Momentarily, at the mention of Ieyasu’s love, Yodogima brightened; something moved her to a kindlier remembrance of the man who had so often defeated his own intended purpose, seemingly with the sheerest kind of stupid neglect. That he had once loved her there could be no doubt, but the possibility of his having reencouraged that love now grew the remoter, in her estimation, with each attempted move on his part to set aside, as presumable, an established, developing progression.

A regime, however, that invited, till fixed and consolidated, every upstart in the empire to try for individual ascendency—a privilege the taiko would not have denied any; he loved too well the pleasure of crushing them. Yodogima would have so marshaled her forces that none could disturb, but all might rise in one united, orderly and elastic trend toward a goal commonly beckoning back for the best that God had given man. She had tested this Ieyasu from a standpoint none other had been privileged, had found out long ago Oyea’s temper, if not her purpose, and could not now, in face of the circumstances, bring herself to believe that she, a mother; Hideyori, her kind; the nation, at large; or an ideal, that she had conceived, could endure the vagaries of a man so attuned and advised as Ieyasu had proven himself, whatever the sentiment.

“Ishida,” she surmised, “will do only his part; every man is born unto some righteous purpose.”

The messenger awaited her pleasure.

“Comfort Maeda with the intelligence that I shall come forthwith,” replied the princess.

Ishida met her at the door:

“You are too late, Yodogima! Maeda is dead.”

Ieyasu stood by, and with Ishida’s addressing the princess so familiarly a flush at first reddened his face, then a cold pallor revealed the blow finding lodgement in his heart.

Nor had Ishida’s words roused in her lesser feelings; more certainly of contempt. She had, perhaps, at a fatal moment, unduly sacrificed her bearing toward him, but she had judged him not manly, yet wiser than to endanger himself by resolving a license granted, into an indiscretion, possibly fatal to both alike.

“You apparently take an undue advantage, Ishida; please explain yourself,” commanded the princess.

Ishida only laughed, whereat Yodogima turned crimson.

“Perhaps deeds better than words might compose your ladyship. Suppose I name Harunaga; his guardianship, over this boy Hideyori, should prove to be no less willingly bestowed than agreeably acceptable. What say you, Ieyasu; I understand that your word, whatever the opinion, is of great weight, in some quarters, about matters domestic, if not marriages politic. Come, craven; out with it, before I shall have proven Harunaga innocent by chopping your head off.”

“Cur,” snapped Ieyasu, whipping out his sword; “Kitagira shall be guardian of Hideyori; I name him.”

“You are a coward, and an impossibility,” shouted Ishida, drawing to fight.

Yodogima forcibly threw herself between them: why, she did not know; instinctively she believed Ishida, the civilian, no match for Ieyasu, a veteran of many battles. Neither one of them would harm her, and their eyes gleamed the deadlier in consequence. Konishi alone separated them, though by so doing, he, too, gained an enmity that finally drove him irrevocably into the camp of Ishida.

The captains had seen Yodogima, the favorite of Hideyoshi and the mother of Hideyori, disgraced, and they as willingly held Ishida at fault; his apparently strange and rapid growth in favor, if not as suitor, at Ozaka had roused their jealousies; the mysterious death of Maeda, which none could attribute more to Ishida than to Ieyasu, both alike detractors as well as usurpers, now, in consequence of Yodogima’s apparent shielding—knowing, as they believed she must know, the one’s utter inequality—suddenly attached itself to the former; Ishida had become intolerable, for withal Ieyasu’s faults, a samurai as against a civilian should be condoned unto treachery—they swore, then, and there, to take the life of Ishida.

And Yodogima vowed, to herself, that they should not; she had a reason: Ieyasu may or may not have had, for on the spur of the moment he considered it expedient or wise to hurry from the scene, hiding himself away in a yakata (small house) near the palace at Fushima.

There Ishida found him, as with hearing about the captains’ determination to put an end to him, the lovesick valet of former years had thrown himself upon the mercies of none other than a master’s widow.

“Accept me, Yodogima,” begged he; “I am your true lover, and will die for you.”

