Japan lay sweltering with uncertainty. Four centuries of unbridled warfare had reduced her once sturdy, centralized government to little more than a revered impotency; the country had become the property or the booty of its daimyos—those knights-errant, the pride of a nation.

It was an age of military prowess, of unlicensed chivalry, and to the victor belonged the spoils—till wrested from him, by another more powerful or less nice about the taking.

Shibata, grizzled and fair, sat upon the veranda, looking out, over the ramparts, across the moats, along the busied streets, to the mellowed hillsides beyond. It was all his: gained by life’s devoted, loyal service, not to self, but to a chosen, rising superior. It had now come time for him to assert his own supremacy; the lord he served had met his doom, gone the self same way that ambition for ages had decreed—lay shrouded in state, with his good rich blood dripping cold at the dagger’s point.

“Nobunaga conceived well,” mused he, half aloud, the tears fast welling in his great dark eyes, “but Shibata, his oldest captain, alone shall finish what the master undertook—Japan must be subdued.”

The skies darkened and the land-tempered breeze calmed, as the big lord rested back upon the soft-matted floor, gazing now afar over the hill tops toward the starry vaulted space in the distance. A little maiden, tender and eager, with black eyes and darker, massive hair, stealing near, sat at his side.

Perhaps she, too, dreamed of the future, for she had learned to love.

Learned to love as the Taira maidens, her ancestors, of a half thousand years ago, had not attempted to do. The deeds of daring and flights of fancy through all those tumultuous centuries had not only given to man the privileges of individuality, but wrested woman from the thraldom of the ages and secured to her a place and choice worthy her being.

Once again she might love and be loved—though the father’s command, the shogun’s decree, or the mikado’s will stood over her, in fact, as law, and at heart, both materially and spiritually.

Shibata did not at once turn to her, nor did he take his eyes from the vision conjured within. Conscious of her presence, the very thought burned and seared deeper and firmer his ready-made if rigorous anticipations. Fortune had given him a child in whom the blood of Taira made possible the connection. His own efforts had carved out a place and privilege. Their chieftain’s death afforded the opportunity. By the sacrifice of a child he himself would gain the shogun’s favor.

“Yodogima?” commanded he, after a while.

“Yes, father.”

“What were you just now thinking about?”

“Amida, most honorable father.”

“Your own, or some other fair one’s goddess of mercy; you are so considerate, my daughter?”

“Mine, dear father,” replied she, without any change of expression or an apparent heart-beat.

“Humph!” ejaculated Shibata, thoughtfully; “it is strange how affinities get mixed; I myself possessed somewhat a consciousness—of Amaterasu, though, the goddess of love. I wonder what is the time; the hour must draw nigh: the barons will soon be gathering; it is really getting dark. You may retire now, to make ready; Katsutoya shall be present, and your maid must grow impatient—though, I promise, nature has left really little to be done, and you need not blush; a father is privileged, you know.”

In the great hall, at another side of the high-walled inclosure—with its ponderous gate and turreted angles, surrounding a network of tile-covered, wood-lacquered buildings or grained-post colonnades, with here and there a shrine or a bell or a row of lanterns or a fretwork of gold—sat Sakuma and Gonroku, the one Shibata’s chief captain and the other his natural son.

Sakuma had just returned with added laurels; a new fief or more had been wrested from Uesugi (to the eastward) his master’s old-time foe and a daimyo of undoubted rank. To beat him in battle was no mean feat, and this, Sakuma’s latest triumph, had once more demonstrated the power and efficiency of Kitanoshi, Shibata’s stronghold, in whose castle all the great barons formerly subject to Nobunaga were then about to assemble. Shibata, the lord daimyo of all Echizen, had issued the invitations, ostensibly to cement friendships and perpetuate in authority the house of their late master, Nobunaga. Gonroku, too, felt the force of his father’s growing ascendency, but may have been just now a little jealous; duties elsewhere, to the westward, escorting Katsutoya to Nagahama castle—lately surrendered to them by Hideyoshi—had disappointed and kept him personally from the latest battle field.

The perfume of azalea freshened the room; lanterns suspended everywhere cast a subdued light into the farthest corners; soft, velvety matting set in oblongs edged round with black-lacquered frames covered the floor and a huge vase of old Satsuma ware, with a single scroll hung at the back, constituted the only decoration. Sakuma and Gonroku had come in early, and seating themselves at one side spoke in low anxious tones or whacked cautiously their pipes, as convenience required, against the one hibachi (brazier) shared between them.

“You did nobly, Sakuma: my father’s house owes much to your abilities.”

Sakuma’s eyes sparkled, but the daring, impulsive soldier, middle-aged and aggressive, made no answer. He knew this Gonroku: knew him to be a chip off the block he had served well and truly: had come to regard their praise and assurance at its true worth. Yodogima’s words would have pleased him more; she inherited well her mother’s traits. The Taira stock had taken deep root in the princess, and above all else Sakuma worshipped at this ancient particular shrine. Then, again, she had advised him somewhat of her wishes—without at all disclosing any motive, though he may have guessed as much—and he had sworn in secrecy to do her service at the cost of death; be that his own, or his master’s, or his lordship’s good and faithful son’s.

