For an hour or more we loitered about within view of the great gate of Zozoji, waiting for the cortege of the Shogun’s daughter to march out on its return trip to the citadel. That the Princess would come back through the main entrance was evident from the fact that the norimons of her ladies-in-waiting were stationed in the road at one side of the grand carved portal. Yoritomo stood beneath a camellia tree, seemingly lost in meditation, but I paced to and fro through the passing crowds, unable to restrain my impatience.

At last between the meshes of my hat brim I caught sight of the samurai escort of the Princess issuing from the gateway. In their lead was the quick-tempered hatamoto Yuki who had struck at me from the ferryboat at the passage of the Rokugu River. The bearers of the norimons moved around, and as soon as the ladies-in-waiting had taken their seats, the cortege formed in line, with one of the norimons before and the other behind the gold-lacquered palanquin of the Princess. We drew back behind a hedge of blooming privet.

Soon the cortege marched past us, at a slow and stately pace, though the absence of standards indicated to the public that the noble person escorted was travelling incognito and dispensed with the usual kneeling of the common folk along the road. I examined with intense interest the sturdy norimon bearers and the score of proud hatamotos, or shogunate samurais, who made up Yuki’s company.

These gentlemen-soldiers seemed to me to be picked men, but they wore no armor and carried no other weapons than the customary sword and dirk. Though their petticoat-trousers were neatly tucked up above the knees in the tops of long silk stockings, freeing their legs for quick action, their arms and forebodies were encumbered with the peculiar gauze-winged ceremonial jackets and the long sleeves of their haoris.

“That guard looks more like dress parade than action,” I commented.

“They are the pick of the best swordsmen among the hatamotos; yet they are all doomed men,” replied Yoritomo.

I caught at my swordhilt, no longer intent on the fringe of split bamboo which curtained the window of the Princess’s norimon. “All doomed?—And ourselves?”

“Mito will have planned to sacrifice as few retainers as possible. But though they will not be many, they will have the advantage of armor. Our sole chance of success lies in the method of fence you have taught me. Lunge for face or neck. Waste no thrusts on mail-clad bodies.”

“We can at least hold them until other rescuers run up,” I said.

He shook his head doubtfully. “Look down the bay. A rain-squall is coming. There will be few in the streets, and if Keiki rushes up first with his rescue party, we will be cut down with the ronins. As you say, we are playing against long odds, but the stake is big.”

“A little hot soy will flavor the rice,” I replied. “Lead on.”

He shuffled about, and we strolled out and along the road, keeping half a hundred paces behind the rearmost of the strutting hatamotos. Leisurely as was the advance of the cortege, we were soon clear of Shiba and approaching a hill that Yoritomo called Atago-yama. The eminence was provided with two means of ascent, a straight steep stairway and another one long and winding. The cortege passed by on one side.

We now descended into a low and thickly populated quarter, passing at every two hundred paces one of the gloomy gates which divide off all the streets of the lower city into wards of fifty or sixty houses. Each ward was given over to a particular trade or the sale of a certain article,—as a street of blacksmiths, squatting before their primitive forges, a street of toy merchants, another of lacquer-dealers, fan-makers, cabinet-workers, and so forth.

Shops and people differed little from those I had already seen, but for the first time I observed the lofty ladder watch towers, at the top of which hung firebells. The urgent need of such means of warning in a city built, for the most part, of tinder-like materials, was evident from a belt of ash-covered ground off to our right, in which the only buildings unburned were a few mud-walled storehouses.

My roving eye was recalled by a word from Yoritomo to be on my guard. Kohana had conjectured that the attack would be made near one of the moats, and we were approaching a boat-crowded canal or moat, the outermost of the line of fortifications that gird in the Shogun’s palace and the yashikis, or palaces, of the daimios. I loosened my swordblade in its scabbard, and held my hand ready to jerk up the skirts of my robes and tuck them in the back of my girdle.

The cortege moved slowly on down the busy street and out upon the old wooden bridge that arched across from the grassy slope of the nearer bank to the abrupt stone wall which KÄmpfer calls the Outer Castle. We followed, warily scanning the band of samurais that approached from the far end of the bridge and the scattered groups that clattered up behind us through the crowds of common people. All alike, however, showed the utmost deference in avoiding close contact with the attendants of the Princess, and the crests of their respective daimios, conspicuous on the backs, breast, and sleeves of their haoris, proved that they were not ronins.

We plodded after the cortege, across the canal and through the bastioned gateway on the far side, out into one of the smooth wide streets of the official quarter. Here there were no commoners to be seen, and the few samurais scattered up and down the broad way were hastening to shelter before the first gusts of the coming rain-squall. But even the threatened downpour failed to hurry the hatamotos out of their stately strut. Seeing no sign of any ronins, I relaxed my tense nerves and looked about at the long walls of the yashikis which lined each side of the street.