“You mean, ‘but for me,'” suggested she, coldly. Now I do not wish you death, nor shall I marry you: I could not, as yet—I might say, for laughing; but, if you do as I direct, I will see you safely from here. Use this disguise, and reaching Fushima forthwith subject yourself to the good will of Ieyasu; he may protect you, but if you cannot hold your tongue I should advise rather that you trust the captains; they are less apt to procrastinate.”

Donning thus the guise of a bonze—he had, at all events, professed Christianity—Ishida made off toward Fushima fully determined to win the hand of Yodogima, if not by valor, then with catering, for withal his meanness he believed himself worth her while.

Meeting Ieyasu at Bungo bashi (bridge), Ishida kneeled and craved his pardon. Ieyasu granted it; he had sooner heard from Yodogima, at the hand of a messenger, one of the captains, Honda Masanobu, advising him: upon recalling a previous conversation:

“I, too, have been considering whether it were best to let the captains make way with Ishida or to save him for further use.”

“Whose use,” inquired Masanobu; “your own, or—”

“As you think, friend Masanobu,” replied Ieyasu, in the twinkling of an eye.

Thence Masanobu became a friend to Ieyasu, and of the seven captains left by Hideyoshi, none was, however alienated, actively engaged directly with advancing the interests of Hideyori. Those who had sworn to take the life of Ishida now deemed it obligatory to cry umbrage at Ieyasu’s saving him: between the two of them, Ishida and Ieyasu, they all, but Kuroda (who continued to remain absent) alike stood ready and anxious to enter the ranks of the one or the other madly to avenge a threatening wrong, on either side attributable to a common cause, an assumably attempted infringement upon the rights and duties of the house Hideyoshi had builded.

Each of them, Ishida and Ieyasu—the only ones whose ambitions seemingly conflicted with hers—had sunk himself so deeply into the mire that no rescue save a conflict could eradicate the danger of an after consequence, and Yodogima quietly seated herself, there, in Ozaka, apparently independent and alone, upon a throne, perhaps builded by herself and unthought of by the taiko or those sworn to do him justice, ready to give and to take, frown or smile, as occasion required and fortune betokened: and she did as much, and more.

Ieyasu, refusing to listen to the captains, forthwith sent Ishida to his keep at Sawayama. And that none might do him harm on the way, or learn too much about his liberties and movements after there, he afforded his own son, Hideyasu, and a goodly force, as well, for escort.

Thus licensed, Ishida lost no time in perfecting his plans—as anticipated by Ieyasu, perchance encouraged by another still higher in authority. Hideyasu and his troops, at all events, had as expeditiously returned to Fushima, and no restraint of whatsoever kind hindered or enlightened the supposed past-master now snugly domiciled at Sawayama.

Konishi, and others, including a portion of the captains, stood behind Ishida; Takiyama, as many daimyos, and the remaining captains, supported Ieyasu: thus Christianity had been split, and found itself uncharitably enrolled, each side preparing to battle ostensibly for the same cause, an avowed safeguarding of Hideyori’s interests, but in reality the preservation of an established religion, Buddhist or Shintoist, whichever it were.

No one, however, so much as mentioned religion in connection with the impending crisis; none professed to seek political mastery; social conditions were apparently satisfactory, but the war fever spread and the cry of everybody alike at once became, “Preserve the taiko’s government.”

The princess verily laughed, and Ieyasu, Buddhist incarnate, withdrew from the council and began concentrating his forces at Yedo. Ishida, professing Christianity, mobilized around Sawayama, and their respective forces stood nearly equal. Thence Yodogima, observant of every move, uninfluenced by their claims or their charges, gathering and neutralizing every malcontent, secure in her possessions and peaceably inclined, quietly looked on and the nation applauded.

“You are a dear, sweet child, Hideyori, and your mother just worships you, lives only for you and yours,” whispered she, half to herself and half to the snuggling, confiding boy; who had grown, already, into a fine, dapper little chap, with the form and dash of a Taira.

The mother, like others, no doubt admired her son, but over and above this motherly instinct there developed and ripened a determination to live in him, to attain by and through him an ideality in keeping with his lineage and their progression. Through her he had inherited the manlier traits: sobriety and the colder forces of an harmonious fellowship should come of a careful tutoring, such as none else than Harunaga could give; he, installed, as personal instructor, immediately Yodogima had compromised upon Kitagira’s appointment for guardian, would attend the pleasure only of a mother rightly judged, measure truly a child’s really inborn inheritance.

