Sakuma had served his master and met the foe as became his better judgment; but an older belief on the one hand and newer tactics on the other defeated him.

The master himself was harrassed with a ruse no less potent to the southward; Hideyoshi had sent Niwa—fired at the promise of spoils—with only forty men, to light torches on the mountain side, and Shibata, overloaded as he was, saw here, too, a great force: Hideyoshi, hearing of Katsutoya’s defeat and Shibata’s fears, threw down his chop sticks and jumping to his feet, exclaimed with joy:

“I have won. I have won a great victory.” Then mounting his horse, rode out to battle as became him.

“Takiyama, with one-half the army, will move upon the northern pass: Kuroda, with the other half, hold against the southern: Hideyoshi, with his staff and a small body guard, shall make his way, as best he can, between the two, toward—Kitanoshi. Let no temporary success induce either one of you to venture into the enemy’s territory; Hideyoshi commands.”

The actual presence of these two vast armies drove consternation finally into the hearts of Shibata’s now wavering followers. Takiyama cut down Gonroku’s halting force in the north and sent the jealous, vacillating son himself into the hills a loser and a renegrade. Kuroda met and dispersed Takigawa and his relieving army, Shibata’s ally, at the south. Hideyoshi had met and dispatched Sakuma upon a still deadlier mission—Shibata had been routed and, with only a hundred staid adherents, made his way toward Kitanoshi, fully resolved upon his course—but it remained for another to turn the trick to some purpose other than ruthless bloodshed alone.

After parting with Yodogima at Kitanoshi, Ieyasu had made his way forthwith to castle Fuchu, his friend Maeda’s estate, in Echizen, near by, with the settled intention of forming some sort of alliance that might enable him to take and hold his love, Yodogima, no matter what the outcome between Shibata, her father, and Hideyoshi, the usurper.

Thus when Shibata, too, in his retreat, called there, to ask the loan of a fresh horse, the two were brought into direct contact most unexpectedly.

“You are a young man, Ieyasu; and, were I in your place, I should make peace with Hideyoshi. For me, it is impossible; I must save the honor of my house, as our fathers before us have done. Take heed, my friend.”

Both Ieyasu and Maeda proffered him assistance, or an escort, but he refused them. The former because it were too late—his mind had been made up—and as to the latter it might endanger them and disgrace him were they to be seen leading a suicide to his mat.

“My family awaits me; it is alone their due and my privilege, this honored rite. Good-bye.”

Ieyasu fell back, dazed with the intelligence; he knew that Maeda would keep his word, and that every member of the household should share his fate. No descendant of the Taira would be found wanting or unmindful of the bushido—Yodogima must be saved, if at all, by some agency without the pale of his doing or her understanding.

He might have overtaken Shibata and defeated him of his purpose, but that could do no more than add insult to well-meaning, make it still more incumbent upon the family, and Yodogima in particular, tempered as she was, to wipe out the stain accruing.

Thus puzzled and overcome, the conscious young lover made the necessary excuses and mounting his horse rode out into the woods, keeping to bypaths and unfrequented places, the better to contemplate some proper course as well his duty. He was disconsolate, and loitered slowly along, whipping at stray branches or humming words of recent cheer.

“Fain save your song, and guard better the stroke,” growled a hard-looking outcast, hit and staring behind the bush at one side.

Ordinarily Ieyasu should not have minded the thrust, but something in the voice, though more the manner of the occasion attracted him.

“Come out, my fellow, or I shall cut you down,” threatened he, grasping the hilt of his sword and turning upon the ruffian, to that one’s very great surprise.

“My clothes are a warning; I am empty, and without shelter—yet can serve you,” said the eta, stepping forth, with a big bundle tied fast at his back.

“Ha, ha; etas would serve lords, and lords, their doom, in these times—how would you set about making me happy; Shibata is far away by this time, villain?” sighed Ieyasu.

“Ah-ha-a—I nearly lost my tongue—to do that it would be necessary for you and me to change places.”

“For how long, innocent thing?”

“Till Yodogima rights us.”

Ieyasu sprang to the ground; the name of his love on such lips were more than he could bear without a vengeance. The occasion for such intelligence for the moment unnerved him, and no sooner had he raised sword to strike than his fellow straightened up, removing a mask, whereat Ieyasu gasped:

“Sakuma!”

“Yes; it is he; lend me your horse and I shall do you the service.”

“Very well—but the bundle: what about that?”

“Oh, yes; if you like, you may hold it till Shibata returns; he shall want to see it, and Hideyoshi rightly trusts me; it’s a good security.”

Ieyasu knew his man and believed him true; hence carefully closed the sack and himself tied up the end—it seemed a gruesome task, but Yodogima were worth any price imposed; so he shouldered the bag and once again made his way toward his friend, Maeda’s house, for were his accomplice successful at informing Shibata, and could the determined father but see that face once more, there remained no doubt in his mind as to what the outcome should be.

Nor was Hideyoshi any the less advised, or conscious, or alert, as to probable results; in the absence of Ieyasu he had run in upon Maeda—also his friend—knocking hard upon the door with his cutlass and calling out:

“Mataza, Mataza!” (Maeda’s given name.)

Maeda welcomed him, and as they stood chatting about an alliance, wherefore especially the visitor had called, Ieyasu came trudging in.

“What unsightly thing have you there, Ieyasu?” inquired the host, withal reassuringly, if somewhat suspiciously, considering the identity of their newest guest.