I knew that these residences of the daimios each consisted of a mansion house surrounded by courts and gardens, all set in the defensive hollow square of the retainers’ barracks. What I had failed to picture from Yoritomo’s descriptions was the extent and odd appearance of these samurai quarters. One of them stretched along the road nearly a quarter of a mile, its continuous roof of red tiles broken only by a grand, ornate gate, midway of the monotonous faÇade. The mortarless stone foundation walls of the yashikis rose from deep, curbed ditches that flowed along each side of the street. Above the high foundations the walls were of diagonally-set black tiles with wide joints of white plaster. Well up in this checkerboard surface, rows of small windows, stoutly barred against attack, projected in shallow bays.

A turn in the street brought us in view of the citadel just as the rain-squall came swirling upon us. Across the head of the street loomed up a mighty wall of cyclopean masonry, its granite base deep beneath the placid waters of a broad moat, its crest crowned with trees and square pagoda guardtowers. Our street rose to meet the causeway that ran along the moat bank and curved in to cross a wooden bridge. At the far side a huge bastioned gateway led up into the higher ground of the citadel.

Beyond the trees and pagodas that fringed the top of the titanic wall, I saw outlined against the blackening sky the lofty white peak of the “Lord of Heaven” tower, in the O Shira, or innermost castle. Then the full force of the storm struck us and wrapped us about in blinding, swirling torrents of rain. Yoritomo pressed up close to me, and bent over to make himself heard above the howls of the wind and the drumming splatter of the deluge. “Be ready!” he warned. “Watch this street that runs in on the left where the vanguard is passing—There is one just beyond, on the right. At the moat gate is stationed a powerful guard. If the ronins fail to attack here—”

“Look!” I cried, grasping at my swordhilt.

Out of the narrow street on the left were streaming a number of cloaked figures, silent and downbent as though intent only upon making their way through the storm. As they filed out into the broad roadway alongside the norimon of the Princess, a gust of wind tore open the cloak of one in the rear and exposed to our gaze the bright links of chain armor within.

“The ronins!” hissed Yoritomo. “Wait! Make ready.”

I let go my half-drawn sword, and hastened to follow his example by tucking my robe skirts in the back of my girdle and tying up my long sleeves. In the midst I saw one of the hatamotos turn upon the nearest ronin with a repellent gesture. Instantly the assassin drew his sword and struck a fearful two-handed blow. The head of the luckless hatamoto leaped from his shoulders and fell after the blood-gushing corpse into the mud and water.

At the treacherous blow all the hatamotos who had seen it yelled with fury and amazement, and flashed out their swords to strike down the murderer. But their blades clashed without effect upon his hidden helmet and armor, and in an instant the other ronins were beside their chief, slashing back at the armorless hatamotos. Half a dozen guardsmen fell beneath the razor-edged blades, slain outright or hideously maimed, all in the brief moment before those in the van of the cortege could turn about and rush to their aid.

I found myself with drawn sword, struggling frantically to free myself from the grip of my friend. Though I was the stronger, he held me fast by some subtle trick of wrestlers’ art that, without injuring, rendered me as helpless as a child.

“Not yet!” he muttered, “not yet, brother!”

Unable to free myself, I was forced to stand and glare impotently through the whirling rain at the terrible massacre. At the beginning of the fight the hatamotos had numbered a fourth more than the assailants. Now they were already less than equal in number. With merciless swiftness, the ronins struck out in terrific blows that split heads to the chin and hewed off arms and legs and ripped open bodies with hideous slashes.

Vainly the brave hatamotos parried and slashed back at their foes with strokes no less powerful and often more skilful. For the most part, their blows served only to slice the false covering from the helmets of the ronins or nick the steel and brass under the masking cloaks. But every stroke of the ronin blades that reached its mark meant a ghastly wound.

Yet the hatamotos were not the only ones that fell in the bloody shambles. Twice I saw ronins go down under blows that split clean through their steel helmets; others were bitten deep by blades that slashed through the firmest chain mail; while more lost a foot or a hand from the lightning strokes of the Shogun’s swordsmen. But gloriously as the hatamotos fought, the ronins were no less brave and little less skilful, and the armor gave them an advantage impossible to overcome.

Never had I dreamt of such terrific fighting. In as many seconds a dozen of the guard were lying mutilated under the iron-shod sandals of the ronins. Every hatamoto near the norimon of the Princess and all but three or four of those in the rear were slain. One of the bearers of the rearmost norimon caught up a sword and struck out manfully. Back flashed a blow that split him to the middle. His fellow-bearers, who so far had stood as though paralyzed by fright, fled past us shrieking.

But not one of the proud hatamotos sought to escape. Shouting fierce imprecations, the last of the rearguard parried and struck, each as long as he could stand,—without giving back an inch before the merciless attack of their murderers. The six members of the vanguard still left, burst through the ring of ronins that was closing about them, and fought their way back towards the norimon of the Princess, whose bearers were being forced by threatening blades to swing about to the narrow side street.

