Now Nichiren was a man of faith. And his faith was the faith of the average man--he knew he was right. But Nichiren did more, for he had the courage of his opinions; and he said, “I alone am right; the rest are all wrong, unfaithful servants of the Lord--kill them.” And the people believed Nichiren, for is not such faith in one’s own opinion a sign of divine inspiration? And did not the Lord Buddha send lightning from Heaven to turn the edge of the executioner’s sword and save his pious servant? So they followed after Nichiren and despised the rest of the church, and built temples of the true faith throughout the length and breadth of the land. And the priests of Nichiren walked in the steps of their master, and are--for the tolerant Japanese--almost bigoted and fanatical. Now the Nichiren priests delight in noise. Perhaps they think--like many a politician--that it takes the place of argument. And so their temples for ever re-echo with the banging of big drums, the clapping of wooden clappers, the booming of big bells, and the eternal chanting of the _Namu-myōho-rengekyō_, the formula of the faith of Nichiren. In the little side temple to the left, wreathed with paper flowers and cheap ornaments--for Nichiren has even strength to blur the national sense of art--they are busy now. A priest in the middle crouches on the ground; on either side, before a big drum like a yellow barrel lying horizontally on the ground, sit two believers. Behind are grouped three more, all provided with clappers or bells. The drumming is incessant, the clapping nearly so, while all, priests and people, keep up one never-ending drone of “_Namu-myōho-rengekyō, Namu-myōho-rengekyō, Namu-myōho-rengekyō._” I can only see the backs of the group, and the arms of the two drummers as they raise them up above their heads to beat the big barrels in front of them. Suddenly, from round the corner of the drum, an old face peers--priest by its costume and its cunning. An unshaven, unkempt face that blinks--dirty, ignorant, bigoted. It crouches there on the matting, the old cunning eyes opening and shutting with each repetition of the never-ending formula, “_Namu-myōho-rengekyō, Namu-myōho-rengekyō, Namu-myōho-rengekyō_,” until sense and meaning are lost in a wave of wild, brute fanaticism. The drums bang louder, the clappers clap shriller, the bells boom quicker and quicker, and I stand there convinced. _Namu-myōho-rengekyō, Namu-myōho-rengekyō, Namu-myōho-rengekyō._ I too am of the faith of Nichiren, for I know that I am right. All these are wrong, unfaithful servants of the Lord--kill them. XI BETWEEN EARTH AND HEAVEN Five hundred feet of wall, and the temple’s courtyard hangs a balcony above the world.