GONZAEMON, the head-man of the village of Tamamura in the province of Kōdzuké, whose family had from generation to generation enjoyed a large fortune, employed a number of servants. Among them was one named Kyūsuké who had been added to the household on the recommendation of a peasant of the same village as being exceedingly honest. Though he was very young, unlike other servants, he worked very hard and performed all his duties as well when no one observed him as under the eye of his master. Gonzaemon, therefore, began to look upon him as a great acquisition and took a keen interest in him.
One day he summoned Kyūsuké to his room and said:—
“Kyūsuké, I am pleased to see that you always work faithfully, but I think I should be more pleased if you would leave off working at an earlier hour in the evening and go to bed at the same time as your fellow-servants. If you continue to be so much more industrious than they there will be complaints among them.”
“My good master,” answered the young man, “though I do not like to disobey you, I regret to say that I can never get to sleep before nine o’clock at night.”
“You surprise me,” said Gonzaemon, “but at least you can oblige me by remaining in bed until the usual hour for getting up in the morning.”
“My good master,” replied Kyūsuké again, “I am very sorry to displease you so often, but mine is a hopeless case, for to be frank with you I cannot for the life of me stay abed after seven in the morning.”
Now, you must know, that according to our old way of counting time, nine at night was midnight, and seven in the morning answered to 4 o’clock. Kyūsuké, therefore, never slept more than four hours every night, and his master on learning this was surprised beyond measure.
“What a wonder you are!” he exclaimed. “It is seldom one finds gentlemen in service such passionate lovers of work! How gratified I am to find such a notable exception in you. I trust you will not take my suggestion amiss; it was necessary in order that your fellow-servants should not suffer in consequence of your zeal for work.”
“I humbly beg your forgiveness for venturing to disobey your kind orders,” said the young man respectfully.
“Don’t beg my forgiveness,” said his master, “for by so doing you put me in an awkward position.”
After considering for a few moments while the servant waited silently for further orders, Gonzaemon resumed:—
“Well, Kyūsuké, I have another suggestion to offer you. You know that you are your own master while your fellow-servants are asleep. I do not wish you to work for me in those hours, so if you do not wish to rest, employ that time in making sandals for your own profit. I will see that you are provided with plenty of straw.”
“My good master, you are very kind, but I fear it is not right that a servant should use any of his time in work for his own profit.”
Thus Kyūsuké once more baffled the kind intentions of his master. Gonzaemon was struck with his faithfulness.
“If you persist in refusing all my proposals I shall be at a loss what to do with you,” he said. “So be pleased to do as I request you only this once.”
Kyūsuké could not refuse his master’s kindness so delicately offered, and he consented to use his spare time for his own profit. Henceforth the early morning and late evening hours were devoted to the task of making waraji or straw sandals, which he sold to a kitchen-ware dealer in the village, thereby making a small but regular income, every sen of which he intrusted to his kind master for safe keeping. Soon the young servant’s diligence became known, and the country people encouraged his industry by always asking for the “Kyūsuké waraji” in preference to any other. This naturally pleased the dealer who continually pressed Kyūsuké for further supplies. Gonzaemon, likewise pleased at the success of his plan, determined to lend out the money in his charge so as to increase the amount by good interest. In this he found no difficulty for people had the idea that some luck attached itself to anything connected with the honest servant, and were only too glad to be accommodated with loans out of his savings.
Thus eight years passed away and Kyūsuké was still a servant in the household of Gonzaemon. One day the latter called the young man into his apartment and addressed him as follows:—
“My dear Kyūsuké, time indeed flies like an arrow, as the proverb says. Eight years have elapsed since I was so fortunate as to take you into my service. You have never squandered your wages as other servants do; setting apart a certain amount for small personal expenses you have regularly committed to my care all that you earned. I should certainly have proved but a poor banker, had I not sought some profitable investment for your deposits. All these years I have been lending out your money at a moderate rate, and it is astonishing to find how much your capital now amounts to. Behold! Your savings with interest and compound interest now reach the sum of one hundred ryō! Now, what do you propose to do with all this money?”
“My good master,” said Kyūsuké, quite taken aback at the idea of such wealth, “you must be joking!”
“Not at all; it is as I say. Will you continue to lend it out, or would you prefer to dispose of it in some other way? It is for you to decide.”
“A hundred ryō!” gasped Kyūsuké. “Did you really say ‘one hundred ryō’?”
“A hundred ryō!” replied his master smiling.
“It is unbelievable!” said Kyūsuké.
