to ask pardon and offer atonement for the insult
of last year." With those words he prostrated himself again before the
grave, and, drawing a dirk from his girdle, stabbed himself in the
belly and died. And the chief priest of the temple, taking pity upon
him, buried him by the side of the Ronins; and his tomb still remains
to be seen with those of the forty-seven comrades.

This is the end of the story of the forty-seven Ronins.

* * * * *

A terrible picture of fierce heroism which it is impossible not to
admire. In the Japanese mind this feeling of admiration is unmixed,
and hence it is that the forty-seven Ronins receive almost divine
honours. Pious hands still deck their graves with green boughs and
burn incense upon them; the clothes and arms which they wore are
preserved carefully in a fire-proof store-house attached to the
temple, and exhibited yearly to admiring crowds, who behold them
probably with little less veneration than is accorded to the relics of
Aix-la-Chapelle or Treves; and once in sixty years the monks of
Sengakuji reap quite a harvest for the good of their temple by holding
a commemorative fair or festival, to which the people flock during
nearly two months.

A silver key once admitted me to a private inspection of the relics.
We were ushered, my friend and myself, into a back apartment of the
spacious temple, overlooking one of those marvellous miniature
gardens, cunningly adorned with rockeries and dwarf trees, in which
the Japanese delight. One by one, carefully labelled and indexed boxes
containing the precious articles were brought out and opened by the
chief priest. Such a curious medley of old rags and scraps of metal
and wood! Home-made chain armour, composed of wads of leather secured
together by pieces of iron, bear witness to the secrecy with which the
Ronins made ready for the fight. To have bought armour would have
attracted attention, so they made it with their own hands. Old
moth-eaten surcoats, bits of helmets, three flutes, a writing-box that
must have been any age at the time of the tragedy, and is now tumbling
to pieces; tattered trousers of what once was rich silk brocade, now
all unravelled and befringed; scraps of leather, part of an old
gauntlet, crests and badges, bits of sword handles, spear-heads and
dirks, the latter all red with rust, but with certain patches more
deeply stained as if the fatal clots of blood were never to be blotted