Fide-Yori trembled with agitation and alarm.
"She will escape me," said he. "Must I find her only to lose her, after waiting so long?"
"Did you see which way the boat went?" asked Iwakura.
"I thought it went up stream."
"Well, let us row that way, then; they can't have gone far. One is fairly held captive here. We shall find her again."
Fide-Yori took courage. "Row up the river," he cried to his men. The young Shogun leaned over the edge and gazed eagerly about. Several people recognized him. Numbers of princesses of the royal household, lords, and generals passed close by him. He saw his mother and General Harounaga again; but the face he sought had vanished.
"Perhaps we were too hasty," said he.
They retraced their course; then went up stream once more.
"The festivities are almost over!" Fide-Yori cried, suddenly. "Let us go to the outskirts of the throng and wait for that boat; when it makes for home, it must pass us."
"Which way shall we go?" said Nagato.
"Towards the upper town; there are no houses of nobles in the direction of the sea."
They waited in vain; the boat did not appear. It had gone down the river, and proceeded towards the suburbs. Fide-Yori went back to the palace discouraged. The Prince of Nagato tried to console him.
"Are you very sure that the woman you saw was the one you are looking for?" said he.
"Sure!" cried Fide-Yori. "I never saw her face but once; but my eyes can never forget it."
"Then," said the Prince, "instead of being sad, rejoice. You only imagined that she lived in this city; now you are certain she does. So we are sure of finding her. You must give another entertainment, and she will be there."
"You are right, friend," said Fide-Yori; "you shall help me; we will search the city. We will find her yet; she shall be my wife. Then my life, which has been but a series of sorrows and disillusions, will begin to brighten. Let us start to-morrow, eh? We'll open the campaign before a new festival can be arranged; we will study the city, district by district; we'll wrest her secret from her. Oh! you have given me fresh courage; you have almost made me happy!"
Hope illumined the young Shogun's eyes, a smile trembled on his lips. All at once a cloud darkened his brow. "How cruel and selfish I am!" he exclaimed. "You, my best friend, my devoted brother, have just lost the woman whom you love; she died a frightful death. And I insult your grief by talking of my love and my hopes. How dare I be gay when you are wretched!"
"Master," said Nagato, "I feel a deep regret for the woman who died for my sake; I cherished a brotherly affection for her. But my betrothed was not my beloved."
"What do I hear?" cried Fide-Yori; "you lift a great weight from my heart. I supposed you were crushed forever. Then you may be happy yet, as well as I."
Iwakura shook his head. "My love is made up of light and shade," said he. "I can never be entirely happy; it is composed half of celestial bliss, and half of utter misery. Such as it is, however, it is my whole life."
"Whom do you love, then?" asked Fide-Yori.
"Oh, Master!" said the Prince, covering his eyes with his hand, "do not ask me."
"It is so sweet to talk of the loved one! See! since I made you my confidant, my trouble has diminished by half."
"I am condemned to silence."
"Even to me? Is it thus you love me? I regret that I opened my heart to you."
"If I should confess the object of my love, you would shun the subject forever."
"Is it my mother?"
"No," said Nagato, smiling.
"Who is it? Tell me, I beseech you!"
"The Kisaki."
"Unhappy man!" cried Fide-Yori; and, as the Prince had predicted, he added not another word.
Next day the work of demolishing the ramparts began. Ten thousand men attacked them; they stood firm. No one knew what to do next. The stones rested on sloping ground, and seemed as if riveted in their places. Above, on the terre-plein, which formed a spacious terrace, cedar-trees grew, and cast a heavy shade. The first breach was made in the towers projecting at intervals from the walls. They were thrown down into the moat; then huge blocks were dragged from the walls, and the work was ended. Only the shattered walls seemed to be still standing; the stones were not there, the mountain of earth remained; but the moat was filled up.
While this work of destruction was going on, the city continued to make merry. Fide-Yori ordered a huge bell to be cast, and dedicated it solemnly to the temple of Buddha; upon this bell were engraved the words:Henceforth my house shall be at peace.
On the occasion of the consecration public rejoicings were held, and a splendid performance was announced to be given at the chief theatre in Osaka. A new play was to be brought out, entitled, "The Taiko-Ki," that is to say, the story of Taiko. This semi-historical work was written in honor of Fide-Yori's father. The moment was well chosen for its performance, and the preparations were therefore hastened on. But as the stage-setting was to be very elaborate, no positive date could be fixed.
Nothing else was talked of throughout the city. Places were reserved in advance; from five to six kobangs[1]were paid for a seat. The women eagerly arranged their drosses for the occasion; tailors and embroiderers were beside themselves with commissions. The praises of the leading actor, who was to take the part of Taiko, were loudly sung. Everybody knew him; he was famous. He had been nicknamed Nariko-Ma, the "Humming-Top."
Fide-Yori, too, waited impatiently for the day of the performance. He hoped that Omiti would be present; and there at least she could not escape him. His search throughout the city with Prince Nagato had been fruitless. It was not so easy as they had fancied, to enter every house and ask for the young girl. They began with the homes of the nobility. That was comparatively easy. The Shogun honored the wives of the absent lords with a visit incognito; it was his whim to see the family of the princesses. He thus passed in review all the noble maidens of Osaka. To enter the houses of wealthy citizens, the two friends were forced to don a disguise, and were not always well received. Their devices to get a glimpse of the daughters of the house varied. They sometimes pretended to have seen an article of priceless value drop from a young girl's sleeve, and were unwilling to return it to any but herself. Or they would say they were sent by an old man in utter despair, who had lost his only daughter, and was looking for a girl of the same age, and bearing some likeness to her, that he might leave his immense fortune to her. This latter invention, of the Prince of Nagato, was quite successful. But the task was a long one; they had already spent a week in the search, and had only visited the palaces and one street in Osaka.
"We shall never contrive to see every house in this great city," said Fide-Yori; "we are crazy to think of doing it."
"We may grow old before we find her whom we seek," replied Nagato. "No matter, let us go on looking; perhaps we shall come across her in the very next house we enter."
Fide-Yori sighed.
"Let us wait till the doors of the theatre are thrown open," said he.
At last huge posters, printed on silk or colored paper, announced the date of the performance.
"We shall see her at the theatre; she will be there, I feel sure," said the Shogun, clinging to that hope.
[1]Twelve to fifteen dollars.
[1]Twelve to fifteen dollars.
On one of the largest of the canals which intersect Osaka in every direction stands the theatre, with its broad façade, capped by two roofs. You can go to the play in a boat; you can also go on foot, or in a norimono; for a quay paved with blue flag-stones runs in front of the building, and divides it from the canal.
Two huge blue-silk banners, covered with Chinese characters, hang from flag-staffs at either corner of the house, rising high above the roof. Upon large tablets, on a gold ground, are painted the principal scenes in the plays to be performed. They are painted with marvellous wealth of color, and depict warriors, princesses, gods, and demons in the most exaggerated attitudes. Sometimes, instead of a picture, we find a combination of stuffs arranged in broad relief, velvet, crape, or satin, representing the dresses of the various characters, and producing the most brilliant effects. From the red cross-beams beneath the roof hang enormous lanterns, round in shape on the lower floor, square upstairs. On the ridge-pole, a fabulous animal, something like a dog or lion, juts forward, opening wide his jaws, with bristling mane and tail.
