for his bath, the attendant was ready. His hair was washed, and the queue, no longer needed to bear the helmet’s weight, was left unoiled and loose, to be tied with a paper cord. He donned his white linen death-robe and over it placed the soft-tinted kamishimo of the samurai who goes to death. Then quietly he waited for the midnight hour.
“The commander-general entered, and greeted him with the soldierly stiffness that hides deep feeling.
“ ‘I come not as an official of the State,’ he said, ‘but as a friend, to ask you to honour me with a message.’
“ ‘I thank you deeply,’ Father replied, ‘for this and other kindness. I left my home to return no more. I gave instructions then. I have no message.’
“But he asked that the Commander would care for his attendant who, by Father’s death, would become a masterless man. The General assured him that this should be done; and also told him that his own highest retainer would be Father’s attendant at the last. Thanks were bowed and formal courtesies exchanged, then these two men, who had grown to know and respect each other deeply, parted with no other word. It seems cold to an American; but it was the samurai way, and each knew the other’s heart.
“The hour came. Father held the highest rank of the seven who waited for the midnight hour; so, first and alone, clothed in his death-robe and with the pride of centuries in his bearing, he walked toward the temple yard. As he entered the enclosure, the others on the opposite side, white-robed and silent, were waiting. One was a child with an attendant close behind. Father saw—saw without looking—the gray face and strained eyes of Minoto, his own little son’s guardian.
“The child made a motion, so slight it was scarcely more than a quiver. Minoto clutched the boy’s sleeves.
