“ARTIST, you cannot enter the hall!” said the Duchess Aoi, pulling the sleeve of Junzo’s hakama.

“I am a guest,” he said briefly.

“But you transgress the most stringent rules of the court. His Majesty commands that no one, save in evening dress, shall appear. The Crown Prince is the guest of honor to-night.”

Junzo looked with doubtful eyes at his dress, then stared at the black-coated, white-breasted garb of those within the room.

“It is the Prince of Nijo’s palace; I am well aware that customs are changed here,” he said.

“You think the Princess Sado-ko still sets the fashions at defiance. Oh, artist, she is a most abject devotee.”

“I do not understand.”

“Artist, for your own sake, do not look upon this new Sado-ko. Wait till the night is past, and see her in the morning. She will be then the princess you have known.”

Both Junzo and the duchess started at a familiar sound of low, mocking laughter.

“What, dear Duchess Aoi, you deign to touch—to hold the sleeve of the honorable artist!” exclaimed the Lady Fuji-no.

Aoi’s brown eyes flashed angrily.

“It was an honorable accident,” she said haughtily. “I sought to save the artist from an error which would prove most humiliating to him. He is a stranger and does not know the rules as yet; but simply cast your eyes upon his dress, my lady, and you will see why I restrained him.”

Fuji smiled in a superior, veiled way.

“Artist,” she said, “Aoi is always thoughtful. She speaks the truth to-night. Pray heed her. If you step within the august hall, and even gaze at a great distance upon her Highness, you will lose your honorable head.”

Junzo walked away from them and went upon the veranda of the palace. But Lady Fuji followed him. She pointed toward the long glass windows of the ball-room.

“Artist, the Duchess Aoi would prevent your seeing Sado-ko in her new garb. She clings to the despairing fancy that when her Highness sees you again, her feelings and also her dress will undergo a change, and that the old Sado-ko will once again bewitch the artist, and perchance save Komatzu for the Duchess Aoi.”

“The duchess would prevent the marriage?” asked the artist, quietly.

“She is fairly mad to do so, artist, while I am equally determined to have it so. Now to which of us do you choose to lend yourself as a weapon?”

“Lady,” said Junzo, gravely, “there is a Western proverb: ‘Between two evils, choose the lesser.’ Tell me, which of you is the lesser evil?”

She shrugged her thin, bared shoulders.

“Frankly, I confess of the two evils, Aoi or Fuji, I do not know which is the worse.”

Junzo frowned gloomily through the windows into the brightly lighted room, now quickly filling. A trumpet blast, full and clear, resounded somewhere in the palace.

“Who enters now?” asked Junzo.

“The noble Prince Komatzu. Note the change upon his face, artist. Love prints her fingers on one’s countenance as clearly as can be.”

“And who comes now?”

“Put close your face against the barbarian pane. You see quite plainly?”

“Quite so.”

“Well, look your full, Sir Artist. It is the Princess Sado-ko who comes.”

He saw a glittering, spangled gown, low of neck and long of train. So long, indeed, it was that she who wore it tripped within it, and often lifted it in awkward style. Little high-heeled French slippers were upon the feet. The artist’s eyes turned from surveying her strange, gorgeous gown, to her face, and there for a long, horror-stricken moment they remained.

Her face was creamy tinted, the eyes long, the brows finely pencilled. Her tiny lips were tipped with rouge, while her rich, shining hair was crumpled in a strange and massed coiffure. Wisps of hair, not straight or silky, but crinkled and curled like the hair of the unintellectual races, strayed about the face and sometimes fell upon her eyes. Her head was held straightly and proudly, and she did not deign to look about her. Her long, bare neck was weighted down with pearls and other flashing gems. Long, sleek, black gloves shut out the beauty of her arms.

With eyes distended, Junzo gazed upon her, like one fascinated with some strange, gliding serpent. He did not hear the loud fanfare of trumpets signalling the entrance of the young Crown Prince, nor note the sudden reverent silence within, the ceasing of the stir of fans, the silencing of voice and movement. Through his bewildered mind he thought he heard the mocking laughter of the Lady Fuji-no. Then suddenly the band crashed out, and the imperial ball had opened.

Slowly the artist turned, and in the light streaming from the window he gazed at the soft, smiling face of Fuji.

“It was a dream,” he said, passing his hand across his brow.

“Awake, Sir Artist!” said the lady, “I trust you are already disillusioned.”

He walked awhile up and down the veranda, then returned to her.

“Lady, the Duchess Aoi spoke truth. It was an order of the Emperor. She could not disobey. She is a martyr to the times.”

“So! So!”

“So I believe,” said Junzo, with unfaltering faith.

