With due promulgation, Hideyori’s advent occasioned upon the surface great rejoicing everywhere throughout the land. Especially were the tidings well received at Ozaka and thereabout: still more earnestly by the older of Hideyoshi’s immediate supporters—those captains who had fought side by side with him from obscurity to mastery; none among them had so forgotten his duty as to think of independent action or listen to a suggestion in contravention of the taiko; he had been their guidance, and upon his regeneration depended their welfare; the father at once became a god, and the son his natural prognosticator.

Quite different, however, with those forced or tolerated into submission. Ieyasu had not tried out his capabilities, and Ishida served only for a purpose. Neither had sown that others might reap: each had awaited the harvest as best suited his particular need or environment; and now, at last, dissension foreboded their several necessities. Both, therefore, sought without delay to strengthen either one his own conjectured position, in view of the taiko’s possible retirement.

“You have no need to make oath, Hideyoshi,” promised Yodogima, in answer to his further protestations; “my interests and your purpose within themselves make us but one. Command me.”

“Let some fitting entertainment be had; I have now an heir, peace is at home, and China, I am told, sends an envoy to crown me emperor; what greater joy could be?”

To this proposal Yodogima made no protest, in fact encouraged its doing, yet knew full well the purport and surmised an eagerness on the part of every daimyo—invited or not—to seize any opportunity to test underhandedly his influence or lay discreetly some self-bettered plan. The taiko had whipped them into subjection and she herself borne him a recognized successor, but would the nation accept an authority incapable of enforcing itself? Could individual powers be transmitted in the absence of personal prowess? In fact, were they a nation as yet? If not, then what, required?

These were some of the questions vitally confronting Yodogima at the very outset of her enlarged career, and she had answered each satisfactorily to herself: the husband’s declining whimsicalities, presumably more tolerable than impressive to others—in view of their several intentions and universal unpreparedness—should be made to promote not only a devoted life’s well earned vacation, but to attend as well the immediate requirements of those upon whose shoulders an unfinished work had certainly, if not rightfully, fallen. The taiko’s frivolities, therefore, had been, likely, not only permitted but undertaken, and the completion of the Fushima castle was made the occasion: no captain would refuse, nor could any daimyo have been kept away except by force; the first longed to do the master any honor, and the others to avail themselves of what they designed making an occasion for the feathering of their own nests, no matter when or where the chance. Yodogima had not been thought of, only as a mother, by any, excepting possibly two—one a daimyo, the other a bakufu—had not been contemplated as inevitably standing over like the sun emerging behind a receding storm.

“You must attend, as I direct,” urged Ieyasu, to Esyo, who persisted in declining an invitation.

“I shall not,” replied she, deigning to proffer no excuse whatsoever.

“Well,” replied he, thoughtfully; “this is a dilemma; I cannot make you go consistently, but I shall resolve at least a plausible stay at home—you can have Hidetada, my son; perhaps a growing husband would suit you better than a declining suitor. Take him and welcome.”

“Oh, I am not so particular; an infant might perchance serve me as well as an older man served my sister. Then, on the other hand, there is nothing like agreeableness; Esyo is an obedient body, whatever else you or others may contemplate. Let’s have done with it.”

They were married—she and the infant Hidetada—and Esyo, in consequence, excused attendance upon the taiko’s grand cha-no-yu (tea-drinking party)—conserving probably Ieyasu’s pleasure or safety no more than her own self-understood purpose.

Ishida, on the other hand, had brought all his persuasion to bear upon Oyea—the taiko had quite ignored or forgotten her, but Yodogima had not. Many of the older captains retained at heart a warm place for the elder wife, and truly sympathized with her for her many sacrifices and half-requited support. She had surrendered position and all that goes with it to marry Hideyoshi in his poverty-stricken beginning, and through all the trials and hardships of a relentless struggle had never once lost faith or asked a favor: Yodogima appreciated the influence her presence should have upon this the most vital occasion at which she had been privileged the prestige of hostess.

“I regret very much Oyea’s decision,” said Yodogima, to Ishida, shortly before the time set for the entertainment. “I wonder if some outside influence can deter her? I hardly think so, however; Oyea is above suspicion, and is the closest friend I have, aside my own good sisters. Please pay her my best compliments, and use your better judgment as to proper measures; I can easily enough overlook Esyo’s idiosyncracies, but Oyea is a practical woman.”