“Your own industry is responsible for it,” said Gonzaemon. “Now tell me what you are going to do with it.”
Kyūsuké pondered long and deeply. At length he spoke.
“Kind master, if you would not think it taking an unpardonable liberty, I should much like to take the money and pay a short visit to my native place next spring.”
“By all means” said Gonzaemon. “Do you know of a good investment in your native place?”
“No,” answered Kyūsuké, readily enough now. “But you will understand better if I tell you a little of my family history. Excuse the liberty I take in troubling you with my affairs. I am the second son of a peasant, Kyūzaemon by name, living in the village of Shimo-Ogita-mura near Nanao, in the province of Noto. My elder brother, after leading a dissipated life and causing his parents much grief, suddenly left home and has never been heard of since. My mother died soon after, and my father married a widow with one daughter. Before long my step-mother took it into her head to adopt a son to marry her daughter and succeed my father as head of the family. Me she hated, and consequently treated me so unkindly, that I was soon convinced it would be for the happiness of all parties that I should leave home and go right away. So one day, leaving a letter of apology behind me, I secretly came away. At first I had rather a hard time of it, but since I was so lucky as to become your servant I have had nothing to complain of. I cannot sufficiently thank you for all your kindness to me.” Here Kyūsuké paused, and bowed low, while tears filled his eyes. Conquering his emotion he resumed:—
“One hundred ryō, the largest sum of money I have ever set eyes on, I owe entirely to your goodness—how can I thank you? That I may make a proper use of your gift—for so I consider it—I shall return to my father and with this money buy him some rice-fields. In addition, should my step-sister still remain single I shall try to find her a suitable husband. Having done this and established my family so that it will be in no danger of extinction, I shall make all haste to return to you and beg to offer you my lifelong service as some small way of requiting all you have done for me.”
Gonzaemon was greatly touched.
“Kyūsuké,” he said, “you are a noble fellow! A dutiful son as well as a faithful servant. I admire your laudable intention. ‘To your old home return in splendour’ says an old proverb, so Kyūsuké, return in splendour indeed! I will make it my business to provide the clothes you shall wear, and I will also see that you have suitable presents to take to all your relations.”
Thus the conversation ended and Kyūsuké retired to pursue his usual avocations.
Early the following year, in spite of his servant’s remonstrances, Gonzaemon, as good as his word, prepared all the necessary garments for Kyūsuké to wear in order to make a good impression on his visit home, and presents for each member of his family. Further, he pressed upon Kyūsuké’s acceptance a short sword for protection on his journey, ten ryō for travelling expenses, and five ryō as a parting gift. Producing Kyūsuké’s own hundred ryō he said:—
“Now, my dear Kyūsuké, you had better not carry this large sum in cash for fear you might get robbed on the way; I advise you to send it by bill of exchange.”
“Indeed, no, good master,” replied Kyūsuké. “That is quite unnecessary; who would suspect that a fellow of my sort had any money about him and attempt to rob me? It will be quite safe in the bosom of my dress.”
“But you might lose it in some other way,” persisted Gonzaemon. “You had better do as I say,—one cannot be too much on one’s guard while travelling.”
Kyūsuké laughed.
“Do not be uneasy on my account,” he said. “I will be careful.”
“As you please, Kyūsuké; but at least listen to me in one thing; while on your journey always make it a rule to start late in the morning, and to put up early in the evening. Above all never make a travelling companion, and do not speak of your affairs.”
“I will bear in mind what you say, and most certainly follow your advice,” said Kyūsuké. “A thousand thanks for all your favours, kind master. I can never forget all I owe to you.”
With affectionate words on both sides Kyūsuké and his master parted and the young man set out on his journey homewards. But once upon the road the dutiful son, too eager to set his eyes once more on the village of his forefathers, was indiscreet enough to travel from the earliest hour of the day till late at night. So it was, that when he was in the neighbourhood of Oiwaké in the province of Shinano he one night lost his way in the darkness, and after a long march of five or six ri found himself in the middle of an extensive moor without a trace of human habitation.
“What shall I do?” he asked himself. “I fear I have been too rash. Had I followed my master’s advice I should not be in this plight. It is only what I deserve.”
Plodding on Kyūsuké was overjoyed after a time to observe a glimmer of light in the distance. Taking heart at this sign of a dwelling of some kind, he bent his weary steps toward it, and by and by came to a tumble-down cottage which appeared to be the only habitation for miles around. Kyūsuké went up to the door and called for admittance.