“It is less than I would do, were Shibata my age,” replied Sakuma, after a little, striking his metal pipe harder than was polite against the resonant hibachi.

“Father is rather old, and a bit fidgety; but Gonroku is young and in good favors: pray don’t overlook that.”

“But you forget Katsutoya. I must confess that I thought better of—our lord’s age than his placing at Nagahama, in the front, between Kitanoshi and Kyoto, the capital, that—fellow, only an adopted son, even though he carry the shogun’s blood—poor stuff, in these days—a thing any true knight might fairly doubt.”

“Sh—h—h. Not above a whisper, my good Sakuma.”

“Why so? These walls have no ears, I promise.”

“But Hideyoshi has. They say his spies are everywhere, and anywhere; and some—I told you so; there comes Junkei, now.”

“He’s an ass—frivolous, foolish, and a mask: a counterpart of the monkey-faced Hideyoshi himself. I shall not rise—what say you, Gonroku?”

“Flout him; I take it his superior shall fare no better at the hands of the daimyos.”

Junkei pranced in, to the center of the hall, and without pretending to see anybody, much less their host’s two worthy attendants, turned upon his heel, shouting:

“Behold; the Great; a Hideyoshi approaches!”

No sooner had the echo died than Hideyoshi, the but recently created daimyo of Omi; self-intended master of Nobunaga’s leavings and loudly proclaimed protector of the peace; with the commonest kind of low down blood in his veins, and the largest aspirations in his mind; weasen-faced, small, stooped, bullet-eyed and fiercely aggressive, yet plausibly reserved, angled his way in, displaced his long-sword, handed it to his own attendant, Junkei—who, himself, hung it upon the wall—and squatting in the middle of the hall, at one end—where only the host should sit—called loudly for a hibachi and attendance.

Hearing the noise and discerning the occasion, their host entered, followed by Ikeda, daimyo of Settsu; Niwa, of Wakasa; Maeda; Takigawa, and other invited guests, with their attendants, including Kuroda and Takiyama, noted captains under Hideyoshi, who had the decency, if not purpose, to comply with established etiquet and recognized custom.

Shibata belonged to the old school, the bakufu, acknowledged only the bushido (code of chivalry), and when those daimyos observed Hideyoshi, an upstart and outsider, self-made and wilful, usurping their host’s privileged place and rank, feelings something akin to shame if not resentment possessed them, one and all alike.

“Yes, gentlemen; I am here,” grinned Hideyoshi, rubbing his hands and peering among them—without deigning to arise—"ready for business. Our lord, Nobunaga, good and great, as he was, is dead. The work, though, which he began, must be carried on. It behooves us, his once trusted followers, to get together. Come close up, round Hideyoshi; who, perchance, feels the loss more keenly than any other. Shibata, my old friend and good fellow, bring in the sake (wine). We barons need cheer, and Hideyoshi in particular—”

“Intends to shampoo lord Shibata. That is why he so audaciously usurps his place,” interposed Sakuma, coming threateningly up.

“Well said, Sakuma; I remember his doing so, once before. It is, though, a long time now—. How do you, Hideyoshi? Is your hand steady, and capable? now that you are a daimyo? like others of us? with less face? however?” remarked Shibata, tauntingly.

A low twitter and ready gabble ensued. Only Kuroda and Takiyama remained serious or composed. Junkei danced about, unconscious of any wrong, till Hideyoshi spoke:

“Compose yourself, Junkei. Did not the queen Shomu once attend a beggar? Why should not Hideyoshi shampoo Shibata? His hand is yet true, and the heart pure. Come Shibata: prepare yourself. Hideyoshi shall again serve his oldest friend.”

Such complacency in the face of so mean a taunt fairly unnerved Hideyoshi’s bitterest enemies, and at least some of Shibata’s less staunch supporters really felt that such a man—one who could so govern his temper and conserve his patience—must of necessity be the greater man.

Hideyoshi began the shampooing as if wont to do a real service, and Shibata to hide his only too patent chagrin and sorrow at such defeat pretended to sleep.

“It is only the friendship between us here assembled that restrains our enemies scattered everywhere around. If by surrendering Nagahama to Shibata I have strengthened: if by shampooing him I have cemented that bond, then Hideyoshi has done a good service—perhaps the end, if not the method, shall be deemed worthy, if not befitting.”

So saying, Hideyoshi left off further effort at conciliation, and withdrawing proceeded thence, toward Kyoto, with a visible escort of only some three hundred men.

Sakuma would have followed, possibly to no small purpose, but there was one present, a small baron, hitherto unnoticed, who saw farther than Shibata divined. Ieyasu, a prince from Mikawa, advised that Hideyoshi be allowed to go his way unmolested.