Our trip through the daimio quarter must have covered two miles and more. Though closely cramped in my elegant box, I managed by stooping over to peer out through the bamboo fringe of the windows. For some time we had on our left the walls of large yashikis and on our right the beautiful lotus-covered moat-lake, with the lofty rampart of the citadel across. The sun sank beneath the horizon as we turned westward down a wide thoroughfare.

Presently we turned again, and passed zigzag from one street to another between silent yashikis. The buildings were lighted only by quaint street lanterns hung beside their heavy gateways and by the dim glow of candles through the white paper screens of the windows. The few people passing along these aristocratic streets were provided against the gathering darkness by cylindrical lanterns marked with the crests of various daimios.

At last we came to one of the bastioned gateways of the outer moat, and, after a brief parley with the guard, passed through and out across the bridge. Shortly beyond, our escort halted before a grand double-roofed gateway. We had arrived at the main entrance to the largest of the yashikis belonging to the Prince of Owari.

While our bearers carried us across the stone bridge of the moat-ditch into the lighted space before the huge copper-faced gates, the old samurai leader announced us to the warden or captain of the gate. Almost instantly the ponderous leaves of the gate swung open before us, and a dozen Owari samurais hastened out to open the norimons and salute their occupants.

Yoritomo met their smiles and kowtowings and noisy insuckings of breath with an austere dignity that I took pains to imitate. But to my surprise, he accepted a pair of the lacquered clogs that were brought for us, and proceeded to leave his norimon. Catching my look, he explained in English: “I am yet to be made heir, and as a younger son I lack the rank required of one permitted to ride in through the gateway.”

“Your rank is known,” I replied. “Mine is yet to be established. I will make a start here and now. You know that in my country there is no man of better blood than myself. I will not enter your father’s gateway except in my norimon.”

“You are right. The point is shrewdly taken,” he assented, and he spoke gravely to the gate warden.

The retainer accepted the statement of his master’s son without a trace of hesitancy, and I was carried in beneath the carved and lacquered crossbeams of the gateway with Yoritomo walking beside my norimon. The iron-shod sandals of samurais and bearers clattered on the stone flags of the broad courtyard within the gate.

Crossing this court, we passed up a slope and through an ornamental fence, into a second court before the mansion of the prince. Wings and high hedges flanked the main building in such manner that we could have seen nothing of the yashiki gardens even had the day still lingered. I was, however, more than satisfied by the fairy-like vision of the palace. Though the building was of only one story, the white-tiled roof flung up its twisted gables against the blue-black sky with an effect of airy height, while the rows of lanterns, hung to the outcurving eaves, shed their soft glow over the artistic balustrades and polished planking of verandas wider than those of Zozoji.

In the centre of the faÇade was a grand portico of keyaki wood, supported by carved beams and pillars lacquered in vivid colors. Young pages came out to salute us and spread mats for us to step upon. I emerged from my norimon. Yoritomo returned our thanks to the old samurai for the courtesy of Satsuma, and stepped from his clogs onto the mats beside me as the bearers and escort turned back to the gate. An elderly chamberlain in richest costume appeared from within and kowtowed before us. Mindful of my lessons in etiquette, I drew out my sheathed sword and handed it to the official as he rose. He took the priceless weapon reverently and raised it to his forehead before giving it into the keeping of one of the pages. Yoritomo handed his own sword to a second page, and addressed the chamberlain curtly: “Let my august father be informed of our arrival, Fujimaro.”

“By what name shall I announce my lord’s companion?” asked the chamberlain.

“Announce my friend as one entitled to sit at the left hand of the Prince of Owari.”

Fujimaro bowed us into the keeping of a second chamberlain, and slipped noiselessly away over the white mats. The newcomer kowtowed, and, at a word from Yoritomo, conducted us in through a vestibule lined with halberds, lances, archers’ equipage, armor, and battle-axes, to a dim-lit passage. The pages with our swords followed at a respectful distance.

Two or three turns brought us to the brightly illuminated dressing-room of a bath. As we entered several attendants saluted and began waiting on us, rising from their knees only when necessary. When my hat was removed, one man gave a gasp of amazement. Otherwise all preserved their bland smiles throughout my disrobing, too well trained to venture any comments upon my “snow white” skin.

But etiquette did not prevent them from uttering soft exclamations of grief and pity when the removal of Yoritomo’s dress disclosed a deep cut across his shoulder blade. Though no longer bleeding, the wound gaped open to the bone. Yet with Spartan fortitude Yoritomo silenced their cries and ordered them to proceed with me. When, in turn, he had received his cold rub and hot immersion, he at last permitted the chamberlain to bind up the wound with moistened strips of the tough Japanese paper.

Blind shampooers reinvigorated our muscles with their skilful rubbing; other attendants shaved us, dressed our hair, and attired us in gorgeous ceremonial costume, including white silk socks and the gauze-winged jackets called kamishimos. Last of all our dirks were thrust into our girdles and my revolvers and cartridges placed on a red lacquer tray to be carried after us with our swords.