“Be good enough to show favour to a stranger! I am very sorry to disturb you at this late hour, but have lost my way and cannot find the road. Please let me in and tell me how to get to the nearest inn.”
The door opened and a woman appeared. She was about thirty and poorly dressed and her coiffure was of a mean style, but there was something in her person that seemed to contradict the idea that her birth was as low as her surroundings.
“Come in,” she said. “But you must not stay. I am indeed sorry for you, for you stand in the middle of one of Shinano’s many moors. Whichever way you turn you must walk about five ri before you come to another house.”
Kyūsuké being very tired requested the woman to give him a night’s lodging, but she shook her head.
“Why did you come here?”
“I have told you; I lost my way and I saw a light. You cannot be so inhuman as to refuse me shelter for a few hours,—I ask no more.”
“You will not want to stay when I tell you that this is the house of a robber—a highwayman.”
“A robber!” Kyūsuké thinking of his treasure was alarmed. “Excuse me, I must go on at once.”
“Will you not rest a few moments?”
“By no means. How can I sit down in what I have learned is the residence of a highway-gentleman? Allow me to say Good-night; I am much obliged to you.”
Kyūsuké was for going at once but the woman stopped him.
“Good traveller, I must tell you that you are encompassed by danger in every direction. After all, I think the safest course for you to pursue is to remain here for the night and I will hide you from my husband. He will not be back for some time yet.”
The manner and speech of the woman inspired confidence, so Kyūsuké deemed it prudent to abide by her advice. Taking off the large bamboo hat that he wore as a protection from both sun and rain, he sat down on the boarded floor of the kitchen glad to rest his weary limbs at last. The woman hurriedly prepared a simple supper for him, which he ate with relish, though in haste, as he feared the return of the master. The woman then led him to a wood-shed at the back of the cottage and said:—
“You would be in great danger should my husband discover you. So keep yourself hidden in this shed and do not mind a little discomfort. As soon as it is day and my husband goes out, I will let you out and you can continue your journey in safety.”
Kyūsuké thanked her warmly, and had not long ensconced himself among the piles of firewood, making himself as comfortable as he could under the circumstances, when he heard a sound that caused his heart to leap into his mouth.
“O-Nami, I have returned.”
“Oh, is it you at last?” welcomed the wife.
“How cold it is! Confound those killing winds that blow, down from Mt. Asama! O-Nami!”
“Yes; what is it?”
“Whose hat is that?”
“Hat? What hat?”
“Come, no equivocations! There is a strange hat on the floor, and you know whose it is. Out with it! I don’t like this underhand way you have acquired of hiding things from me. You are concealing someone in the house!”
“Indeed, no! Why should I want to conceal anyone.”
“Then how did this bamboo hat get here? Do you want me to believe that the wind blew it in, as ours is the only building to check its course for miles around? Come, woman, speak up!”
There was the sound of quick movement, and a cry—
“Mercy, mercy....”
“Come, speak up or you are a dead woman!”
Kyūsuké, in his hiding in the wood-shed, could imagine the scene.
“This is terrible!” he thought. “How could I be such a fool as to forget my hat! It may cost the woman her life!”
The noise in the cottage increased, mingled with the shrieks of the poor woman and the threats of her enraged husband. Kyūsuké stole out of his hiding place and peeped cautiously through a crack in the door. To his horror he found the man was dragging his wife round the room by her long hair with one hand, while he repeatedly struck her with the other. At this sight Kyūsuké forgetting his own fears burst in.
“Sir, sir, all the money I have about me I will give you! The woman is not to blame,—spare her!”
“Who spoke?”
The infuriated man checked his wrath for a moment to stare in astonishment at the unexpected apparition.
Taking advantage of the lull, Kyūsuké quickly produced his hundred ryō along with what remained of the money his master had given him for the journey and the little gift.
“Here, good sir, take all—I have no more—and do not punish your wife for a kind action. I only am to blame.”
The ruffian took no further notice of his wife whom he left sobbing on the floor, but turned to take up with greedy hands the rich store offered by the traveller. Not content with money, however, he coolly demanded all the clothes he was wearing and possessed himself of the dagger into the bargain. Poor Kyūsuké! all the earnings of eight hard-working years had gone to fill the pockets of a villainous gentleman of the road.
“In pity, give me back my clothes, I cannot go either back or forward in this naked state,” pleaded Kyūsuké. “And my dagger—I need it to defend myself from gentlemen such as you—though I have nothing of which to be robbed now!” he added ruefully.
