Just once--and it marked the blackest hour of that black summer in Japan--the thought flooded upon her that Routledge knew, but purposely remained apart; that he was big enough to make the great sacrifice for her, but not to return to the woman whose heritage, in turn, was the Hate of London. That hour became a life-long memory, even though the thought was whipped and shamed and beaten away. It was late in July when certain sentences in an American newspaper rose with a thrilling welcome to her eyes. There was an intimate familiarity, even in the heading, which he might not have written, but which reflected the movement and color of his work. It was in the _World-News_ of New York, and signed “A. V. Weed.”... A rather long feature cable dated at Chifu shortly after the battle of Nanshan. A number of Russian prisoners had been taken by the Japanese, and with them was a certain Major Volbars, said to be the premier swordsman of the Russian Empire. The Japanese heard of his fame; and, as it appears, became at once eager to learn if Russian civilization produced sword-arms equal to those of her own Samurai. The prisoner was asked to meet one Watanabe, a young infantry captain, and of that meeting the _World-News_ published the following: ... Here was armistice, the nucleus of which was combat. There was a smile upon the face of Watanabe, a snarling smile, for his lips were drawn back, showing irregular teeth, glistening white. His low brow was wrinkled and his close-cropped, bristling hair looked dead-black in the vivid noon. The hilt of his slim blade was polished like lacquer from the nimble hands of his Samurai fathers. This was Watanabe of Satsuma, whose wrist was a dynamo and whose thrusts were sparks. The devil looked out from his fighting-face. Volbars compelled admiration--a conscienceless man, from his eyes, but courageous. He was small, heavy-shouldered, and quick of movement, with nervous eyes and hands. His left cheek was slashed with many scars, and his head inclined slightly to the right, through a certain muscular contraction of the neck or shoulder. This master of the archaic art had the love of his soldiers. “In the name of God, let him take the attack, Major!” Volbars’ second whispered. “His style may disconcert you.” The Russian waved the man away, and faced the Japanese swordsman. His head seemed to lie upon his right shoulder, and his cruel, sun-darkened face shone with joy. His thick, gleaming white arm was bare. His blade, which had opened the veins of a half-hundred Europeans, screamed like a witch as the master-hand tried it in thin air.