O Prince of Japan had ever been wedded in so strange and lowly a fashion. There was not a sign or sound of the gratulation, rejoicing, or pomp which usually attend such ceremonies. When the Prince Keiki and the Lady Wistaria, attended by the samurai Genji, entered the homely wedding apartment, they found a small group, pale and solemn, awaiting them. It consisted of the Lord and Lady Catzu and one who was a stranger to Keiki, but whom he knew to be the father of the Lady Wistaria.

The waiting party bowed very low and solemnly to those who had just entered. Their greeting was returned with an equal gravity and grace. There was a pause—a hush. Keiki looked about him inquiringly, and then he shivered. The true solemnity of the occasion dawned upon him so that even the near joy of possessing Wistaria at last passed from his mind. He was about to join through marriage two families who hitherto had had for each other nothing save hatred and detestation.

Timid and pale as his glance was, he scarcely dared to look at the Lady Wistaria, though he knew she was so weak and faint that the samurai Genji had to support her.

Somewhat sharply, the voice of the Lady Evening Glory broke the silence.

“Why do we wait?”

The Lord Catzu stirred uneasily, glancing from the bridal couple to his wife, and then to the inscrutable face of Shimadzu.

“If I may be permitted to remark,” he said, apologetically, “the Lady Wistaria is certainly garbed unbefitting her rank and race.”

“Chut!” said his wife, angrily, “you would delay matters for such a trifle? Every moment counts now against our son. Will you let such an insignificant matter as the dress of your unworthy niece hasten the possible death of our beloved?”

“When it is her wedding-dress, yes,” said Catzu, stubbornly. “May I be stricken blind before I witness such a disgrace brought upon my honorable niece’s dignity. She must be married as befits her rank, I repeat.”

A sour smile played over the features of the Lady Evening Glory.

“That is true. Well, her rank is that of the Eta,” she said, tartly.

Having found the courage to disagree with his lady, Catzu now set her at complete defiance. He marched towards the door.

“Very well, then. I refuse to witness such an outrageous ceremony. The lady may have Eta kindred, but do not forget that she has also the blood of royalty in her veins.”

His consort could hardly suppress her fury.

“I appeal to you, honored brother,” she said. “How shall it be?”

“And I,” exploded Catzu, who was in an evil and contrary temper, “appeal to you, my Lord of Mori,” and he bowed profoundly to the Prince.

Shimadzu made no response. His glance met that of the troubled Prince. Keiki flushed under his penetrating eyes. Then he spoke with graceful dignity, bowing meanwhile to the trembling Wistaria.

“Let her be garbed,” he said, “as befits the daughter of her father and the bride of a Prince of Mori.”

There was silence for a space. Then Shimadzu made an imperative gesture to Genji, who gently led the girl from the chamber, followed by the angrily resigned Lady Evening Glory.

The three men, now alone, waited in strained silence for Wistaria’s return. Straight and stiff, with heads somewhat bent to the floor, they remained standing in almost identical attitudes. Gradually, however, Catzu broke the tension by an attempt to relieve his excessive nervousness. Resting first on one foot and then on the other, he shifted about. His eyes lingered in painful sympathy upon the Prince, and then irresolutely turned to the samurai. Perspiration stood out on the lord’s brow. He was suffering physically from the strain.

After a long interval of this intolerable silence, the doors of the chamber were again pushed aside. The samurai Genji entered. Bowing deeply, he announced:

“The Lady Wistaria and her august aunt enter the honorable chamber!”

The two ladies, close behind Genji, now followed him into the room. Immediately all prostrated themselves. When they had regained their feet, it was found that Wistaria was still kneeling. Then Genji perceived that she had not risen because she was unable to do so. Without a word, he lifted her to her feet. One moment she leaned against his strong arm, then seemed to gather strength. Stepping apart from him, she stood alone there in the middle of the floor.

Despite her waxen whiteness, she was more than beautiful—ethereal. Her lacquer hair was no more dark than her strange, long eyes, both set off by an exquisite robe of ancient style, as befitted a lady of noble blood.

When her hand touched that of the Prince he felt cold as ice. Involuntarily his own palm enclosed hers warmly. He did not let it go, but drawing her closer to him, unmindful of the assembled company, he tried to fathom the tragedy that seemed to lurk behind her impenetrable eyes. But, her head drooping above their hands, he beheld only the sheen of her glossy hair. Then she passed from his side to her uncle and her father.

Almost mechanically, his eyes never once relaxing their gaze from the face of his bride, the Prince went through the ceremony. After the service he tried to break the uncomfortable restraint. He proposed the health of the two noble though previously misguided families, whose union had now been so happily consummated. But his own cup was the only one held high. Gradually his hand fell from its elevation. He set the untasted sake down among the marriage-cups and sprang to his feet.

“Let us diffuse some merriment among us,” he cried, “for the sake of the gods and for our future peace and happiness. Such undue solemnity bodes ill for our honorable future.”

The samurai Shimadzu stepped forward, facing him fairly.

“My lord and prince,” he said, “I have this moment given the signal for a courier to hasten immediately to Choshui to acquaint my bitterest enemy with the tidings of the marriage of his heir to my insignificant daughter.”

The Prince smiled, despite his uneasiness.