“Take these,” said the robber, throwing him a wadded garment and a girdle, both much the worse for wear.
“Thank you very much, but now my dagger....”
“That I shall find useful myself.”
“But without it I shall be at the mercy of any dog on the way....”
“What a troublesome fellow you are! But no one shall say I left you without the means of defence. Here, take this, and begone!”
With these words the robber produced from a cupboard an old sword doubtless acquired from some former luckless wayfarer and handed it to Kyūsuké, adding:—
“After leaving this house go straight on till you come to a broad road, follow this always turning to the north and in due time you will reach Oiwaké. Now go!”
“Again my best thanks,” said Kyūsuké bowing low; then turning to the poor woman he said softly:—
“I am very sorry to have brought all this trouble upon you, forgive me.”
“No, no, it was I who was to blame but, indeed, I did it for the best.”
“A truce to this nonsense!” cried the robber impatiently. “Here is a torch to light your way; be off before I change my mind about letting you go.”
“Then, master and mistress, farewell to you,” and with these words Kyūsuké accepted the torch held out to him and hastened away. But the fates seemed to be still against him, for no sooner had he set forth than the rain which had begun to come down in torrents put out his light so that he was in complete darkness. But this misfortune in reality saved his life, for the robber had given Kyūsuké a light for no other purpose than that it would serve his own evil intent, which was to shoot the traveller as soon as his back was turned. True, he might have despatched him before he left the cottage, but in that case his wife would have interfered and been troublesome; besides he hardly liked to turn upon Kyūsuké and murder him just when he had so ungrudgingly given up all he had. Wicked man though he was he could not bring himself to such a dastardly action as that. However, as soon as Kyūsuké closed the door the robber, weapon in hand, softly opened it again and crept out, intending to take aim by the light that Kyūsuké carried. But, alas for him, and fortunately for his intended victim, the heavy rain had extinguished the light; so muttering “lucky dog!” he re-entered his home leaving Kyūsuké to continue his way unmolested.
On arriving at Oiwaké Kyūsuké drew a long breath and congratulated himself on his narrow escape, though how narrow he did not realise. There he gave up his cherished idea of visiting his old home, and determined to retrace his steps to his master’s house, begging his way as he had now no money to pay for even the poorest fare. Gonzaemon received him very kindly, though, having heard the details of Kyūsuké’s adventure, he could not resist saying:—
“Did I not warn you? If you had drawn a draft for the money as I advised you this would never have happened. But it is too late to talk of that now. You were lucky to escape with the loss of your property,—you might have lost your life as well. Do not give way to despair. Rest for a few days and then set to work again.”
While speaking to Kyūsuké the master happened to take up the old sword he had got from the robber. The thread round the hilt was frayed and coming off. He tried to draw the blade but it was so rusty with disuse that it stuck fast in the sheath. Bending over it his eye was caught by the decorative stud which he was convinced was not of brass. Thinking the weapon might be of more value than appeared at first sight, he sent for a dealer in old wares, Kichibei by name, and requested his opinion as to its merits, pretending that it belonged to one of his friends who wished to dispose of it to the best advantage.
The dealer, with the skill acquired by long practice, soon withdrew the blade from its sheath, and after closely examining it for some time, said:—
“The sword is a valuable one. The blade is so rusty that I cannot say anything for certain about it, but the ornamentation is undoubtedly of solid gold. The pommel and stud are of Gotō’s engraving, and the guard itself being by Nobuié is worth at least thirty-five ryō. I am willing to give one hundred and thirty ryō for the decorative parts alone.”
These words quite surpassed the expectations of Gonzaemon. He sent the dealer away on the pretext that he would consult his friend, and then told Kyūsuké what he had said.
At this undreamt-of good luck Kyūsuké was struck dumb as well he might be. Gonzaemon, however, encouraged by Kichibei’s opinion thought that a Yedo expert might value the sword even more highly and be more able, as well as willing, to purchase it at a higher rate. A blade in so elaborate and rich a mounting could hardly fail to prove a good one; and knowing something of the estimation in which much workmanship was held, he decided to go up to Yedo himself and do the best he could for his faithful but simple servant.
In Yedo he submitted the weapon to the examination of Honami, the ablest connoisseur in matters of this sort, who pronounced the blade to be the undoubted work of Bizen Nagamitsu, one of the ten clever disciples of Masamuné, although the name of the maker was not on it. Further, in proof of his belief he offered to buy it for eight hundred ryō, an offer Gonzaemon was more than glad to accept.