By eight o'clock in the morning—the dragon's hour—the crowd collected before the doors of the Grand Theatre. Those who had no hope of admittance meant at least to enjoy the dazzling spectacle of the arrival of wealthy citizens and elegantly dressed ladies.
On each side of the principal entrance, reached by a broad staircase, were reared lofty platforms, upon which various delegates from the company of actors stood forth, in street dress, fan in hand. In pompous style, with merry gestures and grimaces, they loudly commended the pieces which they were to give to the public, praising the splendor of the costumes and stage setting, and the incomparable merit of the players; and when that subject was exhausted, they amused the mob by all sorts of jokes, puns, and anecdotes, delivered with comic gravity, and accompanied by the perpetual motion of the fan, handled in skilful, graceful style.
Soon the favored portion of the public, who were able to engage their seats in advance, arrived from all sides. Across the two bridges arching the canal to right and left of the theatre came norimonos and cangos, their bearers advancing with measured pace, and following one after the other in infinite succession; from every street appeared countless palanquins. The black lacquer glittered in the sun, the dresses of the women, in haste to enter, had the fresh tints of newly opened flowers. Some young men arrived on horseback; they threw the bridle to the groom, who ran before them, and mounted the stairs to the theatre hurriedly. Under the shade of broad parasols came various families on foot. Upon the canal a throng of boats besieged the landing-stage; the rowers exchanged hard words; the women stepped on shore with little shrieks of alarm. They were followed by maid-servants carrying magnificent boxes of carved ivory, mother-of-pearl, or sandal-wood. The hall was soon filled, and the doors were closed.
The interior of the theatre was rectangular in shape, the parquet divided into square spaces separated by partitions about ten inches high. Two aisles led from the back of the house to the stage, which latter was not divided by any practical boundary from the body of the house, both being upon the same level. These aisles seemed intended rather for occasional exits and entrances of the actors, than for the accommodation of visitors, the partitions between the boxes being sufficiently broad to allow the spectators to reach the places reserved for them. The journey, however, was not without peril, and was accomplished amid screams and bursts of laughter. The women, hampered by their handsome dresses, advanced cautiously, stumbling occasionally. The men offered their arms, to help them into the boxes; but some preferred to sit upon the edge and slide gracefully down. Each compartment held eight persons, who squatted upon the matted floor; and as soon as they were seated, a servant, attached to the theatre, brought them tea and saki on a lacquer tray, with pipes and a brazier.
Raised above the parquet on three sides of the hall was a double row of boxes, the fourth side being occupied by the stage. These boxes, very richly decorated on a background of red or black lacquer, were the most select part of the play-house, especially those in the upper stage. There the most elegant coquettes displayed their magnificent toilets. The aspect of the theatre was delightful; most of the women were beautiful, with their dead-white skins, their glossy hair and dusky eyes. The rustle of silk, the shimmer of satin, the bright colors and the embroideries, formed a splendid spectacle. The married women were easily recognized by their teeth blackened with a mixture of iron filings and saki, by their plucked eyebrows, and by their sash tied in an enormous knot directly in front. The young girls made the knot at the back, and left their teeth to their natural whiteness. They also dressed their hair differently. Instead of letting it hang in a long twist, or gathered in a heavy mass on the top of the head, they combed it over the forehead, arranged it in wings on either side of the face, and fashioned it into an elaborate and voluminous chignon. Some might substitute, for the tortoise-shell pins generally used, others of similar length, but made of filagree gold; their neighbors might prefer to adorn their hair with nothing but flowers and silk cords.
The men were no less fond of dress; crape, brocade, and velvet not being forbidden for their wear. Some had an embroidered scarf on one shoulder, one end hanging forward; the longer the scarf was, the higher the social rank of the wearer. When he saluted a superior he must bend until the scarf touched the ground. Therefore the longer it was, the less he had to bend. A party of nobles appearing incognito, their faces hidden by black crape hoods, showing nothing but their eyes, filled the lower row of boxes. But one of these, very near the stage, remained empty; it was suddenly thrown open, and a woman appeared.
The spectators could not repress a cry of amazement upon recognizing Yodogimi. Was it possible?—the Shogun's mother entering a theatre openly! Had she lost all respect for custom and decorum, and for herself! The veil of light gauze, fastened to the big pins in her headdress, and covering her face, although it might show her desire to preserve her incognito, in no way masked the Princess; she was recognized at the first glance. Still, surprise soon gave way to admiration. Every one was glad she had not hidden her charming face, which the transparent veil did but embellish. Besides, the extraordinary dress worn by Yodogimi took the audience by storm. Her robe was woven of pale gold, covered with fine pearls and grains of crystal; she seemed to radiate light, as if the stars were imprisoned in the folds of the stuff. The Princess smiled as she saw how promptly the first sensation of displeasure was overcome by admiration. She took her seat slowly; and when she was settled in her place, a masked warrior was seen standing behind her.
Then the faint clamor of a gong, the trill of a couple of flutes, and a few muffled blows on a tambourine were heard. The musicians took up their instruments; the play was about to begin.
The audience turned to the stage; it was closed by a curtain covered with huge lozenges, and in the centre of which appeared, upon a scarlet disk, an immense Chinese character, standing for the name of "Humming-Top," the famous and unrivalled actor. A rich silk merchant had presented this curtain in his honor; it was not to be changed until Humming-Top should be surpassed or equalled by one of his colleagues.
The curtain moved; and a man, drawing it slightly aside, came forward. The instant he appeared, the hubbub which filled the hall ceased abruptly. The man saluted the audience with all sorts of grimaces. He was dressed like a wealthy lord, and held in his hands a paper cylinder, which he began to unroll.
The people hung upon his words in profound silence; and yet they all knew that no one could unravel the sense of them. For such is the mission of this individual: he is to speak without being understood. If any one discover the true meaning of what he reads from his roll, he has missed his object. Still, he is to read the text literally, without skipping a word, or adding a syllable. The paper contains an outline of the piece to be played, the names of the characters, the actors, and the scene of action. The herald, by clipping his words and phrases, by uniting things that should be divided; by pausing where there is no pause, managed to mar his test completely, to make absurd mistakes and ridiculous jokes, at which the public laughed till the tears ran down their cheeks. Still they listened; they tried to guess the true meaning. But the speaker was clever: he withdrew, leaving no one a whit the wiser.
When he had disappeared, noisy strains of music sounded behind the scenes, and the curtain rose.
The scene represented an elegant apartment with a large window opening upon a country landscape; rich screens, a bed,—that is, a velvet mattress,—and a number of cushions, furnished the chamber.
The audience at once recognized the scenery of one of the most popular plays in the repertory of the theatre.
"It's the third act of the Vampire!" was whispered on every hand.
Only this one act of the Vampire, which is the best and most dramatic, was given. The public expressed their satisfaction by a prolonged murmur, and the curtain fell.
