A consummation covertly auguring the final purpose of Ishida; who had so ingratiated himself into the grace of their master that an intrigue against him had been in fact resolved into a better consequence. With Hidetsugu out of the way, only Hideyori stood between him and final authority—so thought Ishida: another occasion might prove more certainly Hideyoshi’s fate.

The doors at Fushima stood ajar, and Hideyoshi entered: there seemed no friend now other than Ishida; who, also, deemed it convenient or necessary to dwell elsewhere, mostly; and only sycophants and confusion surrounded the taiko.

“O Hideyoshi,” pleaded he, self-conscious and overdone. “Has it come to this? Is there none left me?”

Only the cold dread of conjured ingratitude answered. Hell itself had been a relief in those drawn moments of flickering consciousness, and the taiko grappled the more uncertainly at every fleeting fancy that danced on in one endless concourse, faithless, hopeless, and uncharitable, then withering, again torturing, as if undecided or bent upon nothing more.

Ishida now held fast mostly at Ozaka: the child absorbed Yodogima’s attention, and Ieyasu found it no less agreeable to sojourn in the vicinity of Azuchi: here, too, the child engaged partly the elder wife, Oyea.

“Now mind you,” enjoined Ishida, upon Oyea, at a secret conference, outside the walls at Azuchi, atop the hill in Hiyeisan; “let there be no mishap; present the child only upon my signal; then Oyea shall be first in favor and Ishida her lifelong slave.”

“You can trust me, Ishida; do your part as well; the captains shall not ignore me, as Hideyoshi once did, though their recent conduct would incline one to the belief that they were capable of it.”

Jokoin had directly realized in Harunaga a gallant superber than warmth, even hers, could have desired: more fervid, perhaps, than Kyogoku, her husband, approved: not as discreet as some of Hideyoshi’s followers would have.

In consequence, Ieyasu had found it possible to urge upon Yodogima measures that he little knew circumstances had made it possible for her to understand and seize upon—in their true light. She had promised, therefore—as Oyea had sooner agreed with Ishida—to be at hand and await, likewise, her would-be deceiver’s proposals.

The two, Ieyasu and Ishida, the one planning and the other carrying out, had arranged with Chin Ikei the taiko’s coronation. The coveted crown should, with concluding pomp, be placed securely there. Hideyoshi was to be made, apparently, emperor of all the Orient. Ieyasu schemed and Ishida advised: Hideyoshi succumbed, to their cajolery, an easy prey; he had subdued Japan, overrun Korea, and outwitted China, he thought; what were other men’s contentions or reliances as compared with the feel and the fetch of glory?

“Let everybody witness Hideyoshi’s just finale,” commanded he; if not altogether impotently, then, perhaps, a bit sarcastically.

No man or woman, however, willingly missed the occasion; they crowded round from everywhere. Hideyoshi, arrayed in robes of purple, sat high upon pillows of curled feathers with hand-embroidered cases. His own three hundred serving maids lounged round the room or grouped in corners awaiting their master’s every whim. On the outside bands of music horned or stringed notes soothing, but no longer stirring. Not a guard or soldier marred the serenity of Hideyoshi’s belief, and only the covenant bearers disturbed the silence ensuing a taiko’s exultation.

The crown rested, impatiently, upon its golden-lacquered tray in front.

An ambassador advanced.

“Our commission,” declared he, bowing low.

“Read it,” commanded Hideyoshi.

The interpreter complied:

“We do invest you King of Japan—”

“What? Crown me of less than I possess? No!” shouted he, snatching up the document, casting off that robe, and throwing down the crown.

The rage of Hideyoshi only increased with each attempted explanation; the real perpetrators stood mute in the background, the one bent upon Hideyori’s destruction, the other confident of a mother’s triumph. The acknowledged son and, now, only possible successor destroyed, Ishida believed it easy to lay his hand securely upon the reins of government: trusting his judgment, the taiko could be wrought into no more favorable mood than the one at present so forcibly expressed. Ieyasu, on the other hand, faltered; he adjudged Yodogima capable, but Hideyoshi fighting mad and in a corner had only too often proven it the death knell to any one, hated or loved, who had as yet invoked the temerity to confront him.

The plan in truth of his own making, and its working in perfect accord to this the culminating point, convinced him the more that someone had found him out and now fared ready to reap the reward of his iniquity.

Ieyasu stood paralyzed—yet no one seemed to suffer a moment’s loss or to heed at all any sort of plight in consequence of his failure. Ieyasu, as if dumb, Ishida exulted the more: Oyea came forth as understood, and bowing down laid the child at Hideyoshi’s feet—the taiko gasped; speech had failed.

Oyea, also, had insulted him; dared to flaunt in his face what he knew that she knew was not his: the taiko was angered.

Ieyasu withdrew, as quietly as he had remained, and no one would have been the wiser had not Yodogima—hidden away so disguised that even he had failed her—observed his every movement: when he had gone, then Harunaga shadowed his further progress and—

Doffing the veil, Yodogima quickly, yet softly, and considerately, approached, unwrapping and laying before his highness another child, not unlike the first in face and form.

Hideyoshi looked up, a changed man; in a mother’s presence there had dawned a new understanding.

Ishida rushed forward, and Oyea drew back: a common wrangle ensued, and no one appeared to know just what to say or think or do. Some contended that one or the other of the two children belonged to Oyea, for had she not brought it there, and proffered hers for recognition? But which one? Why her silence? Others claimed that only a mother could know her child; whereat the taiko frowned and Ishida smiled.

“Which one, Ishida; this is an important business, and there should be no mistake?”

Yodogima had claimed them both, now, in the absence of Oyea, who stood back, trembling and cogitating. No thought disturbed the mother, whose only care centered in the child; to deprive her of hers, she alone must make the selection: Hideyoshi had never knowingly committed an avoidable wrong.

Ishida blushed; the truth had at last dawned also upon him, and turning to Yodogima the closely cornered man mumbled:

“Which is he, Yodogima?”

“Let the guilty determine, as I have done,” replied she, interested and secure.

“Both of them, your highness,” stammered Ishida, facing Hideyoshi.

“Then it was, as well, Ishida who poisoned, not Yodogima, but the intended cup? Away with you, and let one who has no need to choose pronounce judgment, for her son is my heir, and henceforth your kwambaku—I command it,” vowed Hideyoshi, with no other consolation or assurance than a mother’s kindly feeling, to foster and encourage the last act or wish of an utterly unrealized, if totally expended, higher ambition.