“How good it is to feel that one’s energies are not directed aimlessly,” cogitated she, drawing the child close in her arms. “I can now understand what it is to love intelligently. Yes, with precision. The primal instincts are only foundation stones upon which to rear a superstructure in keeping with our destiny. A mother’s love shorn of the father’s ambition resolves an anomaly. I must have verity.”

“Will you be to him as a father should be to a child? Can you lay aside personality, submerge self for the larger good, and make of this Hideyori what birth and occasion demand?” inquired the princess, of Harunaga, who at her invitation sat there, sullenly contemplating a situation that only he and she could at all fathom in its deeper strata.

“Discipline has been my due, and confidence is your better prospect; if you believe me more than human, then, and then only, can you trust me to do what the world refuses; encourage others, at my own expense,” replied he, his eyes softening, with a love broader than Ishida’s, more comprehensive than Hideyoshi’s ever had been.

The child gambolled upon the greensward. Embattlements here and there echoed the voice of security. All around were things made and transient, as at the inn where Hideyoshi had once shown himself to be a man. The significance of authority now forged and welded chords of deeper interest than the halo of righteousness had deigned to conjure absolute, and Yodogima looked afar over all these things in the full consciousness of having found a man whom she could trust. And she did trust him.

This man, invited and encouraged, had refused absolutely to take advantage, and looking back over the past how could she class him no higher than human? Manhood were more; it savored of paradise, and Yodogima paused there, if but to refresh the soul and inspire its flight toward a higher fate.

“No, Harunaga,” promised she, after a moment’s reflection, “I do not trust anybody mortal, nor have I confidence in any thing unrealized; but I understand you; and in knowledge, primarily, there lies a salvation. Be sponsor, that my child is your concern.”

Outside the ramparts, a savager duel engrossed the activities of principals, seconds, and spectators alike. The fife and drum fired men into heartier doings, but none measured so accurately as did Yodogima the final consequence: were she to fall short in her estimate?

These were momentous deeds, of far-reaching effect; all around them were civilizations and conditions bordering upon the speculative, but none stood seemingly as balanced as their own; China had ages ago waded through its materialism, and again lapped into spiritual inanimation; India had impoverished itself with elaborate dogmas; Judea had lost its nationality as a consequence of their religion; Greece and its philosophy had fallen before the onslaught of a doctored creed; Rome had exhausted herself in spreading that faith; the barbarous hosts of the Northland, had, as yet, scarcely doffed the breach clot, and only Spain, of these embryo nations, with her cruelties, impossible barbarities, loomed large upon the Western horizon.

All these things threshed out, searched for and understood, before the days of Yodogima, she believed that even they in their advanced position might profit by maintaining some sort of intercourse with the outside world; in fact, could not close their doors to other men, however low in the scale of humanism, so long as the God ideal held fast in the human heart.

“You are a Buddhist, Harunaga?” inquired the princess, after a pause.

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“And knowledge is the foundation of that belief?”

“Yes, most honorable princess.”

“Then, why does Ieyasu refuse enlightment; Christianity, like all religions, is but a means to that end?”

“Because it is vicious, and the prince would be human,” replied he, argumentatively.

Yodogima hesitated; she were treading upon sacred grounds to answer, and answer she would. The breath of a thousand, perhaps ten thousands, or more, years floated in from a realized haven to fan the flame of remembrance. This beauty land of theirs she knew, stretching far and away, to the very limits of an empire—carved and wrought of material perchance as crude and hopeful as any other now struggling as they once did—stimulated within her breast a desire to extend a helping hand: the cold dread of war, the cruel thirst for greed, the angry cry of, “On with the battle,” behind it all, underlying the activities out of which their culture had grown, froze hard the blood in her veins.

Here were men blessed with plenty and endowed of godliness still striking at each other; more artistically, and effectively, but none the less cowardly for that.

“What mean these men by fighting so?” inquired she, searching deeper than Harunaga had divined.

“To enforce a will,” replied he, without any hesitation.