During the intermission most of the audience left the hall, and stormed the adjoining tea-house. There the morning meal was served, or merely warm drinks and a few dainties, amidst an indescribable tumult and confusion. Every one expressed his opinion of the merits of the play just witnessed, and of the actors' skill. Their gestures, their cries and contortions, were imitated. Some attempted to repeat their capers, to the great amusement of the spectators; others played chess, morra, or dice.
The wait was a long one. The lads who took the part of women in the first piece were to appear in the second as well; they must have time to rest, take a bath, and change their dresses. But the time passed pleasantly; people ate, smoked, and laughed, and then flocked merrily back to the theatre.
The appearance of the hall was entirely different; all the ladies in the boxes had changed their dresses, the new ones being still more gorgeous than the first.
All eyes were bent on Yodogimi, eager to see how she could contrive a second toilet worthy of that which had so recently dazzled all beholders. Again they were mute with surprise. She seemed clothed in jewels and woven flames; her robe was one mass of humming-bird feathers, which flashed like sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and burning coals. Those living gems had been slaughtered whole-sale to form an ample garment, which cost the price of a castle.
The herald reappeared, delivered a speech no less mysterious than the first, and the curtain rose.
A scene from the Onono-Komat-Ki was now given.
Onono-Komat was a lovely maiden attached to the Court of Kioto. Having a passion for poetry, she devoted herself to study, and composed verses; but in her love of perfection, the poem once written, she washed it out and began again. Young men fell in love with her beauty, and persecuted her with their attentions. She repulsed them, and continued her favorite studies. But the persistent suitors could not pardon her disdain; by base calumny they brought her into disgrace. The inspired maiden left the palace, and wandered at random. By degrees she became poorer and poorer; but her love of poetry never failed. She contemplated the beauties of nature, and sang of them with rare perfection of style. Age came; her hair turned white; she was completely destitute, roaming from village to village, leaning on a staff, a basket on her arm, and living on alms. Children gathered round her when she sat at the gates of a temple; she smiled sweetly on them, and taught them pretty verses. Sometimes a bonze would respectfully ask leave to copy one of the poems stowed away in her basket. The inspired singer died; then only was hatred silenced, and her glory shone forth. She was deified, and her memory is reverenced by all men.
After representing various portions of the play descriptive of the life of Onono-Komat, a burlesque interlude was played, and then the Taiko-Ki at last began.
The curtain went up on a vast scene representing an encampment of soldiers. The General's tent, rising high above the rest, was pitched in the centre. Envoys came running in dismay, gesticulating wildly with arms and legs.
"The General! the General! we must see the General at once!" they cry.
Then the curtains of the tent are parted, and Taiko appears. The Humming-Top had succeeded in reproducing exactly the attitude and dress of the hero he represented. The audience showed their satisfaction. Those who, in their youth, had seen the illustrious Shogun, fancied they beheld him once more.
"What do you want?" says Taiko.
The emissaries dare not open their lips.
"Well!" says Taiko, frowning, and clapping his hand to his sword.
"Sire, while you fight your country's foes, Mitsou-Fide, to whom you intrusted the care of the kingdom, has seized the power."
At this news, Taiko's face passes successively from surprise to anxiety and fury.
Meanwhile a man carrying a light on the end of a long bamboo pole, held it close to the actor's face, that the public might not lose any of his facial expression.
"Let us be off!" cries Taiko;' "my presence alone can restore order in the palace."
He gives the command of his troops to one of his officers, and leaves the stage by a raised passage through the parquet, and disappears through a heavy curtain.
The stage revolved, and revealed the interior of a pagoda.
Taiko enters. He asks for a night's rest in the pagoda, and is told that Mitsou-Fide has just arrived with his wife and mother. They are travelling, and have stopped here. Taiko starts violently.
"My enemy so near!" he exclaims. "Shall I fly? No; I must disguise myself."
He calls for a razor, shaves his head, and slips on the dress of a bonze. He has scarcely fastened it, when Mitsou-Fide enters, and casts a suspicious glance at Taiko; the latter, to appear at his ease and quite calm, begins to sing a simple air, popular throughout the kingdom:—
"From the mountain top I gaze down into the valley.The cucumbers and the hawthorn, hope of the harvest, are in bloom."
"Come here, bonze," says Mitsou-Fide. "My mother is tired after her journey; you may prepare a bath for her."
"Who would have thought that I came here to play the part of servant?" cries Taiko, turning towards the audience with most wonderful facial expression. "I obey," he adds aloud.
The bath-room was only divided from the apartment which occupied the stage by a screen covered with oiled paper. Taiko prepares the bath; amusing the audience meantime by a thousand comical remarks, accompanied by appropriate grimaces.
Mitsou-Fide's mother, enters, and asks if the bath is ready. On the affirmative reply of the false bonze, she disappears behind the screen. But Mitsou-Fide learns that Taiko is in the pagoda, and now rushes up in a rage, shouting loudly for his enemy.
"He is in the bath," says a priest.
"He shall not escape me."
Taiko, during this scene, creeps off.
Mitsou-Fide cuts a long stock of bamboo in the garden, sharpens one end of it, and hardens it over the coals in a bronze chafing-dish. Then marching up to the dividing-screen, he pierces the paper with this impromptu spear, and thinking to slay his enemy, kills his mother.
"What have I done?" he exclaims in alarm, on hearing a woman's shriek.
"You have killed your mother!" says his young wife, entering, pale with horror, and trembling like a leaf.
"Repent! repent while she expires!" she cries, in a monotonous chant. "This cruel murder, committed by your hand, is the vengeance of Heaven! Did I not bid you beware of betraying your master? You usurped the power. See to what ambition leads you; you have killed your mother! At least repent while she expires."
"Alas! alas!" howls the murderer; "let us leave this accursed spot, let us fly! Remorse rends my heart! For three days I possessed the power: my punishment is terrible. My mother slain by my own hand! I cannot believe it!"
He bursts into the bath-room; then comes out, with all the signs of despair bordering on madness.
The stage again revolves, and represents a field. Taiko in battle array, surrounded by soldiers, waits to intercept his enemy, who is about to escape. Mitsou-Fide crosses the stage with a scanty train of attendants; he is hemmed in by Taiko's men. The latter, after a long speech, in which he overwhelms his unworthy servant with reproaches, takes him prisoner and loads him with chains.
The curtain falls; the play is over.
It interested the audience deeply; in certain situations they discovered analogies to the events which had so recently troubled the country. Hieyas was often mentally substituted for Mitsou-Fide.
Everybody went home highly delighted.
Everybody? No. Fide-Yori had death in his soul. Omiti was not at the performance. Nagato tried in vain to comfort his friend.
"I shall never see her again!" he cried. "I hoped that I might yet be happy in this life; but misfortune clings to me persistently. Look you, friend," he continued, "I long to die; I am overwhelmed with sorrow. My mother's conduct, her mad and ruinous extravagance, displayed in public, fill my heart with bitterness. Several times, when I heard the rough voice of that soldier whom she is weak enough to love, I was on the point of leaping into their box, slapping him in the face, and driving her out, with the righteous wrath evoked by such a disregard of all propriety and decency. And then my anger died at a gentle thought which took possession of me. I hoped that she would come,—that maiden in whom my every hope is centred; I searched the hall with an eager glance. She did not come! All is ended; all is desolate within me; and the life which she preserved I would fain lay down forever!"
