ow that one of Arisuga's had been made; how it was
healed: it was a sabre, and it had cut--so. Then it had been stitched
so--very carelessly she had thought every time she saw it.

She was entirely capable of striking herself with a sabre; but through
long reasoning she understood that she would not be likely to reproduce
the precise form of Arisuga's wound. Though this was necessary, there
was only one chance in many thousands of accomplishing it.

She finally knew that she must do it carefully, slowly--very slowly.
There would be none of the ecstasy of the battle. Arisuga had often told
her that he had never felt the wound until it was healed. That, in fact,
he would not have known that he was struck but for the blood in his
eyes. But she must do it as one argues a thing. Do you understand the
difference? Can you see how a wound received in hot carnage and one
slowly carved in one's own flesh may differ? Be sure that Hoshiko
understood all this.

But she could not in America. It seemed an alien thing to do in a
country which would only have misunderstood and perhaps have laughed. It
needed her native soil and atmosphere, and ancestors and gods, to make
the undertaking simple. Besides, while she was studying the making of
the wound, steam and wind were taking her home. It was there, in the
little deserted house, still deserted, where they had lived so happily
those few days, that everything seemed fortunate.

And so there, after much preparation, she did it--all in one tortured
day. Early in the morning she sat down before her little round mirror.
She knew what she was to suffer. But she neither shrank from it nor
sought to mitigate its agony. First she prayed the gods--very long. Then
she set his picture before her. Then she washed--very clean. Then she
made very sharp the little toilet sword. Then she bound her body with
many towels and made the first incision bravely. But she had not well
calculated the agony of such slow self-wounding. Her senses slowly left
her as if to protest against what she did.

It was long before her hands would return to their office of
self-mutilation. Yet no matter how weak the flesh was, the spirit always
drove the hands back to their office until it was done--and well
done--to the stitches--to the anointing--to the binding--the
destruction of the quivering parts of herself.

Can you fancy her there on the floor before the little mirror which had
once told back to her all her lovel