Craven woke abruptly a few hours later with a spasmodic muscular
contraction that jerked him into a sitting position. Half dazed as
yet with sleep he swung his heels to the floor and sat on the edge
of the bed looking stupidly at his dusty boots and earth-stained
fingers. Then remembrance came and he clenched his hands with a
stifled groan. He drank thirstily the tea that was on a table
beside him and went to the open window. As he crossed the room the
reflection of his blood-stained haggard face, seen in a mirror,
startled him. A bath and clean clothes were indispensable before
he went back to the lonely little house on the hillside. He
lingered for a few minutes by the window, glad of the cool morning
breeze blowing against his face, trying to pull himself together,
trying to brace himself to meet the consequences of his folly,
trying to drag his disordered thoughts into something approaching
coherence. He stared down over the bay and the sunlit waters
mocked him with their dancing ripples sliding lightheartedly one
after the other toward the shore. The view that he looked upon had
been until this morning a never-failing source of pleasure, now it
moved him to nothing but the recollection of the hackneyed line in
the old hymn--"where only man is vile," and he was vile--with all
power of compensation taken from him. To some was given the chance
of making reparation. For him there was no chance. He could do
nothing to mitigate the injury he had done. She whom he had
wronged must suffer for him and he was powerless to avert that
suffering. His helplessness overwhelmed him. O Hara San, little
O Hara San, who had given unstintingly, with eager generous hands.
His face was set as he turned from the window and, starting to
pull off his torn shirt, called for Yoshio. But no Yoshio was