“Surely, my lord,” he said, “you make a goodly new and honorable custom. What! an announcement, perchance an invitation for one’s enemy! That is well, for we have overturned all false maxims relating to vengeance against an enemy. We have buried our wrongs in a union of love, and embrace our enemies as friends.”

“With august humility,” said the samurai, coldly, “I would suggest that your highness’s assurance of our embrace is premature.”

“Premature! What, and this my marriage day!”

“Your marriage day may be a source of woe to your proud house.”

“Well, that is so,” agreed the Prince, thoughtfully. “Nevertheless,” he added, cheerfully, “my honorable father becomes more lenient with the years. Moreover, he has but to behold his new daughter to forget all else save the fortune the gods have bestowed upon us.”

“Be assured your father shall never behold her,” said the samurai, with incisive fierceness.

“What is that?”

“You have heard.”

“But I do assure you that my marriage, though it may provoke the momentary anger of my father, will never debar my lady wife from her position in our household. You forget that my honored parent is very old, and I shall soon have the honor of becoming Prince of Mori in my own right. I shall then have no lord to deprive me of my rights, even if I had disregarded the law.”

“You may as well be made aware of the fact at once,” said Shimadzu, “that no blood of mine shall ever mingle with that of the Mori!”

“I do not understand your honorable speech. Has not our august bloods just now become united?”

“Only by the law, my lord.”

“Well—?”

“My daughter, your highness, shall never accompany her Mori husband to his home.”

“Very well, then. I will remain here with her. I am quite satisfied to renounce all my worldly ambitions and possessions for her sake, if such is the command of her august father,” and the Prince bowed to his father-in-law in the most filial and affable manner.

“If you remain here you will not be permitted to live.”

A low cry, half moan, came from the new Princess of Mori, who lay against her uncle’s breast. Keiki turned to her at that cry. He was seized with a foreboding of events to come. Again he turned to the samurai.

“Will it please you, honored father-in-law, to speak more plainly to me?”

“Very well. This marriage, your highness, has been consummated not for the purpose of uniting a pair of lovers, but to fulfil a pledge which was made to one who was murdered by your parent—a pledge of vengeance.”

“But I cannot perceive how this is accomplished,” said the Prince, now pale as Wistaria.

“You have married an Eta girl.”

“I am aware of that,” said the Prince, somewhat proudly.

“I have not finished,” said Shimadzu. “Are you aware that you are at present under sentence of death?”

The Prince made a contemptuous motion.

“By order of the bakufu (shogunate). Yes, I am aware of the fact.”

“Very well. I am the executioner!”

“You!”

“It was I who caused your arrest, and afterwards brought you hither with the intention of executing you.”

A flood of horrible thoughts rushed across the Prince’s mind, bewildering him. As if to press them back, he clasped his hands to his head. Shimadzu continued in his cold and monotonous voice:

“After your arrest, it was brought to my attention that a more subtle revenge against your parent could be gained by marrying you into that very class of people so despised by your father, and forcing you to become guilty of the same offence for which I was exiled.”

Stirred as he now was, Keiki’s faith in Wistaria still remained unshaken. That her father had had a hand in betraying him he was assured, but he could not yet recognize in the deed the delicate hand of the woman he loved.

“Through the agency of my daughter,” went on the samurai, “I was soon able to learn sufficient concerning the workings of the Imperialist party of which you are the head—”

“The Imperialist party!” repeated the Prince, and he bounded towards the samurai with the cry of a wounded animal. His hand sprang to his hip, where his sword had been restored to its sheath.

“You—you!” he shouted. “It was you who betrayed me—who—”

“You are augustly wrong,” said the samurai, moving not an inch, despite the close proximity and menacing attitude of the Prince. “You honorably betrayed yourself!”

“I!”

“Certainly. To her.” He indicated, without naming, the Lady Wistaria.

Slowly, painfully, driven by the goading words of the father, the blazing, burning eyes of the husband sought Wistaria, there to rest upon her while infinite horror found mirror in his countenance. Motionless thus he stood.

Wistaria, braced for a shock she could not meet, leaned against her uncle, whose head bent over her. The Lady Evening Glory smiled, as one who delights in the soul of a cat. Calm, satisfied, unmoved, remained Shimadzu. Keiki’s eyes bulged from their sockets, his mouth gaped open. At last one word burst from his lips, but it was as eloquent as though he had uttered a thousand.

“Thou!”

Her head sank low. He recoiled a step. But with entranced horror he continued to gaze at her. Her face was like marble, out of which her dark eyes stared as though made of polished, glazed china. And as he gazed, terrible thoughts and remembrances rushed upon Keiki, overpowering, weakening, paralyzing him. After a long, immovable silence he leaned slowly forward until their faces, close together, were on a level.

“It is true?” he whispered, hoarsely. “Speak! Speak!”

“It is true,” she replied, in a voice so small and faint that it seemed far away.

His sword leaped out of his scabbard. He raised it as if to strike her down. But his hand fell to his side. Then he spoke, in a hoarse, fearful voice:

“The gods may forgive thee. I, never!”

With that he was gone from the chamber. They heard the clash of his sword as it touched the stone pavement, then the sound of his flying feet, loud at first, and then dying away into the silence.