Winter had come; days of burning heat had given place to days of frost and ice. The leaden sky seemed to have changed places with the earth, now dazzlingly bright in its white robes of snow.
In the outskirts of Osaka the deserted shore had preserved intact the thick coat of wadding dropped from the clouds. The waves, reflecting the dull gray heavens, looked like ink. Scattered rocks jutted from the ground at intervals; the snow clung to their sharp angles. Gulls, disturbed in their flight by the wind, flapped their wings; they seemed dark and dirty against this whiteness.
The last house of the suburb extended its high garden fence along the beach; it was covered with snow, and the swinging sign, which hung from two posts flanking the door, was quite illegible. The big lanterns swelling forward at either side of the entrance had been drawn in and fastened by hooks; a small penthouse sheltered them. The triple roof of the house seemed thatched with silver.
This was the Day-Break Inn. It was here that Omiti had for many long days endured the cruel fate imposed upon her. She suffered in silence, with a proud resignation which accepts neither pity nor consolation. She sacrificed herself to save the lord of the kingdom. She yielded without a murmur to the consequences of her sacrifice; but she sometimes thought that it would have been more merciful to kill her. She had no wish to see the King again, although she had not ceased to love him. Her love was born of a maiden's dream. Before she over saw Fide-Yori, that young prince, said to be handsome and amiable, filled her thoughts; and as she embroidered, she mused and wove a web of fancy about his image. When she discovered the horrid plot which threatened the life of him who filled her soul, she felt as if she should die of terror; but her longing to save him gave her the strength and courage of a hero. In her single interview with the King, in the lemon grove, she saw that her heart had not erred, and that she should never love any other man. But the idea that he might love her never even occurred to her; her modesty forbade it; and since, sold for the general pleasure, she had sunk to the lowest grade in the social scale, the mere thought of again standing in Fide-Yori's presence made her blush with shame.
Often rich merchants from the town would bring their wives to the tea-house, to spend a few hours in the company of the gaizha girls, who instructed them in the art of acquiring elegant manners, taught them to play the samsin, and to compose verses. Sometimes the fine lady, crouching opposite Omiti, listening, with half-open lips, to the girl's plaintive tones, was surprised to see sudden tears flood the singer's eyes. But she supposed it was a seductive wile; and going home, would strive to weep as she struck the strings of her instrument.
Beneath its snowy mantle, behind its closed windows, and although it appeared quite silent from without, the tea-house was full of people and of noise.
For several weeks it had been thronged daily by a crowd of people of all classes, who seemed to assemble there for some secret purpose. The master of the establishment was undoubtedly in league with these men; he always mingled in their conversation,—indeed he often seemed to direct and inflame it. They talked of the affairs of the nation. The general misery was frightful. This civil war, coming just at the time when the fields most needed the master's eye, had injured the harvests; several crops were utterly destroyed by the armies, others were poor; famine threatened all that part of the kingdom which still belonged to Fide-Yori. In the north, on the contrary, everything throve and flourished. While rice was scarce in the neighborhood of Osaka, it was sold at half price in the northern provinces; but Hieyas absolutely forbade it to be exported to the south, and the Shogun took no pains to have a supply brought from elsewhere. While the people died of starvation, the Court displayed an unexampled luxury: every day were given receptions, feasts, and banquets. Yodogimi excited the popular wrath; she exhausted the treasury. The taxes were raised, and salaries lowered. The Government had plainly gone mad. The Court danced on the verge of an abyss, dragging their trains of gold and satin after them, to the sound of bewildering music. All were blind; no one thought of the possible resumption of the war. Men got drunk, they laughed and sang within the fallen walls of the fortress; they took no steps to restore the army to its former footing, or to increase it if possible. Yoke-Moura had vainly striven to act; money was wanting: the caprices and ruinous extravagance of the Princess Yodogimi absorbed it all. And the Shogun, what was he about? Plunged in a mysterious melancholy, he wandered in his gardens solitary and alone, doing nothing, apparently laying down the power. It was evident that Hieyas only waited for an opportunity to give the last blow to that crumbling structure. But why should he wait? The old man's wisdom was in strange contrast with the young man's improvidence and the folly of his Court. Hieyas must be summoned; his accession would save the nation from misery and want. Why should they be reduced to the last extremity? An effort must be made to bring about the inevitable issue as soon as might be.
Omiti, with growing fear, daily heard similar discourses. The guests of the inn changed; the same men did not always return. They went elsewhere, to stir up rebellion and wrath. It was plain that emissaries from Hieyas were mixed with these artisans. The Usurper felt the value of a movement in his favor at Osaka; he was anxious to provoke it. Moreover the careless indifference of the Court was of wonderful help to him. Omiti saw all this; she wrung her hands, and wept with despair. "Then there is no one who dares to warn him of his danger!" she cried, in her sleepless nights.
One day, as she sat in her room embroidering, she noticed that the people talking in the room below had dropped their voices. Usually they cared very little who heard them. Her heart leaped in her bosom.
"I must hear what they say," she murmured.
She ran to the top of the staircase; and holding fast to the railing, glided to the lowest step as lightly as air, and succeeded in catching a few disjointed sentences.
"Yes, that beach is unfrequented."
"We will enter the inn by the door which opens from the sea."
"And we will leave on the street side in small groups."
"The soldiers must be disguised as mechanics."
"Of course; but they will keep their weapons under their cloaks."
"The city is already greatly agitated; we will proceed to the fortress in a body, and summon the Shogun to abdicate."
"If he refuses, we will enter the palace and take possession of him."
Omiti shivered with horror. "I must get away from here," she muttered; "I must give the alarm."
The conspirators continued: "We must hasten; to-morrow, at nightfall, the soldiers may land."
"Directly after, a cargo of wheat and rice will arrive."
Omiti went back to her room. She had heard enough; her resolve was taken. A sort of mystical ardor filled her soul. "My mission in this world is to save him, to hold him back on the edge of the precipice," she thought with exaltation. "This is the second time that I have discovered a guilty secret,—a plot against the man whom I loved before I ever knew him. The will of Heaven is displayed in this. Once more I will point out his peril to him; my feeble hand shall stay the execution of the crime."
She considered the means she might employ to escape from the house. Two other young women shared her chamber at night. She could not trust them; they did not like her, and were devoted to their master.
Upon the ground-floor all the doors were closed on the inside by heavy bars; besides, the men servants, who had charge of the cellar department, slept down stairs. Therefore it was useless to think of escape in that direction. There remained the window; it was somewhat high above the ground, but that was not what troubled Omiti. How could she open the window without rousing the other women If she succeeded in doing it without a noise, the cold air blowing into the room would wake them. Omiti thought of the window that opened on the staircase landing. But the one in her room looked upon the street, while the other opened into the garden; and once in the garden, she still had the fence to climb.