“Your ladyship is quite right, and far-seeing if, perhaps, most charitable, though not altogether inattentive. There is an ulterior purpose, I will not say reason—there could be no justice in any sort of breach toward our good princess—believe me, your ladyship—Ishida cannot speak otherwise, and my long service as master of ceremonies to our most excellent taiko, his lordship—beginning, as your honorable ladyship well knows, these many years ago—as I say, such a round, so highly prized and as graciously bestowed, entitles one—I dare say, that your ladyship herself would extend to an humbler subject a consideration—arising only within the bosom of a traditional appreciation little in evidence these days, I tell you—emanating from a desire to do nothing contrary to the best ethics of the times—dominating the heart-interests especially of that one whom the master has permitted us each and all alike to serve and revere as jealously and considerately as the fleeting moments—”

“Time is precious. Pardon me, Ishida?”

“Yes; as I was about to say; Esyo out of the way, Ieyasu is fast becoming a favorite at Azuchi; and, though only a visitor at Fushima, may bode more than a kwambaku’s disseverance. These require drastic consideration.”

“Hush. You speak unbecomingly.”

“Excuse me. I have only your ladyship’s best interests at heart.”

“It were more like it, I trow, had you said ‘in mind,’ my good Ishida.”

“No less at my finger’s end, your ladyship.”

“Boaster—one might think you Sen-no-rikyu himself, to hear you talk.”

“Stranger mistakes have been made.”

“Not to-day, Ishida.”

“Yodogima—”

“Stop! You forget yourself; the taiko still lives: it is he that we serve.”

The festal day coming on, and all in readiness, Sen-no-rikyu apparently took his place at the bowl. No man had greater fame than he. There had been brewers of a superior flavor, but none ever reached the excellence of Hideyoshi’s day and favor, save Sen-no-rikyu, and he alone. Famed as no man had been at cha-no-yu, trusted as only a Hideyoshi knew how to trust, truant or designer, patronized by an age famed above all others in the wealth and luxury and refinement and indulgence of a nobility unsurpassed in the annals of time, this, the supposed Sen-no-rikyu, but in fact substitute tea-server, a scion of all that had gone before and a deceiver among adepts, may have rightly thought himself, too, a master, undiscovered and immune.

Had not these lords and ladies, serving and served, the kuge and the bakufu, come or remained there to partake of a hospitality made possible only by the perfection of an art, a crafthood not comparable to the deftness of his hand, with the cunning of his brain, against the force of his will? What mattered if he traduced as others reviled?

“The hand that rules is not the one who feeds,” argued he, to himself, as the guests gathered in anticipation of all that Hideyoshi, the greatest of them, had thought to develop in life or fought to leave at death.

And they did patronize thus in gorgeous splendor. Silks soft to the touch and pleasing to behold covered these people, whose bodies bore no taint of coarse, close-fitting and ill-shaped garments. The great chamber in which they lounged comfortably or demeaned themselves gracefully bespoke cycles of rigid aesthetics; the crude walls and hard-made floors, cumbersome furniture and meaningless ornaments of earlier days had long ago succumbed to oblivion’s kindlier grace. The food they ate, and the tea they drank—only a god could brew and serve it as they wot.

Seated there as placed, no sense of man disturbed them—the animal had been subdued in times gone by—thought, too, lost all sway, and only the soul called down from ethereal realms a glory that made earth in truth a heaven.

A careful hand filled the fated cup. Nature-clad messengers bore it toward the taiko. The cha-no-yu had begun.

Two simply-robed humans, no different except in degree, sat at the head of this vast compulsorily punctilious assemblage—the one at the other’s side. The messengers came on, and no sound issued or lip as much as moved. Hideyoshi raised his hand to take the coveted draught, but Yodogima, instead, seized the cup and, raising it to her lips, a mighty confusion broke forth, from Ishida to her husband, over that beaten and mystified audience—Sen-no-rikyu was nowhere there; Ishida sat in his place!

“What? Would you, even you, deny me first—Yodogima?” tremblingly asked the taiko.

“It is Hidetsugu’s fault,” shouted Ishida, undisguising in the confusion and rushing forward. “He has poisoned the princess—please strike him and pardon her,” continued he, snatching the cup away and dashing its contents upon the floor.

“No,” replied Yodogima, composedly; “Ishida speaks falsely; it is mine to answer.”

