The ride would have been tedious at best. With that symbolic net hung over me, it was well-nigh unendurable. More than once the indignity of being paraded as a prisoner through the aristocratic section of Yedo all but overpowered my self-control. Only by the severest repression was I able to constrain myself from drawing sword and cutting my way out of my enmeshed palanquin. The saving thought was that Satsuma had left us our swords and that the net did not necessarily imply degradation.

With the heralds ever chanting their cry, “Kneel down! kneel down!” we marched in solemn state into the official quarter and slantingly across it, past the great Sakaruda Gate where we had parted from the cortege of the Princess, to a gate in the angle of the moat, half a mile beyond. Here I expected an order for us to dismount and enter afoot. But the gate led us into the Second Castle, which is the separately moated portion of the official quarter, lying along the east side of the citadel.

We now had to go only a short distance to reach the yashiki in which the magistrates of the Supreme or High Court held their sessions. As prisoners of high rank, we were carried in through the gateway and across the courtyard to the portico. The Daimio followed in state. When he had stepped out upon the mats laid for him by the hatamoto attendants of the court, the nets were removed from our norimons, and we were courteously assisted to alight beside the Daimio. At a sign from him, we handed over our swords and dirks to a pair of his own retainers, while he gave his sword alone into the keeping of one of the hatamotos.

With this we were ushered after the Daimio into a waiting-room and served with tea and rice cakes,—an extreme of ceremonial hospitality for which I felt more impatience than gratitude. We had good reason to believe that those who so politely entertained us were our enemies,—that we were going before a prejudiced court. I wondered how Yoritomo could preserve his tranquil bearing. For myself I found much difficulty in imitating the austere solemnity of Satsuma, whose deportment I had resolved to copy. In my perturbed state of mind, the task was by no means easy, yet I succeeded so far as visibly to impress the hatamotos with the dignity of the tojin lord.

At last we were summoned into the presence of the court. The trial chamber was an apartment of medium size, divided into a stone-paved pit, level with the ground below the mansion, and a matted platform or continuation of the house floor, three or four feet higher than the pit bottom. Upon the centre of the platform sat the magistrates in a row, with several court secretaries or reporters on their right.

Turning my glance from the judges, I stared down into the space before them with a thrill of horror. Along the walls of the pit were ranged grotesquely modelled instruments and machines, the very shape of which was a menace and a torment. Before them stood guards armed with hooked and forked implements used to entangle and pin down unruly prisoners. Worst of all were the three men of the eta, or pariah class, who knelt beside a post in the centre of the pit, grim and silent, their cotton robes tucked up into their girdles, their corded arms bared to the shoulder.

The three swordbearers knelt in a corner, while Satsuma was conducted to a cushion on the left of the magistrates. He seated himself and exchanged bows with a lean, cold-faced daimio who had preceded him. A hatamoto signed us to descend a steep flight of steps into the pit. Without a shadow of change in his serene face, Yoritomo led the way down. At the bottom, attendants slipped lacquered clogs upon our feet, that we might not soil our silk foot-mittens upon the stone flagging.

We halted near the steps, yet close enough to the post where the pariahs stood for me to see a splotch of fresh blood on the black-stained flagstones at its foot. Yoritomo saw me shudder, and whispered reassuringly, in English, “Remember, brother, we have the pistols, and there will be no attempt at torture if we tell the truth. Conceal nothing except our knowledge of Keiki’s plot.”

I drew in a deep breath, and turned my gaze away from the pit, to look at the magistrates. They were studying me with a supercilious curiosity such as a lady of fashion might exhibit while viewing a painted savage. Pride spurred me out of the black mood of horror and despair into which I had sunk. With chin uplifted, I returned the insolence of the judges in a contemptuous glance. Yet intense as was my anger, I found myself almost disconcerted when I met the gaze of the daimio beside Satsuma. His face was as immobile as a death-mask, and his dull eyes peered out at me through the narrow lids with a glassy stare, as cold and emotionless as the eyes of a corpse.