Ieyasu carefully set the bundle upon a convenient bench, and would of his own will, under the circumstances, have made short work of Hideyoshi had not the offence been unpardonable to any host, much more so with Maeda, whom they both respected as well as courted.

Hideyoshi appeared to be not at all disturbed, though he scanned carefully the bag and may have remembered seeing it before, and as much as fairly guessed its contents.

“A fox, I reckon,” ventured Hideyoshi, by way of compromise; “they are plentiful in these parts, so I am told. Where did you get it, Ieyasu, and is it a whole one, or only the head? Come; out with it, and I’ll stand sponsor.”

Ieyasu would fight, if needs be, but could not bear an insult, particularly at the hands of this so-called monkey-faced upstart—though he had just routed Shibata and now bade fair to win over their mutual friend Maeda.

“Come closer,” said Ieyasu, “if you would really know the contents of this significant little bag; I may not soon again have such pleasure.”

“My sword, if you like, Ieyasu.”

“No, thanks; you may yourself have need to use it.”

“Upon my word; you don’t mean to infer the thing’s alive?” suggested Maeda, a little nervous.

“Look,” demanded Ieyasu, apparently somewhat angered.

“As I said; but what did you do with its body; I see only the face?” retorted Hideyoshi.

“What is it, Maeda?” inquired Ieyasu, a bit perturbed.

“A fox!” stammered the host, fairly white in the face.

“It’s a trick, I’ll promise,” ventured Ieyasu, no longer doubtful of Hideyoshi’s motive—or powers.

“Then let us turn it to some good use; friends have no better guarantee than constancy; I’ll carry it back, to where you got it, and see it’s done; wrangling widens only the gulf it would span; the circle is but a square not wholly produced,” said Hideyoshi, fully conscious of Ieyasu’s master intention.

“Silly twaddle, for serious men,” muttered Maeda, upon parting and going each his way, as solemnly if doubtfully pledged.

The flames were yet raging when Hideyoshi reached the outskirts of Kitinoshi; Shibata had sooner entered the city, and lest any part of his treasured place should escape expurgation the sorely beaten and vainly tried daimyo began resolutely to apply the torch upon passing the outer ramparts, and did not cease until the fire had spread in every direction. Inside the palace all was confusion. His intimate friends had gathered in a last sad attempt to console a dying chieftain. For a lifetime they had served him and his and now that the time had come they would do him honor in death.

“It is the will of Kami (God),” said he, “that I am defeated. Do you serve me yet?”

“Yes,” they all cried, eagerly.

“Then it is meet that I do something to show my appreciation of such loyalty. Let a feast be spread and the sake brought in and music provided that we make merry, for to-morrow we shall be—dead.”

The flames roared and raged without, and they sang and danced and composed until a late hour. Not a soul there would but suffer the torments of hades to quench the thirst for chivalry—they should have died a thousand times to die an honorable death, to go peacefully to rest in the embrace of a master’s rite.

Presently the fires burned low on the outside, and the spirit increased correspondingly within; the sake cup was passed round, each taking his final leave.

“Asai, my good wife,” inquired Shibata, “will you not go from the castle? Hideyoshi will not harm you, a daughter of Nobunaga.”

“Why in the flesh, if the spirit rebels? I am yours in death as I have been in life. Do not turn me from you: let me die with you,” begged she, bowing low down, on the mat before him.

“What greater joy could heaven contain?” responded he, wholly absorbed.

Then a fox vainly leaped among them, and Shibata stared hard past Yodogima—a head stood perched upon a faggot at her back.

“Cannot you see them? Two—one on either side, reaching farther than Fuchu—Sakuma weeps: Katsutoya laughs—Yodogima!”

“Yes, father.”

“Do you not—help me?”

“I had thought to let—but some strange thing seems to possess us.”

“What is it, daughter?”

Yodogima hesitated.

“You have eyes?” suggested he.

Her heart throbbed painfully.

“You would not deny me?” plead her father.

The blood rushed into her face; and Katsutoya laughed outright: Shibata tremblingly urged:

“Speak, daughter.”

The one pleading, the other taunting, drove hard the will, yet thought rebelled, and Yodogima’s face turned rigid. Peace had been his and faithfulness her own had not this, the bitterest test of living, come at last to stay the hand of death. She might have evaded him, but the very thing she sought forbade it. He must dishonor her were the truth known. She had sinned, and tradition proffered not repentance. What was it, then, that moved Yodogima to answer as she did? Some subtle influence had wrought her father’s decline; they were then contemplating together the virtue of an only salvation, and—Yodogima, too, saw a face: it beckoned: she answered:

“Ieyasu!”

“He? The maker of our destiny?” demanded Shibata.

“Yes. My lover.”

“How so, Yodogima; you had not mentioned this?”

“You denied me the privilege—as you imagine me now.”

“Ah, ha—you would mock really a parent? Then go from me; and learn what it is to desecrate the gods. And that you may drink to the dregs, I send your two sisters along to do you service thereat. No daughter of mine shall disgrace me in death—be gone!”

The fires were then lighted in the rooms all around them. Shibata and Asai, his wife and only hope, withdrew into an inner chamber. The floors had been covered with straw, and the flames leaped up—Yodogima turned to go, and two faces, one hideous, the other smiling, greeted her.

A cross and an image bore they—thence duty called her; the purpose stood revealed.