A gust whirled the smoke of the shot into my face. As I paused with half-raised pistol, waiting for the puff to sweep aside, I heard the samurai lady calling cheerfully to her mistress, “My Princess! august lady! Fear nothing. The ronins have fled!”

I gazed about at the norimon. On the far side the brave girl was kneeling in her drenched silks, intent upon reassuring the occupant of the palanquin with word and smile. But the Princess had turned to the window on my side, and, heedless of the rain, was peering out at me through the parted bamboo curtain with even more awe and wonder in her dusky eyes than when she saw me in the temple.

My features, flushed and distorted as they were from the rage of battle and bloodshed, and fully exposed to view by the loss of my hat, must have appeared to her both outrÉ and terrifying. Yet she was aware that I had helped to save her from the ronins. The samurai girl was exclaiming the fact through the other window. I bent toward her with a reassuring smile, but before I could speak, Yoritomo shouted to the bearers, “About, men! To the palace!”

The samurai girl sprang up as the willing bearers swung around over the bodies of the dead and wounded. The two hatamotos who alone had lived to witness the flight of the ronins came staggering to meet the litter, the blood of their many wounds dripping with the rain from their tattered coats. One of them I recognized as Yuki the captain. Past the wounded men darted the aged samurai woman of the foremost norimon, whose bearers had fled at the beginning of the attack, and who had only just contrived to squeeze from her narrow box.

I drew a deep breath, and stared around at the bloody scene through the lessening rain, in sudden bewilderment. To have witnessed the butchery of all those brave hatamotos, to have had so large a part in the defeat and rout of their murderers, to have met again the soft gaze of the Shogun’s daughter, all within little more than two minutes—small wonder I stood dazed! It was my first fight, the first time I had ever met and struck down men in mortal combat.

One of the wounded ronins had dragged himself a little aside and, crouched on knees and heels, was bending forward with the point of his dirk at his bared left loin. I caught at Yoritomo’s arm to point out the man, but before he could turn to look, the ronin had stabbed himself and was drawing the blade across his middle with a horrible deliberateness. After the cross stroke there followed an upward cut. The suicide swayed forward in silent agony, yet still had strength and resolution to draw out the blade and plunge it through his neck.

“Hara-kiri!” murmured Yoritomo, in a tone of deepest respect. “He has saved his family from disgrace and punishment. See! There are two others who would do the same.”

One had been enough for me. I turned, shuddering, to pick my way over the water-and-blood-soaked bodies of the dead, in the wake of the slowly advancing norimon. The rain-squall was blowing away as swiftly as it had dashed upon us.

With the passing of the last shower, a burst of golden light from the low western sun flooded over the roof of the yashiki on our left. At the same moment I heard the sound of rushing iron-shod feet. As I flung up my downbent head the sun-rays glittered on the wet silks and bared steel of a band of samurais that came charging out of the street on the right.

“Keiki!” cried Yoritomo, and clapping his hat upon my head, he darted forward to thrust a roll of writing through the window of the norimon, into the lap of the Princess.

With my second revolver held loose under the edge of my robe, I sprang after him to the side of the norimon, as the Mito men swarmed out and closed about the crippled cortege. The first glance had shown them the failure of their diabolical plot. Utterly disconcerted and bewildered by the defeat of the ronins, they ran about like wolves that have overshot the trail of their quarry. The two wounded hatamotos sought to wave them aside, but so many blocked the way that our party was forced to halt.

The thought flashed upon me that they might butcher every one of us except the Princess, and then claim all the credit of the rescue. This I am certain would have been the course of action of the more hot-blooded among them, had not the older men bethought themselves that they could not silence the Shogun’s daughter. To accomplish the object of their plot, they must bring her safe to her father.

In the midst of their flurry and confusion, a norimon came swaying around the corner of the side street at a most unlordly speed. Before it the excited samurais parted their ranks, and the bearers trotted across as if to range alongside the norimon of the Princess. Yoritomo sprang before them with barring sword.

“Stand!” he commanded.

The bearers halted at the word, but the samurais burst into angry yells, and turned to rush upon the audacious priest who had dared to oppose the advance of their lord. A glance around in search for some way of escape showed me the windows of the yashikis jammed with the heads of out-peering women and the main street full of running hatamotos and samurais. My pistol shots had been heard above the uproar of the squall.

Regardless of the swiftly gathering crowd, Keiki’s men pressed upon Yoritomo, with upraised swords. I drew my revolver and stepped forward beside him, certain that the end had come. I could not hope to overawe so large a band with a few shots. Without doubt we would have been overwhelmed and cut down within the next quarter-minute, had not their master called upon our menacing opponents to fall back.

The bearers of the black norimon set down their burden, and the nearest samurais sprang to remove the top. The silk-clad aristocrat who arose from the depths of the box-like palanquin was younger and even handsomer than Yoritomo, but his eyes, between their excessively narrow lids, had a shiftiness that reminded me of the treacherous Malays.

Yoritomo bowed low to him in mock politeness.

“Ten thousand years to the heir of Hitotsubashi!” he said. “Had Keiki Sama come sooner, he might have aided the progress of the Shogun’s daughter, instead of blocking the passage of the august lady.”

“Seize that false priest!” commanded Keiki, stung beyond self-control.

But before the eager samurais could spring in upon him, Yoritomo flung the priest robe from his shoulders, and exposed to view the Tokugawa crests upon his silk haori. Angry as were the Mito men, they stopped short at that insignia of the ruling family.

Again Yoritomo bowed to Keiki and spoke with biting sarcasm: “The son of Owari dono greets the son of Mito dono. It may be possible that Keiki Sama is disappointed at having arrived too late to share in the slaying of certain ronins. Wounds have been received by those who defended the august lady, but if the heir of Hitotsubashi will condescend to soil his honorable feet, proposal is made that he exhibit his wide-famed skill as a swordsman.”