"No matter," thought Omiti; "I'll get out of the window on the stairs."
But how? She had no ladder at her disposal. With a rope? Where should she get a rope without arousing suspicion? She decided to manufacture one. Her comrades had gone for a walk, and she had plenty of time. Opening the boxes containing her clothes, she took out various strong silk dresses and cut them into strips. She then braided these strips together, and fastened the strands by hard knots. Then she rolled up the rope, and hid it under her mattress.
"Now," said she, "I am sure I can save him."
The day seemed long to her; the fever of expectation made her tremble nervously; her teeth chattered at intervals.
The other girls came back, their cheeks rosy with the cold; they wearied Omiti with the recital of all they had seen and done. They had gone to the banks of the Yedogawa to see if the ice was drifting. They fancied they saw a few floating blocks, but perhaps it was only snow; for there was snow everywhere, even on the golden fishes that crowned the high tower of the fortress, which were turned to silver. The wind was icy; but, to ward off the cold, the men had put on embroidered velvet ear-caps....
Omiti paid no attention to the interminable chatter of the women. She was delighted to see the lanterns lighted. Darkness had come, but the long evening still lay before her. She could not eat any supper; and feigned illness, to avoid singing or playing the biva.
She returned to her room, where her companions soon joined her; their walk had tired them, and they quickly fell asleep.
The noise, the laughter, and songs of the men who were getting tipsy below lasted yet a long time. But at last she heard the familiar sound of the bars dropping into their places; every one was gone.
She waited another half-hour, to give the servants time to sleep soundly; then, without the slightest noise, she rose, took the rope from under her mattress, and slid slightly aside the panel opening on the staircase, shutting it when she had passed. She listened, and heard nothing but a few snores, which were very reassuring. She opened the window; the night air made her shudder. She leaned out, and looked down; the white snow afforded a dim light.
"It is high," thought the young girl; "will my rope be long enough?"
She fastened it to the window-frame, and unrolled it. It reached the ground, and even trailed a little on the snow.
Omiti wound her gown about her, and knelt on the edge of the window. But as she was about to intrust herself to that frail cord, a sort of instinctive fear took possession of her; she hesitated.
"What!" said she, "I tremble for my life when his is in danger!"
She let herself go abruptly, holding to the rope with both hands. A sharp pain almost forced a scream from her; she felt as if her arms would be pulled from their sockets; her hands were torn as she slid rapidly down. But all at once one of the knots in the silk gave way under her weight, and the rope broke.
She fell upon the snow, which swallowed her up. But her fall was deadened; and she rose to her feet, feeling no pain, but a sudden lassitude. After shaking off the snow, with which she was covered, she crossed the garden and gained the fence. Luckily the door was only fastened by a big round bolt; after several attempts, she succeeded in drawing it back.
She was on the shore, out of that ill-omened house, free at last! The strong wind blew sharp from the sea, whose monotonous roar she heard. She began to run, sinking ankle deep in the snow, which rose behind her in clouds of glittering particles.
She was in such haste to be gone from the tavern, that instead of going round the corner of the house into the street upon which the front door opened, she followed the garden fence, which soon came to an end, and was replaced by a wall running round another enclosure.
"I will enter the city by the next lane that opens on the beach," thought Omiti.
She reached a sort of open square on the sea-shore, bordered on the other side by a semicircle of wretched huts, half hidden in their mantles of snow. In the middle, a lighted lantern, hanging from a post, made a shimmering, blood-red spot. The light was very dim. The young girl took a few steps into the square, but suddenly recoiled with a cry of horror: she saw an awful face gazing down at her from above the lantern.
At the scream uttered by the young girl, a myriad other shrieks rang out from the bills of countless crows; who, roused abruptly, flew up and circled in the air in aimless fashion. Omiti was soon surrounded by the ill-omened birds. Motionless with fright, she thought herself the victim of some hallucination, and rubbed her eyes, trying to take in and understand what she saw. That face still glared at her; she had snow in her eyebrows, her hair, her open mouth, and her haggard eyes. At first Omiti thought she saw a man leaning against the post; but on looking closer, she found that the head, without a body, was suspended to a nail by the hair, and she recognized that she was in the square where all the public executions took place.
The ground was covered with mounds,—graves hastily dug for the victims. The body of the last criminal had been left at the foot of the post; a dog, busily scratching the snowy shroud that veiled the corpse, uttered a long howl, and fled with a bloody fragment in his jaws. A large bronze statue of Buddha, seated on a lotos, was visible, spotted with white flakes.
Omiti conquered her terror and crossed the square, stretching out her arms to drive away the crowd of ravenous crows which flocked about her. They pursued her with their melancholy shrieks, which were mingled with the roar of the sea.
The young girl went rapidly down a narrow street, illumined by no ray of light. The snow had been trampled, and she walked through icy mud. The darkness was profound; it was not even mitigated by the whiteness of the earth. Omiti kept close to the walls, to feel her way. But the houses did not follow in regular order; there were vacant spaces; she sometimes lost her guide. Her feet sank in pits of soft snow, which began to melt in places. She fell, then rose again; the edge of her dress was soaked. She felt benumbed with cold.
"Shall I ever reach my journey's end?" she thought.
Another street appeared, crossing the first; a few lights glittered down its length. Into this Omiti turned.
Without knowing it, the girl was passing through the very worst quarter of the city. Thieves, disreputable women, and vagabonds of every sort congregate there. There, too, may be found a peculiar class of men, the Ronins. These are young men, sometimes noble, dragged down by dissipation to the lowest stage of ignominy. Driven from their homes or stripped of their office, but preserving the right to wear two swords, they take refuge among the criminal classes, give themselves over to all sorts of shameful industries, assassinate at other people's orders, are the leaders of bands, and exercise great influence over the villains among whom they live. A few hours earlier it would have been impossible for the young girl to enter this region without being attacked, insulted, or carried by main force into some of the evil dens of which it is composed. Fortunately the night was far advanced; the streets were empty.
But another obstacle awaited Omiti: this quarter of the city is shut in by a gate guarded by a watchman. How could she make him open the door at this hour? What excuse could she give to the suspicious and probably surly keeper? Omiti considered this as she walked. She soon saw the wooden gate at the end of a street, lighted by several lanterns; she noticed the hut, made of planks, for the gatekeeper's shelter.
"I must be bold," she thought; "if I manifest the slightest uneasiness he will distrust me."
She marched straight up to the door. The man was probably asleep, for the sound of her footsteps did not bring him out. Omiti measured the gate with her eye. It was impossible to climb over; it was surmounted by barbed iron wires.
The young girl, her heart beating hard, knocked at the hut. The keeper came out with a lantern. He was well wrapped in a wadded robe, and his head was lost in the folds of a brown woollen scarf; he looked sickly, and besotted with drink.
"What's the matter?" said he, in a hoarse voice, lifting his lantern to a level with Omiti's face.
"Open the door," said the girl.
The fellow burst out laughing.
"Open the door at this time of night?" he cried; "you're crazy." And he turned on his heel.
