She complimented Fatkoura in a very quiet voice upon the elegance of her poem; then she sent her by a page the prize offered for competition. It was a charming collection of poems, no longer than a man's finger; the fashion being for the smallest books possible. Some hours later, while the Prince of Nagato, leaning over the edge of the terrace, was gazing down from the mountain top at the setting sun, which shed its purple glory across the sky, the Kisaki drew near him. He lifted his eyes to her face, thinking that she wished to speak to him; but she was silent, her eyes fixed on the horizon, and full of sadness; she preserved a solemn attitude. The reflection from the western sky disguised her pallor. She repressed some painful emotion, and strove to restrain a tear that trembled on her lashes and dimmed her sight. Nagato felt a sort of terror; he was sure that she was going to say something dreadful to him. He would fain have prevented her from speaking. "Queen," said he, softly, as if to dismiss the danger, "the sky looks like a great rose-leaf." "It is the last falling leaf of day," said the Kisaki,--"of the day which is sinking into the past, but whose memory our spirits will preserve as a day of joy and peace,--perhaps the last." She turned away to hide her tears, which, despite her efforts, flowed fast. The Prince's heart was oppressed with inexpressible agony; he was like the victim who sees the knife at his throat. He dared not speak, lest he should hasten the sacrifice. Suddenly the Kisaki turned to him. "Prince," said she, "I have something to say to you: you must marry Fatkoura." Nagato stared at the Queen in dismay; he saw her eyes were wet with tears, but full of a calm and irrevocable resolve. He slowly bowed his head. "I will obey," he murmured. And while she moved quickly away, he hid his face in his hands, and gave vent to the sobs which were stifling him. [1] The two latter quatrains are translated from Tsourai-Iouki, one of the most famous poets of Japan. [2] An illustrious Japanese poet, author of the verses entitled "The Willow." CHAPTER XIII. THE MIKADO'S THIRTY-THREE DINNERS. The sublime Son of the Gods was bored. He sat cross-legged on a raised dais covered with mats, between curtains of gold brocade which hung from the ceiling and were drawn back in heavy folds on either side. A succession of rooms opened, one from another, before the monarch's gaze. He thought that he was very majestic; then he yawned. The one hundred and ninth Mikado, Go-Mitzou-No, although young, was excessively fat,--made so, no doubt, by the almost constant inaction of his life. His face was pale, no ray of sun ever resting on it; several chins reposed upon his breast; his purple robes fell about him in ample folds; the lofty plate of gold adorned his brow. At his right were arranged all the insignia of his omnipotence,--the sword, the mirror, and the iron tablet.