For a moment I feared that the fiery young lord would snap at the ironical challenge. He flushed a dusky red beneath his olive skin and glared at my friend with a malignancy that caused me to raise and aim my revolver with an instinctive movement such as might have followed the sudden uprearing of a venomous snake. Had Keiki so much as signed to his retainers, he himself would have been the first to die. But a gray-bearded counsellor was murmuring quick words into the ear of his master. Keiki’s hate-distorted features relaxed to the blank, inscrutable calmness of Yoritomo’s.

“The heir of Hitotsubashi does not pollute himself by crossing swords with common street brawlers,” he answered.

Yoritomo smiled suavely. “Keiki Sama need not fear to pollute his sword. Such of the brawlers as have not fled are all slain. Fortunate is the evil-doer who dies beneath another’s sword or finds opportunity to commit hara-kiri. The stern torturers rack the limbs of criminals until they confess all the foul plans of themselves and their accomplices.”

Unable to face my friend’s challenging glance, Keiki turned to the wounded captain of Azai’s guard. “Yuki,” he called, “lead on again! My cortege is at the service of the Shogun’s daughter, to escort her safe to the inner castle.”

The younger samurai lady, who had knelt beside the norimon of the Princess, whispered across to the older lady. She in turn bowed and whispered to Yuki. Though tottering from his wounds, the hatamoto captain straightened and replied to Keiki in a tone of haughty command: “Stand aside with your men, lord. The daughter of the Tycoon is satisfied with the escort of the two priest-clad champions who, single-handed, destroyed the evil ronins.” At this the newly arrived hatamotos came shouldering their way in among the Mito men with scant ceremony, and Keiki hastened to give the signal for his retainers to fall back. Again the bearers of the Princess started forward, with the two wounded hatamotos in the lead, each supported between a pair of his fellow-retainers. The others stationed themselves behind, to act as rearguard. Yoritomo sheathed his sword, and placed himself before the old samurai lady, on the right side of the norimon. Following his example, I thrust my sword and revolver inside my robe, and stationed myself on the left of the norimon, in front of the samurai girl.

As we advanced through the crowd of curious onlookers, I glanced about at the baffled Mito men, who were attempting to “save the face” of their lord by forming about his norimon in the usual stately cortege. Chancing to catch the eager gaze of the samurai girl, I smiled and nodded. Encouraged by my condescension to venture a like breach of etiquette, she bowed low, and murmured, with a soft laugh: “August lord! pardon the rudeness of Setsu!”

“O Setsu San is free to speak,” I said.

“Ten thousand years of happy life to my lord!” she murmured. “Again pardon the inexcusable rudeness,—but the awesome face of my lord has been seen by august eyes. Should report be made that my lord is to be numbered among the kami?—or is he a tojin sama?”

“A daimio of the tojin, come to aid Dai Nippon with sword and counsel,” I answered.

She bowed low, with a gentle insucking of breath, and fell silent. But as I sauntered along beside the slowly moving norimon, I caught glimpses of a pair of soft black eyes peering at me through the fringe of the window curtain. There could be no doubt that the Shogun’s daughter was studying such of my face as showed below the hat brim. The thought that she might be seeking to accustom herself to the “demon” eyes of the tojin set me aglow with blissful anticipations. But my amorous fancies quickly gave place to hot shame at the remembrance that the gentle little princess was the betrothed of my friend.

Our slow advance at last brought us up on the causeway, across the lake-like moat from the cyclopean wall and gate. The passage had been made through the midst of a multitude, drawn in rapidly increasing numbers by wild rumors of the fight. The causeway swarmed with hundreds of samurais, who stared at Yoritomo and myself in respectful silence.

A company of the hatamotos in charge of the great gate had advanced across the bridge to meet the Princess. Near the foot of the bridge Yoritomo signed me to stop. We stepped back while the norimon and those who followed it passed on between.

A venerable samurai wearing the circled cross of Satsuma saluted Yoritomo and pointed westward to the gate of one of the nearer yashikis.

“Shimadzu Satsuma-no-kami sends greeting to Yoritomo Sama, the heroic son of Owari dono, and to his heroic companion!” he said. “Will they honor the house of Shimadzu by entering and refreshing themselves?”

“Return our greetings and thanks to the Daimio of Satsuma,” replied Yoritomo. “We hope soon to visit Shimadzu Sama, but now we have come from a long journey, and must hasten to salute my father.”

“The son of Owari dono is wounded,” suggested the samurai.

“A wound received in a good cause bears no sting,” replied my friend with a Confucian sententiousness that drew an appreciative murmur from the crowd. He waved aside the old samurai with a courteous gesture, and crossed to me. “Come, brother, we must be on our way. The sun is low, and we have no lanterns.”

The samurai again hastened around before him and bent low. “Fearing that Yoritomo Sama might be unable to linger for a call, my lord took the liberty to send norimons for the conveyance of the son of Owari dono and his companion.” “The gracious offer of Shimadzu, the Daimio of Satsuma, is accepted with grateful thanks,” responded Yoritomo.

At a sign from the samurai, two red-lacquered norimons were borne forward through the crowd, and their doors opened for us to enter. Calling to mind Yoritomo’s instructions I slipped off my sandals and squeezed into one of the narrow boxes. Once inside, I crouched down on knees and heels in quite the correct manner, though I caught a murmur of politely smothered surprise at my failure to remove my hat.

A half-minute later our palanquins were swinging westward along the walled edge of the moat, an escort of Satsuma samurais in van and rear, and the old leader in attendance beside Yoritomo’s norimon.