The whole of the city of Fukui had turned forth into its streets. Jostling, pushing, shoving each other aside they elbowed their way to the front. Children were raised to the shoulders of parents, boys climbed upon roofs and poles and trees to see the spectacle.

The runners could hardly make a passageway through the throngs; but there was no disorder, nor the slightest trace of antagonism, as the norimono passed slowly down the streets. A respectful silence—a silence that had in it an element of torturing remorse more than curiosity—fell upon the throng.

The bamboo hangings had been drawn back from the norimon, for it was the desire of the Tojin that all of Fukui might see the fox-woman themselves, see and judge what manner of creature was this they had outcast and persecuted through all her short life.

Beside the Be-koku-jin, who had performed the miracle upon her eyes, she sat, her face white as snow, her wide, dazzled eyes gazing bewilderedly about her, as if she were but half conscious of what she saw, but half comprehended its meaning. They had confined most of her golden hair in some shimmering gray veil that floated about her like a cloud, but little moist curls clung about her brow and blew from beneath the veil in tender, kissing tendrils about her cheeks.

At her feet, with her fascinated, infatuated eyes pinned upon her face, crouched the maid Obun, who was pledged to her service by the Tojin-san.

The carriage was full of flowers that those friendly inclined had sent her, and the white hands of the fox-woman now aimlessly held a sheaf of poems and of love-letters penned her by ardent and impetuous youths, who found their warm hearts and imaginations suddenly fired by her appealing history and beauty.

She spoke not at all, neither to answer the occasional word of re-assurance from the Be-koku-jin, nor the sometimes sobbing utterances of Obun, who seemed to find in her triumphal progress through the city an occasion for tears.

It grew darker, the air chillier. It was the Season of Cold Dew, when even the last gasping, fading beauty of the autumn ceased to appeal.

As the cortÈge reached the city’s limits the crowds following gradually drew back, and as it passed out into the great road whereon they were to travel on the long journey, the last of the followers departed.

Besides the Be-koku-jin and the maid Obun there were three students, proudly acting as body-guard. Several dozen bearers and servants also accompanied the party. No halt was made until the last rays of the setting sun had disappeared entirely from the sky. Then the runners rested, and the Be-koku-jin alighting walked with his head bent, his hands behind him, as if plunged in some troubled thought. The students drew together in a whispering group and watched the famous surgeon, or threw furtive glances in the direction of the fox-woman, whom none of them, as yet, had found the courage to look upon unmoved.

She was sitting upright in her norimon. The veil had blown back partly from her head, and her hair shone like the moon above her. Obun entreated her to rest, and when she received no response, herself drew the hangings about them, and prepared the carriage for the night. As if she had been a child, she laid the fox-woman down among the quilts, and then herself crept under the covers, falling into a heavy sleep which lasted without a break the long night through as jerking, swinging, tossing on high upon the shoulders of the kurumaya they travelled on and on toward Tokio.