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Updated: June 23, 2025
Once only it had happened in the bungalow, the night before he left Japan, and his involuntary cry had brought the watchful valet. And as he crossed the room Craven had distinctly seen him pass through the little recumbent figure and, with blazing eyes, had dragged him roughly to one side, pointing and muttering incoherently. And Yoshio had seemed to understand.
Craven looked suddenly exhausted, and Yoshio who had stolen in noiselessly, was standing at the head of the bed beyond the range of his master's eyes making urgent signals to the visitor to go. With a jest and a cheery word Said obediently removed his picturesque person. It was nearly four months before Craven left the camp of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah.
And, always in the background, Yoshio, capable and devoted, stood between him and the petty annoyances that inevitably occur in travelling annoyances that in his overwrought state would have been doubly annoying with a thoughtfulness that was silently expressed in a dozen different devices for his comfort.
It was the first time in ten years' service that Yoshio had failed to answer a call and Craven wondered irritably what could have taken him away at that time in the morning, and concluded that it was some order given by himself the day before, now forgotten, so dismissing Yoshio and his affairs from his mind he signed to the still gently explaining servant to go.
On the 7th of February, 1703, forty-seven bushi, under the leadership of Oishi Yoshio, forced their way into the mansion of Kira Yoshihide; killed him in order to avenge the death of their feudal chief, Asano Naganori, daimyo of Ako; and then surrendered themselves to justice.
For an hour or more, squatting motionless on his heels in the middle of the tent, Yoshio watched him, his mask-like face expressionless, his eyes fixed in an unwavering stare. Then he rose cautiously and glided from the tent. During the last two years Craven had become accustomed to snatching a few hours of sleep when and how he could. He slept now deeply and dreamlessly.
"Barry is riding ?" with a glance at the storm raging outside. "Yes. He had breakfast at an unearthly hour and went off early. Weather seems to make no difference to him, but he will be soaked to the skin." "He's tough," replied Peters shortly. "I thought he must be out. As I came in just now Yoshio was hanging about the hall, watching the drive.
That the Jap knew a great deal more than he himself did of the tragedy that had happened in the little house on the hill Craven felt sure, but no information had been volunteered and he had asked for none. He could not speak of it. And Yoshio, the inscrutable, would continue to be silent.
He struggled fruitlessly until he was released, then reeled against the table, with teeth set, clasping his wrenched wrist the sudden frustration of his purpose leaving him, shaking. He turned stiffly. Yoshio was standing by him, phlegmatic as usual, showing no signs of exertion or emotion as he proffered a lacquer tray, with the usual formula: "Master's mail."
Yoshio hovered about him, deft-handed and noiseless of tread, feeding him and redressing the wounds in his side where the bullet had entered and passed out. After which he relaxed the faintly superior tone he had adopted and condescended to consult with his patient as to which of the scanty drugs in the tiny medicine chest would be the best to administer.
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