Junzo soon realized that this was not a garden in which he could remain for long unobserved. He was about to retrace his steps when he perceived coming toward him along the path a young girl, whose arms were so full of blossoms that her face was partially hidden. As it was too late for him now to retreat, he stood where he was, respectfully waiting for her to approach.
She hastened up the path toward him, and as she appeared to be absorbed in her own meditations and had not so far glanced in his direction, Junzo stepped backward toward the grove, hoping she would pass by without seeing him. This she doubtless would have done had not the young man, as she came opposite, made an odd exclamation, and then stepped before her path. What he said was:—
She raised a startled face to his and stood perfectly still before him in the path, the blossoms slowly dropping from her arms. That strange expression of mingled fear and amazement awoke chaotic memories in the mind of Junzo. It was Masago who stood before him, he felt sure; but some one other than Masago had once looked up into his face in the same startled fashion. It must have been a dream or fancy. He repeated her name:—
“Who are you?” she asked in a low voice, her eyes travelling over his face. “What is your honorable name, and where do you come from?”
The very words had a ring of familiarity to the ears of Junzo. He felt like one in a dream, and answered almost mechanically:—
“I am Kamura Junzo. I come from—” He made a slight motion toward the adjoining gardens.
A slow pink glow grew up into her face and spread even to her little ears and whitest neck. Her eyes were shining, almost as if there were tears within them.
“Ah,” she said softly, “I do remember you.”
“We are betrothed,” he said, passing his hand bewilderedly across his eyes.
“Betrothed?” she repeated in that sweet, low-toned voice.
“But my name is not Masago,” she said simply.
After that there was a long silence between them. They looked into each other’s faces without speaking. Then the young man found his voice.
“I thought the august sun had touched my brain,” he said. “I knew that your face was familiar to me, and because you are the image of one to whom—”
He broke off, flushing under the glance of her soft, searching eyes.