“Oh, did you? I’m surprised to hear it. You don’t mean to say that you, a military attaché, have conspired with the newspapers in concocting such a cock-and-bull story, do you?”
“Don’t be stupid, Mr. Yamakawa! After I was wounded in the battle of Teikaton, during the war, this man Khashoji was brought to our field-hospital, and while I was there I often talked to him, merely to get practice in my Chinese conversation. I am almost sure it was the same chap, because he had been badly slashed in the neck. He explained to me that while he was out on some reconnaisance, he encountered a party of our cavalry, and while fighting with them had been wounded in the neck with the stroke of a Japanese sword.”
“Yes, it was rather strange that you knew him. But this paper says that he was rather a rascal—wasn’t it so? If it is true, it might have been better for all concerned if he had died there and then!”
“But,” said the Major, “when he was there he seemed to be a very honest and decent fellow, and was one of the most obedient of our prisoners. Every one of our surgeons liked him, and it is said they favoured him with special treatment. He told us many interesting stories about his life. I can also remember quite clearly the description he gave us of his extraordinary psychological feelings when he fell off his horse after having been wounded. He told us that, as he gazed through the willow-branches from the muddy bank of the river where he was lying, he saw most vividly in the sky, visions of his mother’s skirt, a woman’s foot, and a field of blooming sesame.”
Major Kimura threw away his cigar, and after helping himself to a cup of coffee, his eyes turned to the pink plum-blossoms on the table. He seemed to be meditating. Then he went on.
“He told me that when he saw those visions, he felt heartily ashamed of the life he had been leading hitherto.”