” cried Sado-ko, clutching his sleeve. “Oh, see!”

By the white bamboo gate two figures were outlined,—a man and woman. And in the clear moonlight the lovers recognized them as the Prince Komatzu and the Duchess Aoi. But the maid Onatsu-no, who had rushed by them so swiftly through the grove, came up toward these two by the gate, and prostrated herself before them.

“Quick!” cried Sado-ko. “They have not seen us yet. Natsu-no will speak to them. Meanwhile run with all the speed your love for me can lend, back through the grove. Hide among the shadows of the trees until the prince and I shall pass. Then return along the grove.”

He lingered, seeming averse to hiding; but she urged him, pushing him with her own hands.

“There—go—for my sake—my sake—do this thing for me!” she urged disjointedly.

He stooped and drew her hands close to his face, and for a moment looked deep into her eyes.

“Sayonara!” he whispered. “It is forever.”

“Sayonara!” she repeated, and sobbed over the word, “for a little time,” she said.