Fujimaro appeared to conduct us into the presence of the Prince. We followed him through well-lighted corridors, flanked by rooms varying in size but all alike in their silk-bordered mats, the beautiful pictures on their lacquer-rimmed wall-screens, and the artistic fretwork in the space between the lintel-beams and the ceiling. Throughout the palace the woodwork was in natural finish, without paint or varnish, yet polished until the exquisitely grained surface shimmered like watered silk.

At the anteroom of the daimio’s hall of audience two more chamberlains kowtowed and ushered us forward. At the head of the room there was an impressive pause. The chamberlains could not have looked more solemn had they been ushering us into the presence of the Shogun himself. The screens before us drew noiselessly aside and disclosed a chamber somewhat larger than the anteroom and a slight step higher.

The chamberlains kowtowed at the threshold and crept forward on their knees. We followed, erect. To our left, midway up the room, knelt six dignified samurai counsellors. The Daimio awaited us, seated Turk fashion upon a low dais before a lacquer-walled tokonoma. So far as I could judge of his figure within the loose robes, he was tall and slender. He wore a small beard and mustache whose snowy whiteness contrasted with his tall black bag-like cap of cobwebby tissue. His long face had a stern and saturnine expression and he bore himself with austere stateliness.

As the chamberlains neared the dais, they kowtowed and drew to one side. We advanced and knelt, and Yoritomo kowtowed. Resolved to maintain equality with the Prince, I went no further than a low bow. As I straightened, the Prince gazed keenly into my blue eyes, and after a moment’s pause returned my bow. I was received as a daimio of the first class!

The kneeling chamberlains waved me to the cushion on the left of the Prince and Yoritomo to the cushion on his right. Our swordbearers slid around to the tokonoma and placed our swords upon the rack of honor below the Prince’s glittering gold-mounted helmet and armor. At a sign from the Prince, the page bearing my revolvers and cartridges set his tray before us.

The solemn silence which had prevailed since our entrance continued while attendants glided in with sweetmeats and a toy-like tea service of egg-shell china. When we had been served, the Daimio signed all the retainers except his counsellors to withdraw, and broke the silence by politely inquiring my name, age, and family.

“My father’s guest is Adamisu Woroto Sama,” answered Yoritomo for me. “He is a daimio of the great tojin people whose land is called America. His age is the same as my own. In all America there is no family of higher blood than the family of my friend and benefactor. He held honorable rank under the Government of America, but laid aside office, and has come with me to aid Dai Nippon.”

The Prince looked across to the group of counsellors, and the aged karo, or chief counsellor, responded to the wordless inquiry without moving.

“My lord, in the Legacy of Iyeyasu it is forbidden to harbor a tojin. According to the ancient edict, all Christians shall be imprisoned in the common jail.”

“August Prince and father,” said Yoritomo, “the Legacy of Iyeyasu also forbids that any man shall leave the shores of Nippon, under penalty of crucifixion. Your son has travelled beyond the shores of Nippon; he has traversed the five continents, and proved the truth of the Dutch learning by sailing around the vast circuit of the world.”

“My lord,” said the karo, “the wording of the edict is explicit. Death is decreed against whomsoever shall presume to intercede for the life of a man returned from beyond the seas. Men of low class—fishermen—have been received back from tojin ships and forgiven their unintended crime. But according to his own words, Yoritomo Sama left the shore of Nippon with intent to contravene the ancient edict by bringing back the knowledge of the tojins. My lord, the enforcement of the laws has been lax in recent years; there has been much blinking at the study of the Dutch learning. Yet the laws stand ready for enforcement against my lord and Yoritomo Sama and the honorable guest, should enemies of my lord make demand upon Midzuano Echizen-no-kami, chief of the Elder Council.” “A petition for a hearing has already gone to the Household in the norimon of the Princess Azai,” replied Yoritomo, and without naming Kohana, he told succinctly how we had discovered and defeated the Mito plot.

The Daimio and his counsellors listened throughout with an impassiveness of manner which I should have mistaken for indifference had I not been near enough to see the glow in the jet eyes of the Prince. At the end of the account the great man murmured his comments in a voice that vibrated with suppressed exultance:

“In all that you have done, my son, I see the guidance of the gods and of the spirits of our forefathers. The Mito men walk with faces over their shoulders, looking to the past, and with ears closed against all reports of the disasters brought upon the Chinese by a like frog-in-the-well policy. The true cause of the Mikado owes much to your service and the service of this noble tojin sama.”

“I have broken the law; I have brought danger upon the House of Owari,” said Yoritomo. “I alone should receive punishment, and not my family. Shall it be hara-kiri, or shall I strip off the Tokugawa crest, and as a ronin seek to accomplish my mission, aided only by my tojin brother?”

