it was very near the phantom kneeled down and seated itself halfheartedly on its single foot, saying in a squeaky voice, with its half of a mouth:
»Hitokusai!« Which means something like: »I smell a man.« And the ronin realized that thus exactly had squeaked the old stairway by which he had mounted into this temple, chosen as a lair by this foul spirit.
He was brave, and the hand he held on the grip of his sword did not tremble. But he did not budge or utter a word. And the ghost vanished as soundlessly as it had made its appearance.
Then came a bonsan with a polished head and a pleasant smile on his well-fed face. He bowed, seated himself opposite the ronin and began to play on a samisen. Never before had the samurai heard such enchanting and wonderful music. The strings of the samisen sighed beneath the ivory plectrum so silkily and so sweetly that the ronin’s eyes began to close. It seemed to him that he could fall into a most delicious slumber with his head resting in his hand. Visions of his former happiness evolved before his mind’s eye, and after long years he again beheld dear faces with great distinctness, he beheld his wife and children, who had died a cruel death at the hand of the tyrannical monk. His wife’s voice seemed to sound from the strings of the samisen, . . . the voice that once had whispered words of tenderness and devotion to him. Dampness gathered under the lashes of the haggard ronin, and in time with that seductive melody his head began to nod to and fro; the gratifying visions became still more gratifying, and it began to seem to him that more than twenty years was but a dreary dream, and that this was reality, that he was young again and enveloped in the love of his family. Then suddenly he tore himself out of his intoxication and with a greath leap jumped up from the floor, at the same instant drawing his sword. For he comprehended that a cruel pitfall had been prepared for him, that he had fallen victim to hallucinations, and that such dulcet music could not issue from beneath human fingers.
But the priest burst into boisterous, goodnatured merriment. »Oh hoho, oh, ho . . . you thought I am a ghost!« he laughed. »Not in the least, you are mistaken, honorable sir! I am only the wretched, hard-tried bonsan of this temple and I play to drive away evil spirits. Does my music sound at all uncanny to you?« This voice sounded strangely familiar to the ronin, and his heart was heavy in his bosom. »Does not this samisen sound extremely well?« continued the priest persuasively. »Could a specter venture into the magic circle of sweet sounds?«
