“I have prayed and prayed that this would not happen,” the Master’s wife
said to me on the morning of August 5. “I have been of too little faith, I
suppose.”
And again: “I was afraid this might happen, and maybe it happened
because I worried too much. There is nothing to do now but pray.”
The curious and attentive combat reporter, I had had the whole of my
attention on the Master as hero in battle; and now the words of the wife
who had been with him through the long years came to me as if striking a
blind spot. I could think of no answer.
The long, strenuous match had aggravated the heart condition from
which he had long suffered, and apparently the pain in his chest had for
some days been intense. He had let slip not a word about it.
From early in August his face began to swell and the chest pains were
worse.
A session was scheduled for August 5. It was decided that play be
limited to two hours in the morning. The Master was to be examined before
it began.
“The doctor?” he asked.
The doctor had gone to Sengokuhara on an emergency case.
“Well, suppose we begin, then.”
Seated at the board, the Master quietly took up a tea bowl in both hands
and sipped at the strong brew. Then he folded his hands lightly on his knees
and brought himself upright. The expression on his face was like that of a
