THE ADVENTURE OF A KNIGHT-ERRANT.
The limping old man looked searchingly at the pilgrim wrapped in a straw raincoat. The stranger’s garments Were not worth much, but his accent and his behavior were excellent; and when the wind blew apart his coat for an instant, the old man noticed two swords behind his belt, which designated him as a samurai. Doubtlessly he was a ronin, a “wave-man”, a povertystricken nobleman without a lord, a wandering adventurer; his face was trustwothy, the gaze of his eyes was clean and frank. Nevertheless they were sad eyes, probably having seen much grief, of their own and of other people.
The old man’s eyes lit up. He had an idea, a very good idea, but it seemed to him too soon to come out with it as yet. Oh, it was not for nothing that his hamlet had been contented with him for thirty years as its muraosa, or headman. Perhaps just now a new opportunity was offering itself for him to display his prudence to his people. Too long had his mura suffered from the Honorable Goblin Spider, but already several ronins had perished in the attempt to rid the ancient temple of its haunting specter, and so far this good man, though undoubtedly brave, had not shown enough interest to warrant a hope that such an adventure would lure him. It was necessary to arouse his curiosity, to awaken his attention.
And bowing profoundly, the old man began to talk, sucking in some syllables and breathing out others, and in every other way strictly adhering to the rules of etiquette, so that the errant samurai could not be offended by a single word or look.
Yes, it is still a good way to the village, a full hour; of course, the distance can be shortened considerably by going on the paths through the rice fields. The villagers, however, do not like this shorter route because it is necessary to cross the river on a plank from beneath which one can hear the Phantom Washerwoman count her pieces of laundry and break into weeping when she finds one
