Takara deeply mourned the fate of Michizane, whom she not only loved but had revered as the only living representative left to her of a fast fading memory. She pondered, but wisely held her counsel. Tetsutaisho did not fathom her, but satisfied himself and reviled her upon shallower grounds.

When left to his own recourse, shorn of impulse, his understanding seldom rose above the lesser order. He was big in war, but small in consequence. Nor was his sympathy any the greater, and when she remonstrated about her child, he laughed and told her that she, a daughter of royalty, should be the last to question the wisdom of the law. He only urged her to forget the circumstance and respect his will. She acquiesced for the time being, but there was rising within her a bitter spirit. There was coming a day when the mind, too, should assert its rank; when the soul should attain its fulness.

“But why are you less ardent?” questioned he, one evening after having returned from Kinsan’s apartments, where, as Takara knew, he was now in the habit of regularly spending much time.

“Would you ask me why darkness follows light, the earth rotates on its axis, and flesh turns to stone? I thought you a man of consequence, not an object of pity,” answered she, calmly though earnestly.

Tetsutaisho stood aghast at her daring, yet thought not to search for its meaning. Had he but looked outside, the veil might have fallen from his blinded eyes, for the same spirit which moved Takara had roused a host of valiant defenders. The boldness of Ikamon’s stroke had so stunned the enemy as to irrevocably establish the new order, but not without inevitably disastrous consequences.

Even to the shogun’s supporters, the destruction of the apparently harmless Michizane, and the advent of the scarcely known child, Iyeyoshi, seemed so veiled in mystery that many were inclined to believe that some deep-laid scheme lay behind a rather elusive but possible trick. In consequence, the shogun, in his weakness, anxious to hide his stupidity behind some apparent justification, took the burden upon his own shoulders and thus widened the breach between himself and his true friends, increasing to that extent his dependence upon Ikamon.

The discontent due to the adoption of an heir to the shogunate became after a time, however, somewhat allayed; but the curiosity aroused by the banishment of Michizane increased, and the feeling of unrest at the mikado’s seat grew to such degree that before a year had passed the south began to assume a resentful if not hostile attitude. Nearly five years had elapsed since their favourite daughter, Takara, had been carried away to become the wife of Shibusawa, the most promising of the young princes under the shogunate. No results had as yet obtained from this alliance, nor had the restoration of the kuge[12] taken place as promised. They were dissatisfied, and Takara’s misalliance was the first pretext seized upon to rouse a determined move. Spies had been sent to Tokyo and the whole truth discovered to a few of the leaders, yet from policy’s sake these reports had been suppressed in the hope of perfecting a more judicious organisation before the advent of a general uprising.

This conservatism on the part of the southern leaders baffled Ikamon, who believed them, like himself, incapable of looking beyond self-interest for a motive. Others might sacrifice and strive for humanity, but the sweet-voiced god Oshaka ever whispered in Ikamon’s ear the one word, “Self.” It was self that lay at the bottom; self that raised the human above the brute; self that promised life eternal: the gods were but self, asserted and ordained, and ordinary man was only the blind, the halt, the sympathetic. Diplomacy was his weapon, heroism an humbler man’s part.

Tetsutaisho was now too much absorbed with personal affairs even to try to grasp the outer shreds of a complicated political situation. True, he had realised in some measure from time to time that an ugly gossip circulated on the outside as to affairs at his house; yet he was slow to appreciate its importance, and but for being urged from other sources would have given it barely passing notice. He busied himself more with shifting his attentions from a worn love to one that was new though elusive, and as yet unfound.

Thus Tetsutaisho for once released Takara from his constant attention, and when she lay down in the freedom of her chamber she marvelled at his neglect, for she not only knew his real purpose in bringing Kinsan into the house, but understood his utter failure. She realised that the innocent girl’s struggles had not been in vain, and she gloried in her virtue. She said to herself:

“What a womanhood! Oh, if I had but known the way! How gladly would I surrender the wreath of state, the power of kings, for the crown of purity! But alas! it is not mine. It is only for those who know their true god. May I never again see mine!”