The business that took him to the city so satisfactorily concluded, he hastened home with all speed and gave the astonished Kyūsuké an account of the transaction. Laying the money before him he concluded with these words:—
“My dear Kyūsuké, see how advantageous it is to be honest always! Your misfortune has proved a blessing in disguise. Heaven approving of your upright conduct has been pleased to grant you this great favour. How grateful we should be! Now go home again with all despatch, but this time take my advice and do not carry such a large sum in cash.”
As soon as Kyūsuké recovered from his surprise he bowed respectfully to his master, and spoke as follows:—
“My good master, you overwhelm me with obligation! I have no words in which to express my feelings. But far be it from me to appropriate all this large sum. I hesitate to displease you, but only one hundred ryō do I consider is mine,—for I left the robber’s house poorer by just that amount, and that sum I shall send home by money order as you advise. As for the rest, after you deduct the expenses of your journey to Yedo, I shall carry it all to the robber. The sword was his and I can not make myself rich at the expense of a poor highwayman,—that would never do!”
Gonzaemon was struck with admiration at this disinterested conduct on the part of his servant.
“My good fellow,” he said warmly, “your honesty puts me to shame! But surely you will not unnecessarily risk your life for such a purpose. As for my journey to Yedo, that is purely my affair and you will dismiss it from your mind. But consider before you act so rashly as to put yourself again into the power of a desperate man.”
But Kyūsuké was obstinate as well as honest.
“Far be it from me to go in opposition to your wishes,” he said, respectfully, “but in this thing only I beg you to let me have my own way. I am loath to cause you any uneasiness, but villain though he is he will surely not harm a man who comes to do him a good turn. There can be no danger.”
Gonzaemon, knowing from experience that further persuasions would be of no avail, reluctantly permitted his servant to do as he proposed. After sending one hundred ryō to his father by money order, he tied up the seven hundred ryō remaining in a little package, which he put in his bosom and once more set off on his travels. Contrary to his former experience, he had this time no little difficulty in finding the cottage of the highwayman; at last, however, he came to the door which in response to his call was again opened by the kind-hearted mistress. Kyūsuké bowed, and in polite terms thanked her for the favours he received at her hands on a former occasion. The woman was much surprised, but controlling her emotion she said:—
“My good traveller, I do not know how to apologise for what I did to you the other day. Nevertheless you have come again! I shall be still more grieved if you are robbed a second time. Fortunately for you,— though I am sorry—my husband is sick in bed. Please make all haste to retrace your steps.”
Kyūsuké’s kind heart was moved with compassion for the sick man and his wife.
“Indeed I sympathise with you both. Allow me To pay my respects to him and inquire after his health.”
“No, no, sir! He is suffering now but his avarice may be excited at the sight of you. Should he again demand all you have with you, you may again be inconvenienced.”
“Be quite easy on that score; I am here to bring him some money.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are naturally surprised. Let me in and you will know. I must see your husband.”
Reluctantly the woman let him come into the house. Making his way to an inner room where the sick man was lying groaning, Kyūsuké, saluting him in the usual manner, inquired:—
“My friend, how are you?”
“This is the traveller you treated so unkindly a short time ago,” explained the woman, seeing that her husband did not recognize the visitor.
“Which one?” asked the robber, sourly.
“Sir, it is I. I do not know how to requite you for the kindness you showed me the other day. But now I must tell you what brings me here again.”
Thereupon Kyūsuké proceeded to inform the robber of what had happened about the sword, and laying the packet of money by the bed concluded as follows:—
“From the price paid for the sword I have deducted one hundred ryō as my due, sending it to my home by money order. All the rest I have brought with me and it is in that package except a small sum I have taken the liberty to keep for my travelling expenses. I have not quite enough to take me to my home in Noto province, and then back to my master’s house in Tamamura, Kōdzuké province, so I shall be much obliged if you will kindly allow me a little more. As for the remainder you are welcome to appropriate it all. Ah, how glad I am to be relieved of the charge of this money which has been a source of constant anxiety ever since I set out on this journey.”
The sick man appeared to be much impressed by the simple recital of Kyūsuké’s tale. After a pause he said:—
“You say your home is in Noto; from what part of the province do you come?”
“I was born in Ogita-mura near Nanao. My name is Kyūsuké and I am the son of a peasant called Kyūzaemon.”
“Was your elder brother called Kyūtarō?”
“How do you know that?”
