RINCE Keiki was pacing restlessly and impatiently up and down the chamber wherein he had lain ill. It was the month of June. From the small opening of the doors Keiki could see that the uneven hillocks which appeared on all sides were blazing with the gorgeous flowers colored by the yellow sun above them.

At the door of the chamber, his arms folded across his breast, his eyes quietly following the glance of the plainly irritated Prince, the samurai Genji stood, still in the attitude of a guard.

“Why,” inquired the Prince, frowning savagely, “may not the shoji be pushed completely to one side? I suppose this honorable house is fashioned like any other Japanese abode. Since I am not permitted to venture out of this honorable interior, at least I might be allowed to look upon more of the outside world than is to be seen through such a narrow space.”

He indicated the screens, only partially opened, which half discovered, half concealed, a sloping balcony.

Very deep and respectful was Genji’s bow.

“It is my distasteful duty to be forced to disagree with your excellency,” he said. “Your highness’s august health is such that your chamber must be sheltered even from the summer breezes.”

The Prince stopped sharply in his walk.

“Spare yourself such imaginative effort, Sir Genji,” he said. “That, you are well aware, is not the true reason why I am deprived of sufficient air, and am forced to remain in a room with my shutters closed so that not even the breath of summer may enter.”

At Genji’s second obeisance, the Prince, with an impatient motion, commanded him to cease, and to give his undivided attention to his remarks.

“Now will you do me the kindness to inform me what all these mysterious precautions mean? Wait a moment. Do not speak, for I perceive you are about to utter some further prevarication. Think before you speak, and try to see that it is useless to attempt to deceive me.”

“Well, my lord,” said Genji, “knowing as you do the peril in which your life will be placed if—”

“Oh yes, I perceive all you would say. I have recently been rescued from a blood-thirsty executioner; I must remain in hiding for some time, and so on; but what I wish to understand is why is it necessary for me to continue imprisoned?”

“Well, my lord, you would not wish a Shogun spy to catch a glimpse of you by chance?”

“I fear no spy,” said the Prince, with contempt. “If I were permitted my own way” he added, savagely, “I would not linger here, but would start out alone, and cut my way through such worms and vipers.”

“If you wish to do so,” said Genji, with some asperity, “I shall take no measures to prevent you; but I had thought your highness desired to remain here at all events until after your wedding.”

The young Prince sighed, and, seating himself on a small lacquer stool by the parted doors, he rested his chin upon his hands and stared out gloomily at the landscape.

After a moment, in a gentler voice he rejoined:

“Is it not yet time for her to come?” without turning his head.

“No, my lord.”

The Prince sighed again.

“I once prided myself upon my habit of early rising,” he said. “Now it has become a nuisance.”

Silence again, and then:

“Sir Genji, what has become of the Lady Evening Glory? She has not returned to Catzu?”

“No. She still condescends to accept my humble hospitality.”

“I have not seen her lately—a fortunate circumstance, by-the-way. The lady oppresses me.”

“She has been much engaged with the marriage garments of the Lady Wistaria.”

The Prince’s face softened at the mere mention of Wistaria’s name, and the look of impatience passed from his face. For a time he seemed plunged in a pleasing reverie. Again he questioned the samurai.

“Do you not think it a strange fancy for my lady to wish to be married here at your house instead of at Catzu?”

“Not at all. Your health is such that an ordinary wedding would be harmful; besides, think of the danger!”

“Well, it is my opinion that the state of my health is exaggerated. All I need to drive away my paleness quickly is the open air and the golden sunlight. As for the danger, I was not thinking of a wedding in Catzu, but one in my own province. I should be perfectly safe there with my own samurai to protect me, and a half-dozen other southern clans ready to come to my assistance.”

“I cannot conceive of your excellency’s impatience and dissatisfaction,” said Genji, “when I recall that you are about to be wedded soon, and to one for whom any prince would be only too glad to sacrifice everything.”

“You are right, Sir Genji. Yet is it not strange that, despite all this, I feel melancholy. I cannot understand it.” He paused, and turned on his seat to look back at the samurai. “Sometimes it appears to me that I have caught this sadness of spirit from my lady herself.”

“What, the Lady Wistaria? Impossible.”

“It is true,” said the Prince, thoughtfully.

“Why, she sings half the day like a bird—”

“Whose heart is broken,” quickly ended the Prince.