Then she slept, and she dreamed that she heard Michizane’s voice, that he spoke to her, and that the words were a poem in praise of her ancestors, that all about was a garden and in it were her friends; that her soul turned to beauty, and joy came down from Heaven, and all was peace. She did not wake, but saw Hyaku, the young magician, and felt the power of his magic, although she could neither move nor speak.

The Band of Forty-Seven had entered Takara’s chamber at dead of night, and placing her in a light chair slung upon the backs of swift carriers, well disguised, ran with the speed of the hare, the endurance of the ox; and before they could be overtaken, or it was really known what had happened, they were at Kyoto, in her own mother’s house; when again Takara saw the hand of Hyaku, and felt its power; she awakened and there was real gladness in her heart. She made no inquiry as to how it all happened, or as to the motive which prompted their timely action. She knew that it was the ronin[13] who fetched her, and that she was welcome when she got there. Had she known all, she would have understood better how those trusted men had for days and months waited and watched their chance to seize and carry her away to her friends; back to the home she had surrendered to no purpose except that of sorrow and regret.

The news of Takara’s return to the home of her childhood, and of the manner of her escape, soon became known to the immediate friends of Tetsutaisho’s family. Maido paid but little attention to the circumstance, and thus, probably, gave occasion for the rumour, which gained some credence, that he had actually winked at her going and was not particular about her returning. However that may be, his general failing and prolonged worry over Shibusawa’s absence were not a sufficient shield for his indifference, at least in the opinion of some of his less intimate friends. Tetsutaisho, more dazed at the audacity of the ronin than puzzled with the reason for Takara’s abduction, at first inclined toward instituting a vigorous pursuit, but upon second thought concluded he had best consult his friends before inaugurating any such serious undertaking.

“It is not so much that I care for the concubine,” said he to Ikamon, on the following day; “it is the vindication of the law that prompts me to send a detachment for her relief. These bands of marauders must be suppressed, even at the cost of war upon their stronghold. What safety is there for a gentleman so long as his castle may be entered and his property carried away while he sleeps? The next we hear, it will be the shogun himself of whom we are robbed. Give Tetsutaisho the word, I say, and he will soon make an end of it—Saigo, the ronin, his dreamers, Kido, and all.”

Ikamon did not fire so easily as to let his enthusiasm run away with his judgment, yet he was none the less quick to apprehend the danger confronting them. The paltry sop thrown to Saigo and a few followers had scarcely touched the lofty progress of the literati. There could be but one finale: materialism must sooner or later find itself pitted against patriotism. Iyesada, weak and uncertain, was little to the purpose in a serious conflict, and no one knew better than Ikamon the over-sensitive shogun’s inclination to side with the last to persuade; of his want of policy; of his anxiety and bewilderment. He therefore urged upon Tetsutaisho the necessity of proceeding in the dark and cautiously.

“Keep these fellows at bay,” said he, confidentially, “until we can discover their real purpose and strength. In the meantime Iyesada may die—Ikamon can then safely devise. The shogunate in the hands of an infant is better to our purpose. The plans of the mikadate if in our hands can be made to serve rather than defeat us. I would advise, if advice be meet, that you send out your spies and keep at home your force.”

Tetsutaisho heeded the warning, and before long copious if not trustworthy news came from every conceivable source. Iyesada soon died, and the youthful Iyemochi succeeded as shogun; while Tetsutaisho marvelled at Ikamon’s wisdom, and more than ever resigned himself to the conquest of more peaceful delights. Kinsan had suddenly become the sole object of his attention, and for her heart he pressed his suit, more than ever ardent, if not sincere. Maido, absolved from all these matters, had more and more devoted himself to the memory of his son, but now that good news had reached him he rejoiced, and anxiously awaited the return of Shibusawa.