For many hours he had played, drawing strange music
from his biwa. Sometimes it had been like rain blowing over the
plains of Adzuma, sometimes like the winds roaring down the
passes of the Yoshino Mountains, and yet again like the voice of
far cities. For many hours they listened without weariness, and
thought that all the stories of the ancients might flow past them
in the weird music that seemed to have neither beginning nor
end.
"It is as the river that changes and changes not, and is ever and
ever the same," said the Emperor in his own soul.
And certainly had a voice announced to His Augustness that
centuries were drifting by as he listened, he could have felt no
surprise.
Before them, as they sat upon the silken floor cushions, was a
small shrine with a Buddha shelf, and a hanging picture of the
Amida Buddha within it - the expression one of rapt peace.
Figures of Fugen and Fudo were placed before the curtain doors of
the shrine, looking up in adoration to the Blessed One. A small
and aged pine tree was in a pot of grey porcelain from Chosen -
the only ornament in the chamber.
Pages:
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306