AT the evening meal, which was served upon an open balcony because of the intense heat, Ohano kept her eyes assiduously upon her food. The mood of her mother-in-law had changed. There was nothing gentle in her expression now as she savagely stabbed at the live fish upon her plate, speared it in just the proper place, and then lifted a morsel of the still palpitating flesh upon her chop-stick.

“This is excellent fish, Ohano,” she said, pleasantly. “Come, taste a morsel while the live flavor is still upon it. Possibly it will remind you of the brevity of life. Now we are here, possessed of tempestuous passions and emotions—for even a fish, so it is said, has the soul of a murderer. Then just think, one sharp pick of the knife—or sword—and, like the honorable fish, we are—gone! The devils of hatred, envy, desire, and malice can no longer torture us!”

Ohano said nothing. She gave one swift glance at the fish, then turned away, nauseated.

Lady Saito grunted and fell to eating her meal as if hungry. Presently, filled and refreshed, she began again:

“Of course it must be very plain to you, Ohano, that it will be impossible for the Saitos to regain possession of my son’s child unless we take into our household the mother also.”

Ohano sat up with a start, and as her mother-in-law continued, the expression of intense fear on her face deepened.

“I know of no law in Japan—and I have been advised in the matter—by which we can forcibly take a child from its mother, in the absence of its father.”

Ohano did not move. She moistened her dry lips, and her eyes moved furtively. She watched her mother-in-law’s face with a mute expression, half of terror and half of defiance. In the going of the hated child of the Spider, Ohano had not found the relief she had expected. Nay, there loomed before her now the possibility of a greater menace to her peace of mind. She felt the weight of the older woman’s tyrannical will as never before. She stammered:

“Pardon my dullness. I do not understand your words.”

“It is better,” counseled the other, sternly, “that you not alone understand my words, but that you study them well! Think awhile, Ohano!”

For a time there was silence between them; then Lady Saito continued:

“It is my wish, it is the wish of the ancestors, that the honorable descendant of the Saitos be housed here in the home of his fathers. If it is impossible to have my son’s son without the legal custodian of his body, then we must face the matter gracefully, and solicit her, humbly if need be, to come also!”

“That—would be—impossible!” gasped Ohano.

“Nay,” protested her mother, coldly, “it is done every day in Japan. The honorable Moonlight will not be the first divorced wife who has been again received in the home of the parents-in-law. You forget that until recently there was even a custom among many families where the wife failed in her duty to supply children to her husband, for an honorable concubine to be chosen in her place duly to serve her lord.”

Ohano tried to smile, but it was a ghastly effort.

“That is an ancient custom. It is no longer tolerated in Japan. It would be a matter of notorious gossip. We could not, with honor, she and I, live under the same roof together.”

“That is true,” admitted Lady Saito, calmly, and now she met Ohano’s eyes firmly.

“I refuse to be ‘returned,’” cried Ohano, shrilly. “My honorable relatives will not permit you to divorce me for such a cause. It is not possible to treat me in the manner accorded a geisha!”

“That, too, is true,” quietly assented her mother-in-law. “We, the Saitos, desire to remain on terms of friendship with your most honorable family. Now, therefore, we look to you, Ohano, for a solution of the problem. You are right. These are not the times when honorable men maintain concubines under the same roofs as their wives. We wish to impress the Western people with our morality! Ha!” she broke off, to laugh bitterly. “We follow the code set by them. Yet what are we to do when confronted by such a condition as exists in our household now? When a wife is childless, it is surely an excellent rule which allows a humble one to bear the offspring and put them into the arms of the exalted but childless wife. But we can do this no longer. Our war with Russia—our victories, which are proclaimed daily—will make these matters all the more a sensitive point with the nation. We must live according to the code set down by the Westerners, as I have said. They have taught us to fight! Our people desire to imitate their virtues!” She laughed in hoarse derision. Then she continued:

“We bow, then, to this. It cannot be helped. Now, as we cannot take the honorable Lord Taro by force from his mother, and we cannot permit two wives of my son to remain under the one roof, we must seek some other solution of our problem. Can you not offer some suggestion?”

“It is possible,” said Ohano, “that the Lord Saito Gonji may not give up his life for Tenshi-sama. Many soldiers return. In that event—” She stammered piteously. “I am young and very healthy. I will bear him children yet!”

“We cannot count upon so unlikely a contingency, my girl. We Japanese women, when we sacrifice our men to the Emperor’s service, pray that they may not return! It is a pious, patriotic prayer, Ohano. Be worthy of it, my girl. Duty and honor to the ancestors are the watchwords of our language.”

“Duty—and honor!” repeated Ohano, slowly.

A long silence fell between them, during which Ohano’s eyes never left the face of her mother-in-law. A sick terror assailed her, so that she could not move, but sat there rigidly, nursing her lame arm. What dreadful project, she asked herself, did the stern mother-in-law now meditate, that she should look at the unhappy Ohano with such a peculiar, commanding expression?

Finally the older woman said, with quiet force:

“Ohano, you come of illustrious stock. There have been women of your race who have found a solution to problems more tragic than yours. I pray you reflect upon the text of the samourai, which, as you know, was as binding upon the women as the men: ‘To die with honor, when one can no longer live with honor!’”

She stood up, and leaned heavily upon her staff.

“Let me recommend,” she added, softly, “that you study and emulate—and emulate”—she repeated the last word with deadly emphasis—“the lives of your ancestors!”

Ohano’s mouth had dropped wide open. She came to her feet mechanically, and mechanically she backed from her mother-in-law until she came to the farthest screen; and against this she leaned like one about to faint.

Her mother-in-law’s voice seemed to reach her as from very far away, and also it seemed to Ohano that a smile, jeering and cruel, was on the aged woman’s face, marking it like a livid scar. It was as if she cried to Ohano:

“I challenge you, as the daughter of a samourai, to do your duty!”

Ohano gasped out something, she knew not what.

“Ho!” cried Lady Saito, fiercely, “it does not matter to the true daughter of a samourai whether the days of suppuku are passed or not. We take refuge too much behind the new rules of life. The spark of heroes is imperishable. If you are a worthy daughter of your ancestors it is still within your insignificant body!”

Said Ohano, with chattering teeth:

“I—I—will—go—to the go-down (treasure-house), honorable mother-in-law, and study the swords of my ancestors. I pray you ask the gods to give me strength!”

When she was gone, the Lady Saito Ichigo summoned a maid. To her she said curtly:

“You will bid the Samourai Asado”—it was the first time in years she had referred to this old retainer as “samourai”—“unlock the doors of the honorable go-down. The Lady Saito Gonji would examine the treasure-chests of her ancestors!”