accompanied him to the gate, one like that of any other warrior's house with its thatched roof and wattled-clay wall, and there came face to face with Wataru's wife. On seeing the departing guest, she quickly drew off her outer cloak and bowed. Kiyomori was conscious of the scent in her hair and sleeves. With difficulty he stammered out his greetings as Wataru presented his wife.
"You're back just in time. Heita, this is my wife, Kesa-Gozen, who once served at Court," Wataru said eagerly, stopping to tell her of the black colt in the stable.
Although this was his friend's wife, Kiyomori felt shy and awkward. Aware of his flushed cheeks, he unsteadily resumed his way along the now dark Iris Lane. Kesa-Gozen's face haunted him. Was it possible that so lovely a woman really existed? Her image hovered before him as he walked on. A new star had bloomed for him in the spring skies above him. . . . Then an arm suddenly reached round and gripped him silently. A highwayman! People talked about being attacked at this crossroad at night! Kiyomori's hand slid to his sword.
"Don't be alarmed, Heita. Come with me to the house we visited that other night." There was a low laugh at Kiyomori's ear. It was Morito. Kiyomori could hardly believe his ears. What was Morito doing in this deserted quarter of Kyoto, his face muffled up like a brigand's?
"Surely, you'll come along to that house on Sixth Avenue?" Morito persisted. Kiyomori's thoughts leaped at the proposal, but a sudden distrust of this fellow made him hesitate.
"Come, I saw you this evening on your way to Wataru's, and I followed you," Morito added, as he began to lead the way. His suspicions allayed, Kiyomori followed him, drawn by something compelling in Morito, and soon felt that good luck had waylaid him.
In the house of call near the Palace they drank recklessly, and caroused as they had done that other night. When he was alone at last with one of the women, Kiyomori, a little bolder than at his last visit, ventured to ask:
"Where is my friend? Where does he sleep?"
The woman tittered. "He never spends his nights here."
"Has he gone home then?"
The woman appeared sleepy and too tired to reply. "He's always like that. How should I know what he does?" she said, flinging her arms round Kiyomori's neck.
Kiyomori struggled free. "I'm leaving, too! That Morito is playing some trick on me!"
Kiyomori quickly left the house, but the gentle ghost of Iris Lane no longer walked with him.
The following day Morito did not report for duty at the Guards, nor did he appear for several days, and Kiyomori brooded over this. Now, whenever he arrived at the Palace, it was Kesa-Gozen's husband, Wataru, who always greeted him eagerly whenever they met in the Palace corridors, and with a look that bespoke his happiness.
At the servants' gate of the Nakamikado mansion on Sixth Avenue, a cluster of women peddlers, balancing baskets or boxes of silk cords, flowers, and cakes on their heads, peered into the premises laughing and chattering noisily.
"We want nothing, nothing today, you wenches!"
"Come, buy some cakes for the May Festival!"
"We're too busy with work for the feast tonight. We're dizzy with work! Come tonight, tonight. . . ."
"You fools! You vulgar slaves!" the peddlers jeered.
A steward suddenly appeared at a door, bawling and scolding at the backs of the under-servants. "Here, here! Enough of that chaffing with those women! Who has charge of the bathhouse today? The lady's impatient. The steam in the bath isn't hot enough!"
At the sound of the bellowing, two menservants separated themselves from the group and fled toward the east wing. The fire for the bath had turned to ashes. They scurried about in great agitation, gathering twigs and faggots to start the fire.
One of Yasuko's maids appeared on the veranda; wrinkling her nose and blinking at the smoke, she called out: "Here, what are you
"You're back just in time. Heita, this is my wife, Kesa-Gozen, who once served at Court," Wataru said eagerly, stopping to tell her of the black colt in the stable.
Although this was his friend's wife, Kiyomori felt shy and awkward. Aware of his flushed cheeks, he unsteadily resumed his way along the now dark Iris Lane. Kesa-Gozen's face haunted him. Was it possible that so lovely a woman really existed? Her image hovered before him as he walked on. A new star had bloomed for him in the spring skies above him. . . . Then an arm suddenly reached round and gripped him silently. A highwayman! People talked about being attacked at this crossroad at night! Kiyomori's hand slid to his sword.
"Don't be alarmed, Heita. Come with me to the house we visited that other night." There was a low laugh at Kiyomori's ear. It was Morito. Kiyomori could hardly believe his ears. What was Morito doing in this deserted quarter of Kyoto, his face muffled up like a brigand's?
"Surely, you'll come along to that house on Sixth Avenue?" Morito persisted. Kiyomori's thoughts leaped at the proposal, but a sudden distrust of this fellow made him hesitate.
"Come, I saw you this evening on your way to Wataru's, and I followed you," Morito added, as he began to lead the way. His suspicions allayed, Kiyomori followed him, drawn by something compelling in Morito, and soon felt that good luck had waylaid him.
In the house of call near the Palace they drank recklessly, and caroused as they had done that other night. When he was alone at last with one of the women, Kiyomori, a little bolder than at his last visit, ventured to ask:
"Where is my friend? Where does he sleep?"
The woman tittered. "He never spends his nights here."
"Has he gone home then?"
The woman appeared sleepy and too tired to reply. "He's always like that. How should I know what he does?" she said, flinging her arms round Kiyomori's neck.
Kiyomori struggled free. "I'm leaving, too! That Morito is playing some trick on me!"
Kiyomori quickly left the house, but the gentle ghost of Iris Lane no longer walked with him.
The following day Morito did not report for duty at the Guards, nor did he appear for several days, and Kiyomori brooded over this. Now, whenever he arrived at the Palace, it was Kesa-Gozen's husband, Wataru, who always greeted him eagerly whenever they met in the Palace corridors, and with a look that bespoke his happiness.
At the servants' gate of the Nakamikado mansion on Sixth Avenue, a cluster of women peddlers, balancing baskets or boxes of silk cords, flowers, and cakes on their heads, peered into the premises laughing and chattering noisily.
"We want nothing, nothing today, you wenches!"
"Come, buy some cakes for the May Festival!"
"We're too busy with work for the feast tonight. We're dizzy with work! Come tonight, tonight. . . ."
"You fools! You vulgar slaves!" the peddlers jeered.
A steward suddenly appeared at a door, bawling and scolding at the backs of the under-servants. "Here, here! Enough of that chaffing with those women! Who has charge of the bathhouse today? The lady's impatient. The steam in the bath isn't hot enough!"
At the sound of the bellowing, two menservants separated themselves from the group and fled toward the east wing. The fire for the bath had turned to ashes. They scurried about in great agitation, gathering twigs and faggots to start the fire.
One of Yasuko's maids appeared on the veranda; wrinkling her nose and blinking at the smoke, she called out: "Here, what are you
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