His father looked across at the counsellors, and the old karo responded without a moment’s hesitancy: “Yoritomo Sama has in truth been guided by the ancestral spirits of Owari. Chief and clan should stand or fall in the support of the heir of Owari.”

“Heir?” murmured Yoritomo. “Such, then, is the truth!”

“Trusted men have been making secret search for you throughout Nippon,” answered the Prince. “For a month your elder brother has lain sick beyond hope of recovery. His son is yet a child. The strong man has come to succeed the sick heir. To-morrow the death of your brother will be announced.”

To give way to grief in the presence of a superior is a most serious breach of Japanese etiquette. The graver the grief or pain, the more pronounced the smile of the sufferer. Yoritomo uttered a soft laugh, and immediately turned the conversation to a less painful subject.

“My lord,” he said, “I have told how Woroto Sama received me aboard the black ship, and how he proved himself the generous friend and brother of the stranger. We believe the saying that the spirits of our ancestors are ever about us. Here is proof. Only a day past Woroto Sama informed me that he is a descendant of Anjin Sama.”

“Of Anjin Sama!” repeated the Prince, even his austere reserve shaken by the statement. I bowed to mask my curiosity. The news of my ancestry could not be other than interesting to any one acquainted with the romantic history of Will Adams. But why should the announcement to this Oriental prince create such a sensation?

He looked at me with a slight smile, and asked his son: “Does Woroto Sama know?”

“He has yet to be informed, my lord.”

The Prince turned to his karo: “What is written in the records of Owari regarding Anjin Sama, the tojin counsellor of Minamoto Iyeyasu?”

“My lord, it is written that the fourth Daimio of Owari took to wife the daughter of Satsuma-no-kami’s brother Nagato. The wife of Nagato was the daughter of Anjin Sama’s grandson.”

The saturnine face of the Prince relaxed in a kindly smile, and Yoritomo bowed to me in grave salute. “My brother now sees that it was immutable Fate which drew us together in the bonds of friendship. We are blood kinsmen.”

Accustomed as are we of the South to trace out the ties of family through all its ramifications, I was astonished at this recognition of cousinship through so remote an ancestor, especially as I knew the Japanese hold strictly to the male line. But if the princely House of Owari was inclined to receive me as a member of the clan and family, it was not for me to repudiate the connection.

The Daimio spoke to the counsellors: “The heir of the Prince of Owari is entitled to present his memorial direct to the Shogun. See that Yoritomo Sama is registered at Zozoji, in the place of his elder brother, who is about to go from us.”

The counsellors kowtowed, and glided from the room. Yoritomo addressed his father, with a shade of anxiety beneath his smile: “My lord, I cannot go before the Shogun during my time of mourning. Yet the black ships may come any day.”

“Prepare the memorial. I myself will present it to the Shogun in private audience,” replied the Prince.

One of the screens of the side wall slipped open, and there entered a slender little old lady in dove-colored silk. She was the first aged woman I had yet seen in Japan whose features retained a share of youthful beauty. Her face was as exquisitely refined and almost as fair as that of the Shogun’s daughter, while her teeth, owing either to greater skill in the application or to better dye, were of a glossy black not altogether unpleasing even to my Occidental ideas of attractiveness.

Softly as a thistledown, she drifted across the mats and knelt before Yoritomo, her lips parted in a smile that went far beyond the demands of etiquette. Tears of joy glided down her soft cheeks, and in her eyes was a look of mother love and devotion that made all clear to me. No less deep and overpowering was Yoritomo’s joy at sight of his mother; his tears flowed quite as freely. Yet there followed no outburst of caressing words, no kisses and fond embraces. Weeping and smiling in decorous quiet, they kowtowed to one another and murmured formal words of greeting.

In the midst Yoritomo composed himself to introduce me as his friend and benefactor and a distant kinsman of the family. She welcomed me with exquisite courtesy. A samurai girl appeared with a light refreshment of tea, and rice-cakes covered with a sauce of red beans and sugar. This the Princess served to us herself, with a daintiness that would have drawn from me more than one compliment had I not been aware that my fine phrases would have been considered an outrageous breach of etiquette.

When the little lady had withdrawn with her assistant, the Prince unbent entirely from his austere reserve, and in a most genial manner showered upon me a hundred and one politely personal inquiries as to my opinions and ideas. Behind the mask of solemn state I found him a gentleman as cordial as he was dignified, and as kindly disposed as he was noble minded.

Returning to the fight with the ronins, he spoke wonderingly of my audacious resort to firearms within the bounds of Yedo, and insisted that I should show him the action of my revolvers. The weapons greatly pleased him, and he obtained my promise to fire them the next day in one of the archery walks of the yashiki.

After this, mindful of our need of rest, he touched a small gong, and ordered the chamberlain Fujimaro, who responded, to conduct me to apartments occupying one of the wings of the palace.