When the panic-stricken servants rushed into the castle with their appalling tale, there was general consternation. They had been attacked, they swore, by a band of at least fifty ronins. By the last act of the doomed chatelaine she had won back the respect of the warriors, for they perceived, too late, that her gentleness had naught akin with cowardice. Resuming her fit position by force of princely dignity, she had become a liege lady of whom they could be proud. They felt pangs of remorse, too, in having allowed her to sally forth by night unprotected by soldiers. Yet, if they had not cared for her, it was well known that the peasants did, who vowed she was a saint. And sure none could ever have supposed that there were any, even in this bad world, who could be so wicked as to do her to death thus cruelly. The country far and near was scoured, but no trace of a gang was found. The thickly-falling snow had obliterated footmarks. On the fatal spot, seek as they would, nothing was to be found but the overturned litter and mutilated remains of their mistress--hats and garments scattered here and there--and the bodies of the drowned bearers. At dawn, the sad _cortége_ returned home with its freight, having learned nothing; and then a feeling of uneasiness came over the samurai as to what my lord would say. He neglected and disliked his wife, but would surely retaliate swiftly and fearfully upon those whose carelessness had led to so gruesome a catastrophe. As for O'Kikú, whom all avoided now as if she were plague-stricken, she remained secluded in her chamber, transfixed with growing wonder. The blows of the assassins were aimed at herself--of that she had no doubt--and she had been saved by a miracle. Yet who could there be who wished to kill her, unless it were O'Tei or Masago? Of course, it was not O'Tei, or she would never have marched thus deliberately to her own undoing; and as she was on her way to the temple, summoned thither, it could not be a plot of Masago's, for Masago loved her dearly. The more she thought it out, the more incomprehensible grew the whole affair, and at last she was fain to put it from her as a mystery which time might some day decipher. One thing, however, was plain. By a wondrous stroke of luck, the position of herself, O'Kikú, had vastly improved. A stumbling-block that threatened to become troublesome was swept out of her path. So soon as my lord should learn her secret, he would, if skilfully wheedled, take to his arms, as his first wife, the mother of his child. She would be consort of the Hojo, chatelaine of Tsu, and as she thought of it, her bosom glowed with gratified ambition, and she there and then determined that in the smiling future the castle should contain no concubine.