“To what are you listening, Tama?”

He had come upon her pressed closely against a latticed screen, whose opening looked out upon the river leading to the city below.

She started at his coming, and turned toward him, her back against the screen.

“I listen to the noise of thad river,” she said, and there was a conciliating, pleading note in her voice.

“You cannot hear the river from here. It is very shallow—barely stirs. There is something else you are listening to?”

“It is the uguisu,” she said quickly, as though she sought to disarm his fears. “It no longer sings, Tojin-san. I listen for hees voice again.”

“It never sang, my child, save at night. What is it that troubles you? You seem always to be listening, waiting—so fearfully—so anxiously. You are afraid of something. Tell me what it is?”

His deep, lowered voice was as caressing and tender as a mother’s. She faltered, turned from him. Her voice overran with vague sighs.

“I hear even those mos’ sof’ of honorable whisper. I hear some noise of—trobble! I am afraid—for you—kind Tojin-san.”

“For me! I am amply protected here in Fukui. I have a body-guard of samourai, besides Genji Negato, who will come back quickly enough when he has mastered his foolish fears.”

“The samourai gone,” she said, simply.

He was silent a moment, realizing there was nothing to be gained by attempting to deceive her. How, when or where she learned of these matters he never knew; but she knew perhaps more than he did of what was happening in Fukui.

“Even if it is so,” he finally said, “and the samourai too are gone, you have nothing to fear. Less than a week ago a courier brought word to me from Tokio. I am expecting friends in Fukui very shortly now.”

“Frien?” she repeated wistfully. “Like unto you, kind Tojin-san?”

“Yes—white men, and Japanese, too, for that matter. I have good friends in Tokio. They are coming here to see you, my child.”

“Alas!” she said, shrinking slightly from him, “Why do they come?”

“I asked them to come,” he said, very gravely. “I feel I am right, and that by a simple operation we will be able to make you see, as other people do, my child.”

The word appeared to trouble her.

“I see already, Tojin-san,” she said.

“What do you see, Tama?” he asked her huskily.

The words came floodingly, tumultuously to her lips. The misty eyes were blue as the sea and as beautiful.

“I see thee, Tojin-san. Thou art beautiful ad my sight, lig’ unto the gods.”

A look of suffering left its mark upon the face of the Tojin. He gazed at the kindling face of the girl before him, and the old strangling, yearning emotion swept over him.

“Give me more sight—if it is your honorable wish,” she said, “bud already I see—I know!” She pressed her fingers impetuously to her eyes.

“I see the light—the dark. It is a worl’ of shadows on my eyes, and shadows are lig’ unto our dream—mos’ beautiful of all!”

His voice was firm, almost solemn.

“You have been wandering around in a black wilderness all of your life; you do not know what it is, my poor little one, to see the sun! But, with God’s good help, I am going to lead you out of the wilderness—into the light!”

“You are the light!” she said, throbbingly, and slipped to her knees, putting her face against his hand.

Something bounded against the wall and came whistling through the shoji. It grazed the cheek of the kneeling fox-woman, and imbedded itself against the woodwork of the opposite wall. She put up her hand with a quick, startled movement, but though she turned a questioning, fearful face upon the great Tojin, she could not see how deathly white he had become. He bent suddenly above her.

“Make me a promise. Repeat after me, that no matter what might befall us, you will remain with me—you will not desert me!”

With her face pressed against his hand, her eyes fervently closed, she repeated the words as a veritable prayer.