“To vindicate the soul?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is not cowardly to use force, or its concomitant?”

“No.”

“I did no wrong, if that is true, in visiting the temple,” mused she, unabatedly.

Harunaga flushed, then turned pale.

“Not at all, your ladyship,” replied he, to her apparent satisfaction, though he knew very well that Christianity had been the means of taking her there.

“You are not pained, are you, Harunaga, at what I said?”

“How could I be, most honorable princess?”

“Then hereafter say, ‘Yodogima’; I love to hear the name.”

The personal note, whatever his predilection, touched Harunaga, as no other had; from the days of his childhood, in the service of Shibata, in far distant Kitanoshi, he had formed only the component part of a machine. The breath of life touched him, accordingly, as none other had done. Here lived a princess, possessing a mechanism most intricate, suffering the discipline of enforced conditions, with all the limitations, yet breathing the very spirit of humanitarianism. If such as she could find a place in her heart for the flame that enlivens, why not he grasp at a spark?

“I shall serve you, Yodogima, with all the vigor at my disposal,” promised he, ready at last to lay his fortune where she had denied and her father commanded.

“Then hark you, that none escape his mesh; these barons shall be taught what it is to respect a woman.”

And—at least two of them were apparently placing themselves in a position rapidly to learn something of the cost as well.

Mori, of Hiroshima; Shimadzu, of Satsuma; Ukida, of Bizen, and some thirty-five more of the eastern and central daimyos had already joined the Ishida contingent in the vicinity of Ozaka, observably, and a formidable host, larger than she or anybody else had anticipated, seemed gathering under the banner of the one man, whom Yodogima down deep in her heart detested, the very aspirant who had proffered a deadly cup and coveted the hand of an intended victim’s widow, the deceiver then standing outside the walls of her own castle crying, “Long live Hideyori,” and, “Death to Ieyasu.”

Ieyasu: the only man who had ever moved her! Others appealed to the sense, to pride, and to consideration, even love of a kind, yet, as events multiplied and the time grew shorter, a living realization momentarily overshadowed every expectation of hers; the godlight again shone brighter than ever.

Must she stop this cruelty? Yodogima asked and answered the question till burdened of its thought—she could have ended it all, at least temporarily, she believed—then gazed longingly at the child there in her presence.

“What would you do, Hideyori, if set upon by angry wolves?” asked she, of the child, playfully.

“Fight,” responded he, with scarce another major word at his tongue’s use.

“I guess it’s the nature of the beast,” mused she, pressing the boy closer up; “and till subdued there shall be need for gods as a God, so let them at it.”

The chances for success, however, against such odds—growing rapidly with Ishida’s popularity—seemed almost beyond the possibilities of one, though as capable as Ieyasu, and—were he to win, Christianity must be doomed; she understood full well his proclivities and surmised their inevitable result. And Hideyori! Should Ishida win, then her own flesh and blood must go the selfsame intended way that Hideyoshi had barely escaped. She must, then, choose between two evils: the present downfall of Christianity, on the one hand, or the destruction of an only living child, and that, too, a son, on the other. An ideal at stake, with her, who had chosen differently?

“You have my permission, Esyo, to visit this Hideki, now that Oyea, his aunt, is dead and buried. But, mind you, it is a privilege only, that your sister grants—perhaps for a better reason than the one you have in mind.”

Esyo sulked, but went nevertheless; her energies were bent not upon completing the subversion of Hideki from Ishida to Ieyasu, as contemplated by Oyea, to the last, and now, perchance, thought of, favorably, by Yodogima, as an expedient, but toward a far more difficult and deeper reaching task: the substitution of her own husband, Hidetada, for Hideyasu, his elder brother, in favor with and as prospective successor to Ieyasu, the father, whom she already believed in a fair way to win and hold complete mastership, socially and politically, yet, at heart, would not condescend to acknowledge a kindness at the hands of an elder, though most patient and fore-bearing, sister.

“Please do not trouble yourself; I am not so easily read as Jokoin, thank you; besides, it is unnecessary; I am quite capable, of doing as much, without anybody’s favor,” snapped Esyo, hastily departing—none too soon, however, to escape a danger that she little contemplated, yet her sister had fully anticipated and well enough avoided.