“She plays like a child—”

“Who is commanded to rejoice.”

“Her soul is as gay—”

“As a priestess whom the black temple shuts from life.”

“Pugh! She laughs—”

“With tears in her throat”; again the Prince finished the sentence. “Yes, it is so, I tell you. I am not deceived.”

“Your affection, my lord, causes you to imagine things that do not exist.”

“No, my affection but increases the acuteness of my perceptions.”

“If you will permit an unworthy vassal to venture an opinion, I would say, my lord, that for one about to wed in a day, your excellency wears a most funereal countenance.”

The Prince arose abruptly, as though he would shake off some oppression that beset him.

“Let me tell you, my good fellow,” he said, approaching Genji more closely, “when one we love appears to us to be cloaking behind a mask of painful gayety some secret sadness, the world is apt to wear a haggard aspect which one’s own self must reflect. If you repeat that my imagination but conjures up such fancies, then I will say that I must be insane.”

Silently, for the space of a few moments, the two men remained looking into each other’s faces. They started simultaneously at the soft patting of approaching footsteps.

“One request, Sir Genji,” whispered Keiki, as the footsteps drew nearer. “Will you for once relax your guard and permit me to be alone with—”

“But—”

“You can guard my person just as well outside, and should any one attempt to attack me you will certainly be made aware of the fact by whatever noise a pair of lungs can force.”

“Her aunt would consider it unseemly,” said the samurai, with some hesitation.

“I do not make it a request,” said the Prince, patiently, “but merely beg the favor.”

A light tap on the door, and the next moment Wistaria had entered the room. Her arms were full of flowers, flaming red and yellow blossoms that grew wild on the hills, while about her garments clung the odors of the fields and the mountain. She was damp and sweet with the morning dew shining on her hair, clinging even to her face and arms.

“What!” cried Gen. “You have been out already?”

She nodded, smiling wistfully over the flowers, which the Prince silently took from her arms and set upon the floor. His eyes never relaxed their gaze from her sweet face.

“My lord’s chamber,” she said, as she shook the dew and a few clinging leaves from her kimono, “is so barren of the beauty of summer that I thought the fields might spare something of their wealth.”

Keiki turned an imploring glance to Genji. The samurai turned hastily to the door.

“Well, then,” said Genji, “I shall go and bring you some honorable water for the flowers.”

The moment Genji had left the room the Prince seized Wistaria’s hands impulsively.

“Wistaria,” he cried, “now I have some questions to put to you.”

One startled, upward glance at him she gave. He took her face in his hands, compelling her eyes to meet his own.

“Why are your eyes so dark?” he asked.

She attempted to smile.

“The gods—” she began.

“No,” he interrupted, knowing in advance what she was about to say, “but here, and here.” He passed his fingers gently over the dark shadows that framed the pitiful eyes.

“Have they not always been so?” she asked, with a pathetic attempt at lightness which did not deceive him.

“No,” he replied, almost vehemently. “When first the gods blessed me with the joy of beholding you, they were not so.”

“Well,” she murmured, tremulously, “I am becoming honorably older. That is all.”

“No, that is not the reason,” he cried, passionately. “A few months could not have wrought the difference, nor the other changes I perceive in your face. The rose is gone. You are pale and too frail. Your lips—ah, I cannot bear it!”

With an exclamation of pain he broke off.

An expression of fright appeared in her face. Her hands clutched about his.

“My lord,” she cried, “you—you do not think that I—that I have ceased to be beautiful?”

“No, no. You are more beautiful than ever. You could not be otherwise than beautiful, my beloved, but you appear to me so frail that I am beginning to believe you are some spirit. Tell me, do tell me, what has wrought this change in you?”

For a moment she remained silent. Then she laughed. Her hands, with a little, childish motion of delight, she clapped.

“Wait,” she cried, breaking from his arm. “I will show you the cause.”

She ran across the room and brought a little mirror, which she polished with her sleeve as she returned to him. Then leaning against him, she held it before his face, while she put her own cheek against his.

“Look within, Keiki-sama. Said the gods: ‘Such a pale and wan Keiki will need a companion, so we will make the Lady Wistaria’s face to match his!’ So they did so.”

With a gesture of despair, he pushed the glass away.

“No,” he said, hoarsely, “for mine is pale and thin from much illness, while yours—”

“From love,” she said, in a breath.