War had been declared, the decisive battle faced them, and neither side underestimated the other’s strength nor neglected his own best possible recourse. Yodogima and Ieyasu, two lovers at heart, loomed the more formidable as enemies, measuring each other in the luminous cauldron of a perfect understanding, and did not their souls unite in the attainment of a common, supreme, an overwhelming obligation—the means as widely divergent as the uplift had been ideal—courage had failed either, and humanity must have lost a most ardently conceived, if untimely wrought, exemplification.

At her left, the sun rose clear and commanding, behind the hills of Nara, where the sages had lived and died unto the days of myth, perhaps when Jimmu landed a wanderer from burdens escaped, or as descended of the gods in heaven. Memories of these things inspired Yodogima. The sacredness of its soil compelled thoughts farther away than of to-day.

A thousand temples commemorated events that would not yield to the onrush of ambition or the more potent realities of an every-day humdrum; bonzes gray and firm chanted music both sacred and dear behind those walls scattered here and there throughout the rugged fastness to and beyond this Nara, the seat of the best that God, in his fairness, had inspired; birds soared statelier here, the odor of flowers smelled more authentic, and the stones stubborn puzzled their reading; no man ventured into these hallowed mysteries without a deeper sense of the responsibilities that fade and shadow as we trudge or falter the stepping liege of escaping time, and out of its depths there arose a force as restraining.

Over to the westward, the passions and the penalties crowded hard and fast those of realistic now; not a man of them spared the energy of a thought or wended the loss of a step toward that past and gone, or measured in other than dollars and cents the future and its dependence, as against an always tardy, yet fast-running present; shop or hovel, land and water, man or beast, the cultured and the uncultured, jammed and fretted in one continuous roar commercial. What compensations, for such turmoil! A million souls dwarfed into no higher recompense than thirst to own, hunger to appease, and only death to relieve it all. No glad messages trumpeted their tired and aimless steps, serving or served, the plethoric rich and the indigent poor, the hopeful or the despairing alike groped, ran, or loafed their allotted space in its empty, beggarly passing.

Yodogima prayed for these; they lay sadly beyond any more helpful, if grateful, equivalent.

But to the front, looking southward, broad vistas of undulated expanse led on, over the rice fields and into areas bordered with the blue of ocean’s tireless, unpolluted energies. At her back reared mighty walls and sank deeper the moats—no intruder might strike there; but here, in the foreground, upon unsullied soil, underneath her own surveillance, in the very bosom of their stronghold, the battle must be fought.

The hosts were already gathering: Sanada led them; he had tasted of the blood sacrificial; fought his way to Uyeda, in the teeth of Hideyasu’s avenging; his father gave him the choice, of following Ieyasu or donning the new: in him, young and active, there had risen fresher desires, fervid, if inconsiderate.

“Let us fight,” he had said, replying to Jokoin’s trumpeting, and in view of these energies had been given command, under Hideyori, the chief, counselled by Harunaga, more matured than either, directed by Yodogima, their princess—trusted, if not worshipped.

Were she then, to them, Christian or Pagan, as much as goddess; or should the future, yet, reveal some deeper hidden truth?

“It is good to behold confidences as liberally bestowed,” vowed Yodogima, to Jokoin, who came up to share, in her way, the picture unfolding, “albeit, the responsibility; Hideyori can well acquit himself, but these Christians—so wrought in faith, hopeful, and charitable: withal unknowing, helpless, and confiding. I must not lose this contest; they are no match for the colder ethics of Orientalism: yet were not placed here to go down martyrs, or to eke out materialistically—their religion is not at fault so much, as it is inadequate, undeveloped, short of finality. The circle is incomplete.”

“Nor shall we fail, though defeated,” chimed in the good sister; there are more ways than one, to skin a cat, and we’ll dodge, as sure as whipped. You can bet on Christ, every time; he’s a winner, and the world has just got to kowtow.”

“What makes you talk that way, Jokoin? One would think the Old Nick himself had the better hold—and I am sure you were not as you are till something made you so: was it Christianity?”

“How do I know? I just feel that way, and what’s the use of bothering? Why ask? Just go in, to win; that’s the game, to lose—well, I won’t say what it’s like, but the name spells horrors!”

“And if I should fail?”

“You can’t—not as long as I am left; I’d eat fire, for you; that is my religion.”

“Thank you, sister; but—well, I was going to say, that that sounds more like the Taira. I wonder if the Coming could have had any connection—do you see those plains, Jokoin? There is a hill, near the center: is there a Cross there; I cannot quite make out: your Vision may be stronger than mine?”

“I couldn’t see half so far; besides, I’d miss the fun of going, if I did; there’s somebody there, now; it’s Hideyori; I’m off; so long.”

Yodogima, however serious or busied, could not resist the infection, and with Jokoin’s bounding down the slope for the time being lost control, as it were, of herself.

“What buoyancy,” mused she; “if the world could imbibe the half of hers, there wouldn’t be anything but mock—yes, make-believe—fighting done. And then—oh; it is too absurd; man is not a laughing stock. Nero may have grimaced his way into Rome, but its hills shall drench still yet with the tears he shed.”

And back at Fushima, far removed from Ozaka, and its elemental forces, at work upon plans and defences, as indefatigable as laudable, a more conscienceless, less movable coterie of individuals, the shapening parts to a masterful piece of mechanism, their features wan and purses opened, the whip-lash laid or tackles baited—these, barons by profession and soldiers of compulsion, haters in fact, yet supporters for safety—they, under extremes, busied their bodies with replenishing the commissary and recruiting the ranks of an army as different in character as it were essential to habit.

No thought of daringness conserved the interests of these shouters for peace, at any price save its legitimate cost. Every reformer in their eyes became at once a disturber; patriotism were charlatanism, and the knowing ones cried down as demagogues; they shouted plenty and practiced penuriousness, gorged themselves and bade others be satisfied with the crumbs—or their lot.

Such were the motley hordes gathered to render Ieyasu master—and he had learned a lesson, knew the kind of discipline these fellows relished, and gave them their due—hunger. To feed, then, or to keep, as well, these hirelings, or their hirers, drilled and coddled, marched or trudged upon Ozaka.

“Poor humans; I pity you,” sighed Yodogima; Ieyasu dragged after, as uncertain as dogged.