"Stop!" said she, holding him fast; "my father is sick, and sent me to fetch the doctor."
"Very well, there are plenty of doctors here. There's one not ten steps away; there's another in Grasshopper Street; and still a third at the corner of Thieves' Lane."
"But my father has no faith in any but his own physician, who lives in another district."
"Go home and to sleep!" said the man. "That's all a lie; but you can't fool me. Good night!"
He was about to close the door of his hut.
"Let me pass," cried Omiti, in despair, "and I swear you shall be paid beyond your utmost hopes."
"You have money, then?" said, the keeper, turning quickly back.
Omiti recollected that she had a few kobangs in her sash, and said, "Yes."
"Why didn't you say so in the beginning?"
He took the monstrous key that hung from his belt and went to the gate. Omiti gave him a kobang. It was a large amount to the ill-paid man, who drank up his wages as fast as he earned them.
"With such a reason in your hands, there was no need to put your father to death!" said he, throwing open the gate.
"Which is the shortest way to reach the banks of the Yedogawa?" she asked.
"Walk straight ahead. You'll come to another gate; it opens on the shore."
"Thank you!" said she.
And she moved rapidly away. The road was better; the snow had been shovelled away and piled in heaps.
"How I am safe," thought the happy girl, heedless of the fatigue that weighed her down.
She gained the second gate. But now she knew what she was to do to have it opened. The keeper was pacing up and down, stamping his feet, to keep warm.
"I'll give you a kobang if you'll open the gate," she exclaimed.
The man stretched out his hand and put the key in the lock. Omiti passed through; she was on the bank of the river. She had only to climb up to the castle now. The road was long, but unimpeded. She walked bravely forward, drawing her gown close about her, to ward off the cold.
The guardians of the night passed on the other shore, striking their tambourines, to announce the last watch of the night. When the young girl reached the castle, a wan and pallid light was struggling to break through the clouds. The snow resumed its dazzling bluish whiteness; it seemed to radiate light rather than to absorb it from that gloomy sky, apparently covered with reddish smoke.
The castle reared its imposing mass before the young girl's gaze. The lofty towers stood out against the heavens, the broad roofs of the princely pavilions were ranged in order; the cedars along the first terrace had collected on their evergreen branches heavy lumps of snow, fragments of which fell from time to time and slid from bough to bough.
Omiti felt the tears come into her eyes when she saw the ruined walls and the filled-up moats. "My poor dear Prince!" she said. "You have given yourself up to your enemy; if the war were to begin again, you would be lost. At least you shall escape once more from the odious conspiracy contrived against you."
All were asleep in the castle, except the sentinels pacing to and fro; the fallen ramparts were replaced by living walls.
At the moment Omiti touched her goal, she feared she had not the strength to take the few steps necessary to reach the fortress-gate. Soaked with snow, spent with fatigue and excitement, the cold morning air made her shiver from head to foot. Everything swam before her; her pulses throbbed; there was a singing in her ears. She hurried to the gates; the sentinels crossed their lances, to bar her way.
"No passing here!" they said.
"Yes! I must pass at once,—I must see the King, or you shall be severely punished!" cried Omiti, in broken accents.
The soldiers shrugged their shoulders. "Stand back, woman; you are drunk, or mad. Begone!"
"I beseech you, let me in. Call some one; I feel as if I were dying. But first I must speak with the King! I must! You hear? Do not let me die before I have said my say."
Her voice was so sad and so full of entreaty that the men were moved.
"What ails her?" said one. "She is pale as the snow; she might die, as she says."
"And if she has something to tell!"
"Let us take her to the Prince of Nagato; he can decide whether it's worth hearing."
"Well, come in!" said one of the soldiers; "we pity you."
Omiti took a few tottering steps; but her strength deserted her. She hurriedly snatched from her bosom a withered flower and held it to the soldiers; then, with a stifled cry, she fell backwards.
The embarrassed and uneasy soldiers looked at each other, consulting one another with a glance.
"If she is dead," said one, "we shall be accused of killing her."
"We'd better throw her into the river."
"Yes; but how are we to touch a corpse without making ourselves impure!"
"We will purify ourselves according to prescribed laws; that will be better than being sentenced to have our heads cut off."
"That's so; let's be quick. Poor thing! it's a pity," added the fellow, leaning over Omiti. "But then it's her own fault: why did she die like that?"
Just as they were about to raise her and carry her to the river, a clear young voice was heard singing:—
"Is there aught on earth more precious than saki?If I were not a man, I would fain be a tun!"
The soldiers sprang back. A lad came forward well wrapped in a fur-trimmed robe, his head buried in a hood tied under his chin. He proudly rested his velvet-gloved hand upon the hilts of his two swords.
It was Loo returning from a nocturnal revel alone and on foot, that he might not be denounced to the Prince of Nagato by his suite; for Loo had a suite of his own, now that he was a Samurai.
"What's going on here? Who is this woman stretched motionless on the ground?" he cried, casting a terrible, glance from one soldier to the other.
The soldiers dropped on their knees, exclaiming:
"Your lordship, we are innocent. She wanted to enter the castle, to speak to the Shogun; touched by her prayers, we were about to let her pass and to conduct her to the illustrious Prince of Nagato, when all at once she fell dead."
Loo bent over the young girl. "Donkeys! Dolts! Drinkers of milk! Trodden-down shoes!" he shouted, in a rage, "don't you see that she still breathes, that she has only fainted? You leave her there in the snow instead of going to her aid? To cure you of your stupidity, I'll have you beaten till you drop dead on the spot."
The soldiers shook in every limb.
"Come," continued Loo, "lift her carefully, and follow me."
The men obeyed. As they entered the gate of the fortress, the young Samurai knocked at the guard-house close by. "Renew the sentinels!" he shouted; "I need these fellows."
And he went on. The Prince of Nagato was asleep. Loo did not hesitate to rouse him. He knew that the Shogun was trying to find traces of a young girl whom he adored. He had followed the King, in his search through the city, with his master. The fainting woman, whom he had just found at the castle gate, was very like the portrait sketched by Fide-Yori.
"Master," he said to the Prince, who, still but half awake, fixed a surprised and sleepy gaze upon him, "I think I have found the object of the Shogun's search."
"Omiti!" exclaimed Nagato; "where did you find her?"
"In the snow! But come quickly. She is cold and motionless; do not leave her to die."
The Prince slipped on a fur-lined garment, and ran to the room where Omiti lay.
"This may well be the one we have sought," said he, as he saw her; "let some one call the Shogun. But first send servant-women here, and let them take off this young girl's wet and muddy clothes. Summon also the palace doctor."
Omiti was wrapped in the softest furs; the women stirred up the fire burning in a huge bronze bowl. The King came quickly. From the threshold, through the open panels, he saw the girl in the midst of a vast heap of splendid furs and stuffs. He uttered a cry of joy, and rushed towards her.
"Omiti," he cried, "is this a dream? Is it you? After so long a separation you are restored to me at last!"
At the King's outburst the young girl trembled; she opened her eyes. The doctor arrived, breathless; he knelt beside her, and took her hand.
