In depressed silence our party mingled with the throng on its way to the shrine where the last tribute was to be paid.  The place of devotion was in a dense grove, isolated and weird.  A single upright post held a frail, box-like contrivance.  The inner recess of this was supposed to hold a relic of Buddha—­some whispered a finger, some a piece of the great teacher’s robe; but whatever the holy emblem, both place and shrine were surrounded with a veil of superstitious mystery and held in awe.  A lonely taper burned before the shrine, dimly lighting a small opening covered with ground glass and disclosed above a written warning to all passers-by to stop and offer prayer or else be cursed.

The crowd of worshipers paid tribute, but rather than pass on, lingered in the shadow, their curious eyes fixed upon the half-foreign girl.

It was splendid for her to brave the fire-god, but no living soul dared face the Holy Shrine with the scorn Zura’s face and manner so plainly showed.  Admiration melted into distrust.  They would wait and see the end.

One by one my host, his mother, wife and daughter passed before the relic and reverently bowed.  Then they stood aside in a silent group, slightly apart from Page and me.  It was Zura’s turn.  In the face of Kishimoto San, as he looked at his granddaughter, was concentrated the power of his will and all the intolerant passion of his religion.  He looked and he waited—­in vain.  The girl did not move.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but his words fairly stabbed the air.  “Obey me!  Approach and bow!”

Zura seemed to be turned to stone.  But her words were as clear and as measured as his own.  “I will not!  Now or ever!”

Past all endurance of the girl’s disrespect, the man made one step forward, grasped Zura by the shoulders, and pushed her towards the shrine.  The force sent her forward.  As she stumbled she seized a bamboo pole.  With it she gave one swift blow.  At our feet the little shrine lay shattered, and out of its secret recess rolled a pasteboard box, mildewed and empty.

Then, like the hissing wind, rose the quick anger of the people.

At the same instant Page and the crowd rushed toward Zura, who, with bamboo stick in her raised hand, stood white and defiant.

A coolie made a lunge at her.  With closed fist Page Hanaford struck him full in the face; the other arm shielded Zura.  Another man spat at her, and met the fate of his brother from Page’s well-directed blow.  There is nothing so savage as a Japanese mob when roused to anger.  Knowing them to be cruel and revengeful, my heart stood still as I watched the throng close about Page and Zura.  I knew the boy single-handed could not hold out long before the outraged worshipers.

Then above the noise and curses and threats Kishimoto San’s voice rang out.  “Stop! you crawling vipers of the swamp!  How dare you brawl before this sacred place?  How dare you touch one of my blood!  My granddaughter accounts to me, not to the spawn of the earth—­such as you!  Disperse your dishonorable bodies to your dishonored homes!  Go!”