A curious expression grew in the eyes of Hagané. His mouth writhed into a harsh and ugly smile which did not pass. Yuki felt the change in him, glanced up, and shrank a few inches further from his side. He did not notice her. He had been reading, but a few hours before, the written report of a Japanese spy, one of the few who had escaped alive from the very citadel of Port Arthur. The conditions of that fortress were plainly stated: food in abundance, ammunition, men, stone walls practically impregnable, a brave man in command,--all things in Russian favor; and yet by Japanese life that stronghold must be taken, by death the national honor be restored. As their Emperor read, and laid the paper down, he had bent his head, as if praying, and one hand had covered his down-bent eyes. Hagané shivered at that memory. Hunger, privation, cold, the agony of wounds untended, the deeper agony of remembered little ones soon to be fatherless, praying now in distant mountain villages,--this must the Japanese know to full measure. Food and shelter in Manchuria could alleviate, and for such alleviation, money was the only aid. Food, clothing, shelter, ammunition! Why, the very candles fanning out a brief existence on these walls would feed a brave battalion for a week! The table yonder, spread with delicacies for foreigners already gorged,--that long table would bring peace nearer by a hundred cannon detonations. The outer world, civilization so-called, demanded that tawdry ostentation still show her front. "My Lord--your Highness," whispered Yuki, barely touching his sleeve, "has aught offended you?" He looked down into her anxious face. His noble scorn melted into sadness. "Nay, Yuki, I was but counting the lives of soldiers by these candles on the wall." "Lord, so have I thought, even to the point of weeping; yet you had told me to make some display, to have things fair to look on." "I blame you not, my good child. There is no fault at all in you; yet the smell of that rich food sickens me. I long to be in the field with men; to share their handful of cold rice, their shred of salted fish. I hate the silk upon me, the soft rug at my feet, the smiling servants,--how can they smile? When the foreign manikins arrive, it will be hard fighting for me not to laugh at them,--to throw, like some stung cuttle-fish, the inky substance of my scorn--why should they laugh and feast? But, little one, I rave. You have never heard the old volcano growl before? Well, I shall be calm now; let us draw pink clouds about me, and set spring flowers among the fissures of my soul."