All the powers of earth could not have tried the princess more; she realized now that she had, out of zeal, overtaxed Ieyasu, and in that opened the way for Hideyoshi perhaps successfully to pit a wit against her lover’s returning steadfastness.

“Oh, it isn’t much, after all, and—I can propose another,” stammered she, though composedly, in some vain way to stem the tide and save still the man she adored; just why, she could not tell nor would others surmise.

The suggestion fell cold upon Ieyasu’s now troubled conviction; he had been outdone by a rival: there was not the slightest doubt about that in his mind; Ieyasu respected aptness, even though himself slow to act. Nor was he longer in doubt as to Yodogima’s constancy or love; one glance had convinced him beyond recalling, and he could not have envied, for he had often said that the secret of happiness lies in kindly feeling. Then what was it that prompted him quickly to answer:

“Not to-day, but to-morrow?”

“As the princess likes,” retorted Hideyoshi, his admiration growing with quest and confidence.

“More—it is a guest’s pleasure,” commanded she, replacing the cup and glancing at Hideyoshi, without so much as disturbing a visitor or confusing their host.

That evening was thence passed without further incident, save an apparently growing discomfiture on Ieyasu’s part and the corresponding rise in spirit of Hideyoshi; who not deigning to parley with Yodogima—he took her at her word, and prided himself in doing so—began resolutely further to carry out and not to forestall. Yodogima had done her part, and well: there seemed nothing more that she could or would do to save a waiting lover; she had made it possible for him to claim her, and to drink the draught that Hideyoshi himself should not have questioned, and he had failed to do either—might be as easily duped into a more fatal blunder, made the scapegoat of his own waiting or incapacity, or both, and the princess at once raised above his further consideration.

Thus Hideyoshi planned and Ieyasu dallied, perhaps dreamed, and marvelled the audacity, perchance effect, with which Yodogima commanded, possibly ordered. The following day, however, clouded over and Date and Hideyoshi counselled and bantered till early evening, when they stood on the latter’s suggestively improvised ramparts cogitating the plight of Hojo farther down in the foreground.

“You are the greater man,” plead Date, no longer doubtful of Hideyoshi’s resources or motive, “and I am ready to surrender my lands and do you service.”

“Ah; then you shall know what it is to toast a man like Hideyoshi; to-night you shall sit next to me; and, by the way, face the smartest woman in these parts: look you well that your tongue neither outruns nor belies the manner due or occasion expected.”

At table Date, true to conviction and in consonance better with propriety, proposed the health of Hideyoshi, their duly lord and henceforth recognized master.

Flushing scarlet, Yodogima barely touched the cup that stood filled for another purpose; it seemed to her that Ieyasu, who now sat at her side, must intercede, should realize that opportunity were fast slipping away: he only whitened, then drank the liquor as prudence dictated.

Hideyoshi smiled, and turning to Date attempted their present relief by suggesting, bluntly:

“The princess reserves discreetly her response till occasion more pleasantly affords; Ieyasu may yet drink with a better color, if not more grace.”

The next day, in consequence, brought with it a train of circumstances as swift as it had been unexpected—to all except, perhaps, Hideyoshi. Matsuda, Hojo’s main reliance, had succumbed, not to valor but to gold, and that night his master’s head graced a place at table—opposite to Ieyasu: who now, once more, faced at greater distance Yodogima, but entertained as before, close at hand, Saji, in whom the now startled and cringing daimyo from Mikawa may have found some little consolation, if not a rising prospect.

“Let us now listen to Saji; it may prove to be not only her fair due, but our most agreeable opportunity,” commanded Hideyoshi, in great liberality, as it appeared to others, yet with a hidden earnestness that neither Yodogima nor Ieyasu mistook.

Saji did as bid; it seemed quite immaterial to her: all the heart that God had really given her had long ago been drilled or tooled away, for Hideyoshi believed in duty—ruled or reasoned to preach and practice down or up as convenience less necessity required. Ieyasu turned red.

A growing, pitiless consciousness began to take hold on Yodogima’s hitherto buoyant, confiding trust. The very mat on which the princess sat seemed sinking or rising as the moments flew or lingered. Alternating flashes left her undetermined. Heaven or worse had been a relief: Hideyoshi angered for once, and for the first time looked his rival straight in the face. Ieyasu’s eyes fell to the significant fright across the table. Yodogima’s look then had strengthened him, but he dare not meet her gaze.

“Saji, Saji,” mumbled he, half conscious, half appealingly.

She only smiled, but the dead lips of Hojo moved him:

“My wife, gentlemen, my wife!”

Yodogima had been spared the sight of Hideyoshi’s gruesome lesson: likewise she had been denied its consolation; yet she could believe Ieyasu’s vain resolution no less than final, if not voluntary. And it may have been so. Like examples had been flaunted in the face of others less capable or worthy, had been used time and again by men more considerate, if as determined, but never before might the charge of cruelty be laid at the door of Hideyoshi; who had suffered Shibata the right of honorable demise, spared Shimadzu the loss of his ancestral name, and let Ieyasu more than once slip any fate that he might have chosen, still Hojo’s head must adorn a sorrowful plight.

And why?

The princess did not stop to inquire; she knew only that she had suffered perhaps at their expense or for their betterment, and the very heavens above seemed bereft—earth had done its worst, the humanities failed, all their Gods and Buddhas and Christs promised relief only in death—save a certain star, that seemed the brighter in its loneliness: ideality proffered life.

Thereafter Hideyoshi summoned Ieyasu to the top of a certain hill overlooking the fortress, the city, and the country around.

“You perceive,” suggested the former, “that the Kwanto is mine.”

“Y-e-s,” stuttered Ieyasu, his mind far distant.

“You know that I am master, hereabouts, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall give you these provinces, in consideration of—your services.”

“What luck!”

“Where will you live?” inquired Hideyoshi, still more suggestively.

Ieyasu again hesitated. He had set Yodogima aside and accepted Saji out of respect for a well-grounded belief, had invoked self-denial to the point of distraction, and bought peace at the cost of manhood, but to surrender a birthright and abandon every defense seemed more than he could do, even in the face of rigid necessity. This man then would rule and not ruin. Had Yodogima judged him more accurately than he had done? Would she succeed? Pride urged him now, forced the aggressive, hence prompted him to answer:

“At Odawara.”

“No. I know a place, farther away, called Yedo (Tokio). There is where you shall live.”

“Very well, my lord,” replied Ieyasu, determined now, whereas before he had provokingly waited.