Outside the rattle and purpose of troops made itself quickly apparent, and Ieyasu sprang up, commanding:

“My sword.” Then, “Forward, guards!”

The taiko only railed the harder; he could not look or feel beyond the insult sustained; Yodogima had committed an act no penalty other than direst torture could atone.

“I have not seen Hidetsugu, know not his purpose, or any other man’s, but I also have a duty to perform: if in that I have transgressed, then let me suffer therefor. What is one life as compared with so many?” continued Yodogima, without any intimation as to what she herself, Ishida, and the Sen-no-rikyu alone knew.

“Hideyoshi has been insulted and the guilty must suffer. How are the captains? Where Ieyasu?” demanded the taiko, nervously.

“Time will tell,” suggested Ishida. “In the meantime your humble servant would advise that Hideyori be taken in charge—I myself, with your lordship’s permission, shall attend Yodogima.”

“Let Oyea stand sponsor for Hideyori; Yodogima has proven herself untrustworthy—do with her as you like; I shall have enough to attend Hidetsugu. Produce the child,” commanded the taiko, believing himself abused beyond forgiveness.

Yodogima sank down bewildered. Jokoin had been an onlooker and believed her sister in the right, though she knew nothing and could not account for the circumstance.

“Never mind, sister; Jokoin shall console you,” promised she, coming forward in a manner strictly her own, however menacingly it may have seemed.

“And you, Hideyoshi, are just as mean as you can be. Now, then,” continued Jokoin, stamping her foot in the taiko’s presence.

“Hei, yeo! Ishida, we shall have enough of it, before done; I know this little elf, of old,” threatened Hideyoshi, vainly trying to hide a deeper, more laborious concern.

The world, however, seemed awhirl, and Yodogima had surrendered, but Harunaga watched his chance:

“Do not despair, Yodogima; the child shall not be torn from its mother,” whispered he, and his words roused within her a new life.

Hidetsugu came in—he had flown at Ishida’s accusation—in the charge of Ieyasu, who had surrounded and taken him at his own quarters, while in the act of communicating with Mori, a friend to Ishida. It had been the kwambaku’s guards marching, contrary to his orders or knowledge, but well within the plans and connivance of Ishida, that caused the disturbance, prompting Ieyasu to adopt extreme measures—cutting down and dispersing them without inquiry or cause.

Ishida laughed. He stood at Hideyoshi’s right. Yodogima in the melee had disappeared, in company with Jokoin, as induced by Harunaga.

“I am guilty of no wrongdoing: God is my judge,” protested Hidetsugu, confronting Hideyoshi.

“Why, then, have you sought to impose a new form of oath?” inquired the taiko, calling Mori to witness.

Hidetsugu stumbled—there were several Christians present and he himself had more than once favored the good father Grecchi, though none now offered him as much as a consolation.

Hideyoshi marvelled the circumstance.

It now came Ieyasu’s turn, and he answered by absenting himself; it occurring that there might be some further advantage gotten of China; Chin Ikei had not yet crowned Hideyoshi.

With reaching her own apartment, Yodogima’s spirit rekindled; but—

“The child!” shrieked she, as it dawned that Hideyori was nowhere to be found.

The moments seemed ages now, and a thousand occasions suggested the most likely place to search—yet back of it all there stood the look of Ishida. He had proffered Hideyoshi the cup, condemned Hidetsugu, and baffled Ieyasu: had he likewise the need of kidnapping her child? Were he in truth master of Hideyoshi? Could she not play him and Ieyasu yet, one against the other, to some advantage?”

“Have faith, Yodogima; we still have Taketomo, my own dear little imp, and our intended ruse may yet avail—in the opposite direction. Would you believe it, Harunaga says Take looks enough like Hide to be his brother; and I’m sure you can have him, and welcome, for I should just love to find another like him.”

Yodogima snatched the child up, and vowed that the rearing of children and the conserving of fortune were two occupations utterly incompatible and hopelessly attempted—Hideyoshi had, without further consultation or compunction, sent Hidetsugu, his three children, their mothers and some thirty other ladies of his court to the execution grounds at Kyoto.

“These are marvels, not virtues: therein lies my strength,” surmised the expectant princess, long before “The Mound of Beasts” had echoed its final warning over against the headsmen’s block in Sanjomachi.