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!"

Blind to reason, they cowered before a masterful mind. They knew the
unbending quality of Kishimoto's will, his power to command, to punish.
The number grew steadily less, leaving Page and Zura and her grandfather
alone.

Kishimoto San turned to the girl and with words cold as icicles, cutting
as a whiplash, dismissed the child of his only daughter from his house
and home. He cared neither where she went, nor what she did. She no
longer belonged to him or his kind. He disowned her. Her foreign blood
would be curse enough.

Bidding his family follow, he turned and left. As Mrs. Wingate passed
her disgraced offspring, with troubled voice and bewildered looks she
re