with it. My husband is deadly with a sword; therefore, creep quietly to his pillow, feel for his wet hair, and then with one blow strike off his head. Be sure you strike clean."
Morito feverishly assented. Early on the night of the 14th he did exactly as he was told. He had no trouble whatever and felt no need to examine the head that he grasped by its damp locks. None the less he stepped out on the veranda to look at the head by the light of the moon.
He screamed. Froze. The head of his beloved dangled from his hand.
In that one horrid cry torn from the depth of his being were mingled his shame, his grief, his despair, and the agony of the mortal wound he had dealt himself. He sank numb to the floor. At that instant the colt in the stable neighed shrilly, pawed wildly, and would not stop neighing.
Morito finally rose to his feet. Moaning incoherently in the direction of the dark room, he took the cold thing, clammy with its wet hair and fresh blood, and drew it close to him under his arm, then leaped to the garden, cleared the hedge and bushes in a bound, and vanished into darkness like a malevolent ghost.
Tadamori recounted what so far was known of the murder, adding: "This crime involves not only one woman and a warrior. It casts a shadow over the Palace and puts a stain on the honor of the warriors of the Imperial Guards. It will be to our further shame if the murderer is tried by the Criminal Court and sentenced by the courtiers. It is our responsibility to capture the murderer. Set up guards at the twelve city gates; post watches at all the crossroads of Ninth Avenue, and we shall surely trap the criminal."
The mass of dark figures listened tensely and acknowledged the orders with a movement of their heads. Kiyomori nodded and tasted the salt tears that fell on his lips. He suddenly saw his secret love for Kesa-Gozen for what it was and her loveliness in a new light. Had he been drawn to Iris Lane like Morito, he too might well have done the same! Maniac or fool, which was he? Which Morito? His heart sank at the thought of capturing Morito single-handed, but the sight of the men excitedly streaming out of the gate in the early dawn brought his courage back, and Kiyomori rode off into the mist to his post on Kurama Road, his eyes hard and glinting.
The story of Kesa-Gozen's death soon reached every ear in Kyoto. It was talked about everywhere. Strangers, as well as those who knew her, tenderly mourned for her, denouncing Morito as a ghoul—a raving madman. Him they could never forgive, they said, and loathed him the more because he had once shown such promise. But more than the curiosity, the horror, and the pity that Kesa-Gozen's death aroused was the realization of how lightly most men and women regarded a woman's fidelity. There were few who were not profoundly moved, and who did not shudder at the thought of what she had done to preserve her womanliness.
The common folk of the Shiokoji grieved for her. Even the harlots of Sixth Avenue, who nightly hawked their bodies for a living, wiped the tears from their tawdry painted faces in pity, and not a few of them mingled discreetly with the crowds at Kesa-Gozen's funeral to leave nosegays for the dead one.
The courtiers, and the highborn ladies, too, were moved by the tale of Kesa-Gozen, though many appraised it cynically, for in the sheltered decadence of their lives what was a woman's virtue but an elegant commodity, a graceful pawn, casually bestowed and lightly withdrawn, for the pleasure of men? What then, they said, was so noble in Kesa-Gozen, who had defended her honor with her life? Was it not the natural timidity of a woman that drove her to this extremity? There were some who said with a shrug that a woman's whim to die in her husband's stead at the hands of a crazed lover was scarcely a matter for the courtiers to fuss over, that if the affair was to be regarded seriously at all, it was a sign of corruption in the
Morito feverishly assented. Early on the night of the 14th he did exactly as he was told. He had no trouble whatever and felt no need to examine the head that he grasped by its damp locks. None the less he stepped out on the veranda to look at the head by the light of the moon.
He screamed. Froze. The head of his beloved dangled from his hand.
In that one horrid cry torn from the depth of his being were mingled his shame, his grief, his despair, and the agony of the mortal wound he had dealt himself. He sank numb to the floor. At that instant the colt in the stable neighed shrilly, pawed wildly, and would not stop neighing.
Morito finally rose to his feet. Moaning incoherently in the direction of the dark room, he took the cold thing, clammy with its wet hair and fresh blood, and drew it close to him under his arm, then leaped to the garden, cleared the hedge and bushes in a bound, and vanished into darkness like a malevolent ghost.
Tadamori recounted what so far was known of the murder, adding: "This crime involves not only one woman and a warrior. It casts a shadow over the Palace and puts a stain on the honor of the warriors of the Imperial Guards. It will be to our further shame if the murderer is tried by the Criminal Court and sentenced by the courtiers. It is our responsibility to capture the murderer. Set up guards at the twelve city gates; post watches at all the crossroads of Ninth Avenue, and we shall surely trap the criminal."
The mass of dark figures listened tensely and acknowledged the orders with a movement of their heads. Kiyomori nodded and tasted the salt tears that fell on his lips. He suddenly saw his secret love for Kesa-Gozen for what it was and her loveliness in a new light. Had he been drawn to Iris Lane like Morito, he too might well have done the same! Maniac or fool, which was he? Which Morito? His heart sank at the thought of capturing Morito single-handed, but the sight of the men excitedly streaming out of the gate in the early dawn brought his courage back, and Kiyomori rode off into the mist to his post on Kurama Road, his eyes hard and glinting.
The story of Kesa-Gozen's death soon reached every ear in Kyoto. It was talked about everywhere. Strangers, as well as those who knew her, tenderly mourned for her, denouncing Morito as a ghoul—a raving madman. Him they could never forgive, they said, and loathed him the more because he had once shown such promise. But more than the curiosity, the horror, and the pity that Kesa-Gozen's death aroused was the realization of how lightly most men and women regarded a woman's fidelity. There were few who were not profoundly moved, and who did not shudder at the thought of what she had done to preserve her womanliness.
The common folk of the Shiokoji grieved for her. Even the harlots of Sixth Avenue, who nightly hawked their bodies for a living, wiped the tears from their tawdry painted faces in pity, and not a few of them mingled discreetly with the crowds at Kesa-Gozen's funeral to leave nosegays for the dead one.
The courtiers, and the highborn ladies, too, were moved by the tale of Kesa-Gozen, though many appraised it cynically, for in the sheltered decadence of their lives what was a woman's virtue but an elegant commodity, a graceful pawn, casually bestowed and lightly withdrawn, for the pleasure of men? What then, they said, was so noble in Kesa-Gozen, who had defended her honor with her life? Was it not the natural timidity of a woman that drove her to this extremity? There were some who said with a shrug that a woman's whim to die in her husband's stead at the hands of a crazed lover was scarcely a matter for the courtiers to fuss over, that if the affair was to be regarded seriously at all, it was a sign of corruption in the
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