"It is nothing," said he, after he had felt her pulse carefully; "a slight fainting fit, undoubtedly, brought on by cold and fatigue."
Omiti, with her large eyes full of surprise, shaded by long quivering lashes, gazed at the people grouped about her. She saw the King at her feet; standing close beside her, the Prince of Nagato, smiling kindly at her; then the grave face of the doctor, made grotesque by an enormous pair of spectacles. She thought she must be the toy of some dream.
"Do you suffer, my sweet love?" said Fide-Yori, clasping Omiti's little hand in both his own. "What has happened to you? Why are you so pale?"
She looked at the King, and heard his words without comprehending them. Suddenly her memory cleared; she rose abruptly. "I must speak to the Shogun!" she cried; "to him alone, and at once."
With a gesture, Fide-Yori dismissed the spectators, but detained the Prince of Nagato. "You can speak before him; he is my dearest friend," said he. "But calm yourself. Why do you look so frightened?"
Omiti tried to collect her ideas, troubled by fever. "Because," she said, "Hieyas, by means of wily emissaries, is inciting the citizens of Osaka to rebel, and to hate there lawful lord. An insurrection is to take place this very night, and soldiers disguised as mechanics will land upon the shore in the outskirts of the town. They will enter the city and march upon your dismantled castle, to demand that you shall abdicate your title, or to kill you if you refuse. You do not doubt my words, I hope? Once already you have had proof, alas! that the misfortunes I predict are real."
"What!" cried Fide-Yori, his eyes filling with tears, "was it to save me yet again that you came? You are the good genius of my life!"
"Make haste and give your orders; take measures to prevent the crimes which are impending," said Omiti; "time presses. It is to be to-night, do you understand? Hieyas' soldiers are to invade your city by treachery." Fide-Yori turned to the Prince of Nagato. "Iwakura," said he, "what do you advise me to do?"
"Let us warn General Yoke-Moura. Let him call his men to arms, and watch the shore and the city. Is there not some place where the leaders of the conspiracy are to meet!" he added, addressing Omiti.
"There is," said the young girl; "at the Day-break Inn."
"Very good; then we must surround the inn and seize the rebels. Do you desire, master, that I should see your orders executed!"
"You will make me happy, friend, by doing so."
"I leave you, sire," said Nagato. "Let nothing disturb you, and give yourself freely up to the joy of reunion with the woman whom you love."
The Prince withdrew.
"What does he mean?" thought the astonished Omiti. "The woman whom you love: of whom was he talking?"
She was alone with the King, and dared not lift her eyes; her heart throbbed violently. Fide-Yori, too, was troubled; he did not speak, but gazed at the lovely girl who trembled before him. She, lost in blushes, twisted in her fingers a tiny withered twig.
"What have you in your hand?" gently asked the Shogun; "is it a talisman?"
"Don't you recognize the spray of lemon-blossoms which you gave me when I saw you?" said she. "Just now, when I fainted, I offered it to the sentinels. I thought that they would take it to you, and that the sight of it would recall me to you. But I find it is still in my hand."
"What! You kept those flowers?"
Omiti raised her clear eyes to the King, revealing her soul in her face; then dropped them quickly. "Because you gave them to me," said she.
"You love me, then?" cried Fide-Yori.
"O master!" said the startled girl, "I should never have dared to confess the weakness of my heart."
"You will not confess your love? Well! I love you with all my soul, and I dare to tell you so."
"You love me?—you, the Shogun?" she exclaimed, with touching amazement.
"Yes, and I have long waited your coming, wicked one. I have sought you; I was plunged in despair; you have made me suffer cruelly! But since you are here, all is forgotten. Why did you delay so long? Had you no thought of me?"
"You were my only thought; it blossomed like a celestial flower in the midst of my sad life; without it I should have died."
"You thought of me, while I groaned at your absence; and you did not come?"
"I did not know that you had deigned to remember me. Besides, had I known it, I should not have come."
"What!" cried the Shogun, "is it thus you love me? Would you refuse to live with me—to be my wife?"
"Your wife!" murmured Omiti, with a bitter smile.
"Certainly," said Fide-Yori; "why do you look so sad?"
"Because I am not worthy even to be numbered with your servants; and when you learn what I have become, you will drive me from you with loathing."
"What do you mean?" cried the Shogun, turning pale.
"Listen," said the girl, in a hollow voice. "Hieyas came to my father's castle; he found out that I had discovered the frightful plot against your life, and had betrayed it; he had me carried away and sold as servant in a tavern of the lowest class. There I have lived as women live who are slaves. I never left that inn until last night. Once more I overheard a conspiracy against you. I escaped from the window by means of a rope, which broke. Now you are saved, let me go; it is not fit that you should stay any longer in the company of a woman like me."
"Hush!" cried Fide-Yori; "what you tell me breaks my heart. But do you think that I could cease to love you? What! It was for my sake you were reduced to servitude; for my sake you have suffered. You have saved my life twice, and you think I would forsake you I would scorn you? You are crazy. I love you more than ever. You shall be queen; do you hear me? How many women in your condition have been bought and married by nobles. You are here; you shall not leave me."
"O master!" exclaimed Omiti, "I conjure you, remember your rank; think of the duty you owe to yourself; do not yield to a passing desire!"
"Hush, cruel girl!" said the King. "I swear that if you continue to drive me to despair I will slay myself at your feet!"
Fide-Yori put his hand to his sword.
"Oh! no, no!" shrieked the girl, turning ashy pale "I am your slave; do with me as you will."
"My beloved queen!" cried Fide-Yori, clasping her in his arms, "you are my equal, my companion, and not my slave. It is not merely from a spirit of obedience that you yield, is it?"
"I love you!" whispered Omiti, raising her beautiful eyes, wet with tears, to the King.
The leaders of the conspiracy were all arrested at the Day-break Inn; but the soldiers of Hieyas, warned betimes, did not disembark; so that although the Shogun was certain that Hieyas was the secret head of the plot, no positive proof could be brought against him. Still it was evident that civil war was about to break out again. General Yoke-Moura thought that it would be best to take the initiative, and carry the war into the enemy's country. The other generals, on the contrary, desired to collect all their forces in and around Osaka, and wait.
Discord ensued among the leaders. "You are too rash," they said to Yoke-Moura.
"You are fools," replied the General.
No decision was reached. Fide-Yori, absorbed in his happiness, would not hear any mention of the war. "Let my generals do their work," said he.
At the entreaty of the Prince of Nagato, however, he sent to Hieyas an aged officer named Kiomassa, whose prudence and devotion were well known.
"Let him go to Mikawa under the guise of peace," said the Prince, "and endeavor to find out whether Hieyas really means to resume the war. The Mikado ordered him to preserve the peace; the first who infringes upon his decree will incur his wrath. If war is inevitable, let our enemy be the first to offend. Kiomassa owns a castle in the outskirts of Mikawa; he can pay a visit to Hieyas on his way to his estates without rousing suspicion."
General Kiomassa set off, escorted by three thousand troops. "I have come to make you a neighborly call," said he to Hieyas, as he entered the castle of Mikawa.