“You may well wonder. Kyūsuké, I have hardly the face to tell you.... I am Kyūtarō, fallen as you see to the depths of degradation and misery.”
“My elder brother, Kyūtarō!”
“With shame I say it, yes.”
The two brothers embraced with tears. O-Nami was surprised beyond measure at the pathetic sight.
“Are you indeed my husband’s brother? Forgive me, I did not guess it,” and she burst into tears.
Kyūsuké hastened to console her.
“I beg you will not cry; forgive my rudeness in not knowing who you were, and forgive also the great trouble I have occasioned you.”
Kyūtarō, whose conscience was at last smitten at the thought of all his misdeeds, now took a hunting knife lying within reach, and planted it in the side of his abdomen. His wife and brother, too late to stop the rash act, caught his hands.
“Stop, what madness is this!” cried Kyūsuké.
“My husband, oh what have you done!” exclaimed the wife.
Kyūtarō was almost beyond speaking. In a faint voice he said painfully:—
“Brother, wife, how can I continue to live? Kyūsuké, when I recall how vile I have been I am stricken with remorse and shame. When you were here last I would have killed you, little dreaming you were my brother; O-Nami’s remonstrances were of no avail, only providence saved you by miraculously putting out the torch you carried. My evil designs have all turned to your good fortune; the sword I gave you to encourage you the sooner to leave this house proves a precious gift and brings you a large sum of money. Instead of profiting by it you take the trouble to come and give it to me. Kyūsuké, how scrupulous you are! Your nature is honest and spotless as the snow ... mine black as charcoal! I have filled up the measure of my wickedness; the disease from which I am now suffering is the punishment of Heaven. What you have just told me will serve like the blessing of a holy priest to enlighten my path to the other world. I am determined to die and join my dead mother,—to offer her my humble apologies for my bad conduct. There is only one thing that disturbs me at this last moment,—it is the thought of O-Nami. It was her misfortune that she married such a wretched husband as I have been, but her heart is pure and tender. Look after her when I am gone—be kind to her, Kyūsuké, I entreat you.”
Thus Kyūtarō, unable to bear the stings of an awakened conscience, succeeded in disengaging himself from the arms of his wife and brother and died a manly death.
Kyūsuké and O-Nami mingled their tears over the lifeless body, but the departed spirit was not to be recalled by their lamentations. So they strove to conquer their grief and buried the dead robber in the best manner possible under the circumstances.
Kyūsuké then started for home, taking the money he had brought so far and the hair of the deceased. O-Nami accompanied him. Before leaving the cottage they set fire to it that no one might ever use it for evil purposes again.
On reaching home Kyūsuké told his old father, his step-mother and her daughter, all that had befallen him since he left them so many years before. The hundred ryō sent in advance had already come to hand, and he now added to it all the money he had on his person. He also produced the hair of the dead man. Old Kyūzaemon lamented over the sad fate of his undutiful son, but at the same time rejoiced in the possession of so admirable a younger son as Kyūsuké. The step-mother, now repenting of her selfishness of former days, sought his forgiveness. One and all took pity on O-Nami in her great misery. It is wonderful how one man’s goodness works upon the hearts of those about him. It was the desire of his relations that Kyūsuké should succeed to his father and carry on the family name; but he firmly declined, and arranged that his step-sister should get a husband, and that the new couple should be the heirs of the old man after his demise. As for O-Nami, she was determined to become a nun and devote her remaining days to religious services for the soul of her dead husband, her sole concern being prayer for the blotting out of his sins. It was decided to build a hermitage for her in order that she might pass her life undisturbed. This is the origin of the Nanao nunnery.
Having settled his family affairs to the satisfaction of all concerned, Kyūsuké was happy to accept out of the cash he had brought home a small sum sufficient to carry him back to his master’s home in Kōdzuké province. After recounting his adventures and all he had done, Kyūsuké begged Gonzaemon to re-engage him on the same terms as before. Gonzaemon was both surprised and pleased. The praiseworthy actions of Kyūsuké so moved the good-natured village head-man that he proposed to set the young man up as one of his branch families. Kyūsuké’s modesty was by no means eager to accept such an honour, but seeing it was really the wish of his patron he at length yielded. I need not tell you how industriously he attended to all his duties that he might prove no discredit to his master’s judgment. His family thrives in Tama-mura to this day. As for the sword which he got from his robber brother it was purchased by Lord Matsudaira, Daimio of Awa province. He named it “Suté-maru” (a foundling blade) in reference to its history, and treasured it highly. It is still a valued heirloom in the family.
END