“Now!” shouted Yoritomo, as the ronins again closed around the vanguard. He freed me and leaped away up the street, flourishing his sword and yelling, “Owari! Owari!”

I rushed after him, blood-mad with the sight of the fighting and slaughter, and utterly lost to all sense of danger in my fury at the ferocious treachery of the assassins.

“Avast!” I roared in English, “avast, you devils!”

For answer, the head of the last rear-guardsman came rolling towards us along the wet pavement. Close after it a pair of ronins sprang to meet and slash down the audacious priests. Out lunged Yoritomo’s sword, and the foremost murderer fell headlong, stabbed through the throat. The second slashed at my head. But the stroke glanced harmlessly down my parrying blade, and before the fellow could recover guard, I drove my point into one of his glaring eyes.

As my man fell across Yoritomo’s, three others came running at us with the ferocity of tigers. We sprang to meet them half-way. One, fortunately, was slightly outdistanced by his fellows. The swords of the two leaders clashed against ours in fierce, eager strokes. A blow, barely warded, struck off my hat and exposed fully to the gaze of my opponent my distended blue eyes. A look of horror flashed across his vengeful face. Doubtless he thought me a demon. For the barest fraction of a second he faltered—it was enough for me. Before his gaping mouth could snap shut, he fell to my lunge.

I wheeled to meet the third man, who, as Yoritomo parried with the second for an opening, had sprung around for a treacherous side slash. My outstretched blade met but failed to check entirely the blow, which fell across the back of Yoritomo’s right shoulder. Meeting my gaze, the ronin faltered as had his mate, and the result was as fatal to him. How seriously Yoritomo had been wounded I could not tell. I doubt if he was aware he had been struck. His lunge followed after mine, flash upon flash.

We darted forward, leaving five of the murderous band already accounted for. Four more were intent upon driving the bearers of Azai’s norimon on across into the side street. All the others were crowding around the few survivors of the vanguard in furious attack. Only supreme masters of Japanese swordcraft could have so long withstood the tremendous blows of the assassins throughout this atrocious massacre. To fling ourselves into the midst of the deadly struggle was sheer madness—but it was a glorious madness. Having a moment’s start of my friend, I dashed ahead, past the rearmost norimon, from which the younger lady-in-waiting was frantically struggling to free herself. The norimon of the princess had been swung about, and its reluctant bearers were being forced into a trot by prodding dirks.

Shouting a command for the bearers to halt, I ran upon the ronins at the rear, who were directly before me. Until this moment they had been too intent upon driving the bearers to perceive us. The sight of their fallen comrades and the possibility of a check in their plans seemed to madden them. They rushed to meet me with a silent rage that flamed into wildest fury at sight of my tojin eyes.

“Demon! Kill! kill!” they yelled, and their strokes flashed out at me so swift and strong that I was beaten back a full two yards, and saved myself from the whistling blades only by the nimblest of footwork and parrying.

In a moment, though none too soon, Yoritomo sprang to my side and crippled one of the grinning fiends with a leg cut. This man must have been the leader of the band, for as he and his mate fell to our thrusts, the pair at the head of the norimon checked their charge upon us, and shouted loudly to their fellows. Only three of the hatamotos now stood in the merciless circle of swords, and but one of their assailants had fallen. At the cry for help, the greater number of the ronins wheeled about and charged upon us, with the rain splashing upon their downbent helmet brims.

“Shoot!” gasped Yoritomo, bending over to lean upon his sword. “My arm weakens!—Shoot!”

Already my right hand was thrusting into my bosom. As I drew out one of the revolvers and cocked it, I stepped forward and to the left, that I might have the norimon between me and the charging ronins. At the same moment the young samurai woman from the rear norimon darted between the bearers and stood up across from me, facing the ronins, with upraised dirk. She could not have hoped to stop the ruffians for an instant, but she thought they meant to injure her mistress, and so was offering her own bosom first to the murderous blades.

The sight of such absolute courage and devotion steadied my twitching hand. I raised my revolver, and fired as rapidly as I could work hammer and trigger. The ronins were too close for me to miss even through the swirl of wind and rain. I risked no glancing of balls from mailed breasts, but aimed at the devilish faces below their broad helmet brims. To shoot wide of such large marks within a distance of ten paces and less would have been difficult, and a man shot from the front anywhere between mouth and brows never requires a second ball. Down went the foremost ronins, sprawling backwards in the flooded roadway, one at every shot.

To these mediÆval warriors, acquainted only with antique matchlocks and Tower muskets, the mysterious appearance and rapid fire of my revolver must have been even more appalling than the death of their leaders. Before I could snatch out my second pistol, every man of them still on his feet fled towards the narrow cross street, shrieking that I was the daimio of demons. To aid their flight, I sent after them a leaden message that glanced from the helmet of the rearmost man, yet sent him staggering for a dozen yards.