She soon learned to love the child, and often took it from the nurse and held it in her own arms. At dusk of night she would sit for hours, singing lullabies or reciting favourite poems. Sometimes she peered dreamily, softly, into the far distance, and then her voice would rise to the sweet, lonely pitch of the nightingale or deepen into tenderest pathos. Once these sad, weird strains reached Tetsutaisho's ears, and they touched him more deeply, strangely, than when he first heard her at the garden. "It is her soul speaking its wonderful love," said he to himself, as he lounged and listened from his own mat on a dark, still night, "and I would give all that is in this world were that love for me." Then he asked Ikamon to come to his house and listen in the cool of the evening to her songs and her poems. No mention was made to her of her intended audience, for Tetsutaisho had learned her true spirit and was now beginning to respect her. He would not so intrude as to ask her to sing; her heart only alone and undisturbed could invoke such melody; yet he could not resist inviting his friend to share the pleasure of her voice, though only by chance might they be so privileged. Ikamon came and he, too, was charmed. "It is the grandest voice I ever heard," said he, with enthusiasm, as he arose and thanked his host for the entertainment, preparatory to taking his leave. CHAPTER XVIII THE VOW OF VENGEANCE When Ikamon had gone Tetsutaisho retired, and as he did so he went with the satisfaction of having discovered, as he thought, the secret of his failure. He had always regarded Kinsan as a prize not to be overlooked, but had not offered to divine her real charm. His repeated defeat had not been attributed to that; it was upon baser grounds he had excused himself and accused her. Her constancy, however, had awakened in him a better sense of her nature, and he now began to feel the force of her virtue; but having again mistaken her, and wrongfully attributed her refusal to the success of a rival, he became mad and vowed vengeance as well as victory. "I will hunt him down!" said he to himself, as he entered his den, and there stayed and fretted, in spite of Takara's repeated urgent calls. "It is not Kinsan, but her lover that is the real cause of my discomfiture. Law makes right, and Tetsutaisho shall vindicate the law." He retired late, but felt himself rewarded by the day's ending. At first he had really intended to give Kinsan only the care of the child, but now it occurred to him to make it her own. The power was in his hands; why not use it? She seemed glad of the care, and it would give her an occupation, an excuse for being in his house: her lover would divine another reason.