Hieyas received him with a mocking smile. "I have always held you in high esteem," he said, "and I am delighted that chance has brought you hither. I said this morning to the nobles of my household, on hearing of your arrival in my dominions, that, save for three things, I saw nothing to reprove in you."
"And what are those three things?" said Kiomassa.
"First, you travel with an army, which is strange in time of peace; second, you possess a fortress, which seems to threaten my provinces; third and last, you let your beard grow under your chin, contrary to the prevailing style."
Kiomassa answered without seeming disturbed: "I travel with an army to preserve myself from all danger, for I think the roads insecure; I have a fortress, of course, for the lodgment of that army. As for my beard, it is very useful to me; when I tie my helmet on, it makes a little cushion under my chin, and keeps it from being chafed."
"Very good; keep your beard, but shave away your castle," said Hieyas, smiling; "your soldiers will help you with the work."'
"If you insist upon it, I will ask Fide-Yori whether he will authorize me to yield the castle up to you. I shall soon return to my master. Have you no message to send him!"
"You may tell him that I am angry with him," said Hieyas.
"For what cause?"
"Because he has graven the characters composing my name on the bronze bell which he consecrated to the temple of Buddha, and they are beaten morning and night."
"What do you mean?" cried Kiomassa. "Fide-Yori had these words inscribed upon the bell: 'Henceforth my house shall be at peace.'"
"I tell you that all the characters in my name are used to make up that sentence; and it is upon my name the priest strikes with his bronze mallet, accompanying the blow with curses on my head."
"I will inform the Shogun that this coincidence offends you," said Kiomassa, without losing one whit of his composure.
He returned to Osaka, and told how he was received by Hieyas. The mocking insolence and the idle quarrel picked by the aged Regent were a sufficient indication of his hostile purpose, which he did not even try to disguise.
"His conduct is equivalent to a declaration of war," said Fide-Yori; "we should consider it as such. However, we will make no attack. Let Hieyas stand forth; he will not do so immediately; we shall, undoubtedly, have time to re-dig the moats around the castle. Let the work be begun at once."
Some time after this, Fide-Yori repudiated his wife, the granddaughter of Hieyas, and sent her back to her grandfather. He at the same time announced his speedy marriage with Omiti, to whom he had given the title of Princess of Yamato.
The two lovers forgot the rest of the world; their happiness blinded them; they had no room for thought of the dangers which threatened them. Besides, to them the only misfortune possible was to be parted; and they were sure, if any disaster occurred, that they could at least die together.
They had revisited the lemon grove. Delicate buds began to stud the branches, for spring comes quickly in that climate. The last snow has scarcely melted when the trees grow green. They wandered down the misty garden-paths, hand in hand, enjoying the bliss of being together, of seeing one another otherwise than in imagination or in a dream; for they adored each other, but did not know each other. They had met for an instant only, and the mental image which each had preserved of the other was incomplete and rather different from reality. Every moment brought them some fresh surprise.
"I thought you were shorter," said Fide-Yori.
"Your eyes seemed to me proud and scornful," said Omiti; "but they are full of infinite tenderness."
"How sweet your voice is, my beloved!" resumed the King; "my memory perverted its divine music."
Sometimes they embarked in a little boat, and with one stroke of the oar reached the middle of the pond. Upon the bank a tall willow dipped its long green branches in the water; the stiff leaves of the iris pierced the liquid mirror; and water-lilies bloomed on its surface. The betrothed pair cast their lines, and the hook sank, making a series of circles on the water. But the fish nibbled in vain; in vain the light float hovering on the surface of the pond danced a reckless measure; they heeded it not. From one end of the boat to the other, they gazed fondly at each other. But sometimes they noticed that the fish set them at nought; then their clear laughter rang out, mingling with the song of the birds.
He was twenty-three, she eighteen. Yet it was Omiti who occasionally concerned herself about the war. "Do not forget your duties as a king in your love for me," said she; "do not forget that we are threatened with war."
"Your heart is at peace with mine," said Fide-Yori; "why do you talk of war?"
However, the Shogun might safely devote himself to his love. The Prince of Nagato took his place, arranged the defence, and strove to bring about harmony among the generals, who were all at odds, and only thought of thwarting one another. Harounaga in particular gave him abundant cause for anxiety. He forbade his men to dig the moat around the castle. "That is work for slaves," said he; "and you are warriors."
The soldiers of the other companies, unwilling to be less sensitive than their comrades, in their turn refused to work. So that after the lapse of a month and a half children could still run up and down into the moat at play. Nagato was obliged to inflict severe punishments, and order was restored by degrees.
Signenari pitched his camp on the plain to the north of the city; Yoke-Moura took up his quarters on the hill called Yoka-Yama, and Harounaga on Tchaousi-Yama. All the rest of the troops guarded the shore, or were collected in the fortress. Moreover, Nagato had charged Raiden and his mates to enlist all who would fight; and the brave sailors had gathered ten thousand volunteers.
Thus defended, it was difficult to take the city by surprise. Nagato's eagle eye was everywhere; he had fortified the two bastions which stand at the entrance to Osaka, on either side of the river. By the help of the canals intersecting the entire town, by destroying a certain number of bridges, he had contrived to make a moat, and to insulate the district containing the fortress. The Prince seemed unwearied. With such a leader, who thought of everything, and kindled the ardor of the troops by his words and his example, the city might be defended, and still hope. But all at once Nagato left Osaka.
One evening a horseman paused at the door of his palace. Nagato recognized Farou-So-Chan, one of the nobles especially attached to the service of the Kisaki. Iwakura never saw any one who came from the Dairi without a palpitation of the heart. On this occasion his emotion was yet more marked. Farou-So-Chan was charged with a particular and secret mission.
"Here is a letter which the Kisaki directed me to place in your hands," said he, with a melancholy gravity which struck Nagato.
He unfolded the letter with trembling fingers; it exhaled the delicate perfume which he loved so much.
It read as follows:—
"On the tenth day of the fifth moon go to the province of Ise, to the temple of Ten-Sio-Dai-Tsin, at nightfall; kneel on the threshold of the temple and remain in prayer until a young priest approaches you and touches you on the shoulder; then rise and follow him; he will conduct you to me."
"On the tenth day of the fifth moon go to the province of Ise, to the temple of Ten-Sio-Dai-Tsin, at nightfall; kneel on the threshold of the temple and remain in prayer until a young priest approaches you and touches you on the shoulder; then rise and follow him; he will conduct you to me."
Nagato lost himself in conjectures. What could be the meaning of this singular tryst at the doors of the temple of the Sun-Goddess in the province of Ise? Was it a trap? No; for Farou-So-Chan was the messenger. But then he should see her again; all anxiety faded before that delightful prospect.
The tenth day of the fifth moon was the very next day but one. The Prince had barely time to reach the spot at the hour appointed, and he started in haste.
The earliest temple to Ten-Sio-Dai-Tsin is situated in the province of Ise, and is bathed by the waves of the Pacific Ocean. According to sacred legend, the Goddess Sun was born upon the very site of the temple.