“You find her changed, then?”

“In dress—in garb, that is all.”

“You did not see her face when she had deigned to turn it to the Prince Komatzu?”

“Beauty like hers will shine from very graciousness, my lady.”

“Artist, as you are aware, the Princess Sado-ko is unconventional. To-night when the first ceremonies are past, she will leave this ballroom. She may not dance, being a princess royal. So she will retire to her private gardens, and there, I doubt not, will linger for a little while. Come with me there, and if she chance to see you, perhaps she will condescend to speak to you to-night. The princess but attends the ceremonials on these occasions. Hence we will not have to wait for long.”

“A happy thought,” he said eagerly, as he followed Fuji-no with willing feet.

It was dark without. The gardens in their modern dress lacked the charm of those of the palace Komatzu, yet Junzo trusted it would be different when they should come to Sado-ko’s own private place. But here a disagreeable surprise awaited him. The place was in a state of great disorder, and the long reflection of the palace lights showed that the gardens were being changed in form and style.

“Follow me with care,” said Fuji-no, “for as you see, the gardens of her Highness are undergoing change. Those who work by day are not so careful to render the place safe for evening loitering.”

They came now to a new wing of the palace, which, too, appeared to be in process of alteration. The artist and the lady now paused to look about them. They heard a sound of fluttering movement close at hand. Junzo looked toward the balcony of the wing, from whence the odd movement proceeded.

“It is the royal nightingale,” said Fuji, carelessly. “The foolish bird is beating out its life.”

“The nightingale, my lady!”

“Yes. Have you never heard of the bird? It is the Princess Sado-ko’s, a gift to her from his Majesty.”

“I have heard of it,” said Junzo, huskily.

Lady Fuji-no suppressed a yawn behind her fan, then turned impatiently toward the balcony whence came the ceaseless sound of the bird’s movement.

“It is ill?” asked Junzo, shivering at those dumb signals of distress.

“Why, no—yes—you might so call it.”

“How sad it must be for the princess,” he murmured. “She loved the bird as though it were a human thing.”

The Lady Fuji curled her scornful lip.

“Talk not, artist, of love in the same breath with Sado-ko. If it is love to cage a helpless thing—”

“Caged, you say! I do not understand. I was informed the cage was open always, but that the bird clung to it in very gratitude for the royal kindness shown.”

“So it seemed till lately,” said Fuji. “The princess, however, has been given to the most inexplicable whims and caprices, one of which was to close tight the door of her own nightingale, making it a prisoner. Since then the foolish thing seems ill and languishing, and spends the night in vain attempts to escape.”

Junzo glanced uneasily toward the balcony. A moonbeam shone upon the gilded cage, depending from an eave by its long chain. The artist shuddered and paced restlessly about the path. Suddenly he came back to Fuji. His voice had a despairing note within it.

“Why did she do it, lady? Do you know the reason?” he asked.

“Do what, Sir Artist?”

“Cage up the bird, when it was hers already, captive to her will to come or go.”

“A mere caprice, artist. One day she made a sudden exclamation of delight as though she had but just perceived the nightingale for the first time. ‘Oh, see the joyous, pretty bird!’ she said, ‘and hear it sing!’ It was at this time upon a camphor tree close by, and singing, in its own free way, a serenade no doubt to her. ‘Why,’ said the Countess Matsuka, ‘’tis your own nightingale, your Highness.’ ‘Mine!’ said she, and seemed to pause bewilderedly. Then suddenly she clapped her hands. ‘Oh, yes, for sure it is mine. Where is its cage?’ ‘Why, here,’ said Countess Matsuka, who at this time alone attended her. The princess put her hand upon the cage, then, leaning from her balcony, chirped and whistled for the bird in such an odd and unfamiliar fashion that the countess was amazed, and still more so seemed the bird, for, pausing in its song, it cocked its head, fluttered its wings in sudden agitation, and then it spread them wide and flew away. The princess was so disappointed she wept in childish anger, though Countess Matsuka assured her it would return at dark, and take its night perch in the cage. ‘And will it stay?’ asked Sado-ko. ‘Why, princess, just as ever.’ Then she said she would not trust the bird, and on that very night, waited in person for its coming. With her own royal hands she trapped it in the cage and closed the door, though it was said her maiden, Natsu-no, implored her on her knees to spare it. Since then the maiden scarcely speaks, and like the bird is said to droop.”

The artist smothered a deep groan.

“Do you not like the story?” asked the lady.

“I cannot believe it,” he replied.

“Then look upon the cage yourself.”

“It hurts my sight. I will not,” said the man, and then he added, deeply, “It is an evil omen.”

“Heed it, artist!” said the Lady Fuji-no.