“Who is that beside your friend?” I muttered.

“The chief of the Elder Council,” whispered Yoritomo. I stared closer at the repellent face. This, then, was Midzuano Echizen-no-kami, the Shogun’s grand vizier or premier,—our enemy and the friend of Mito. What chance had we of a fair trial before a court influenced if not overawed by the ally of those who sought our destruction? According to the ancient law of the land, we had committed deeds punishable with death. What possibility could there be for us to escape condemnation by a court acting in the interests of our enemies?

“Yoritomo, son of Owari dono!” called one of the secretaries, and he signed with his fan.

Yoritomo stepped forward before the judges, and bowed to them with grave dignity. Another secretary lifted a sheet of writing to his forehead, and read slowly: “Charges have been made that Yoritomo, son of Owari dono, left the shores of Nippon; that he has returned to the shores of Nippon from the lands of the tojins; and that he has brought with him into the country a tojin who belongs to the evil sect.”

The reading of the brief indictment was followed by a profound hush, in which the only sound I could hear was the quick drumming of my heart. The silence was broken by one of the magistrates, who leaned forward and asked sharply: “What has Yoritomo Sama to say to the charges?”

The secretaries wetted their inkbrushes and wrote down the question with swift strokes. They did not have long to wait for Yoritomo’s answer. He smiled up into the faces of those who were about to condemn him, and replied without a trace of hesitancy:

“Regarding the first and second charges, no proof can be brought forward by the august court, yet I speak freely the truth. Many years have passed since word came from Nagasaki how the hairy tojins had humbled the pride of the arrogant Chinese and forced them with cannonballs to open their ports to tojin trade. That is well known to all men of samurai blood.”

“It is well known,” assented the magistrate.

Yoritomo bowed, and continued: “When I had attained to manhood I chanced upon a full account of the tojin victory and China’s humiliation. The realization that a like humiliation might come to the sacred Empire of the Rising Sun sobered me in the midst of drunken revels. I put on pilgrim dress and journeyed to the holy shrine of Ise. There I prayed for enlightenment. The High Ones sent me a vision, in which I was directed to cross the seas and learn the secrets of tojin power. I waited my opportunity, and embarked in one of the black ships.”

“Your accomplices?” demanded the magistrate who had spoken before. “I had no accomplices. I boarded the black ship unknown to any person in Nippon.”

“Was this at Nagasaki, on the Dutch ship, or on one of the Chinese junks?” asked another magistrate.

“On neither, nor was it at Nagasaki.”

“Where was it?” queried the first judge.

“That is not to be told,” replied my friend.

The magistrates conferred together in low murmurs. After a time one of them signed with his fan to the torturers. As the men advanced, Yoritomo folded his arms and faced them. Though I knew his hand was gripped on the revolver under the edge of his robe, there was no shade of change perceptible in his serene face. I folded my arms and reached in to grip my own revolver.

The magistrate nearest Midzuano Echizen-no-kami leaned towards him as though to catch some faintly whispered remark. The leading torturer reached out to grasp Yoritomo’s shoulder. The magistrate raised his fan in a restraining gesture, and said authoritatively: “Let the point rest for the present. The prisoner has confessed to the first charge. Make note that, according to his own statement, he left the shores of Nippon. He was not driven to sea by storm, but boarded a ship of the tojins and sailed from Nippon of his own free will.”

“Under the guidance of the gods and for the sake of the holy Mikado,” added Yoritomo. One of the judges murmured a protest, but the last speaker signed to the secretaries. “Write down the claim of the prisoner,” he ordered. “Regarding the second charge, it is proved by the confession of the first. Yoritomo, son of Owari dono, left the shores of Nippon. He now stands before us. Therefore he has returned to Nippon. There remains the third charge.”

“First, as to my return to Nippon,” replied Yoritomo, “I make defence that, having learned much of the tojin peoples and their power, I come back, not in defiance of the edict, but as a loyal subject, to counsel the Shogunate against the mistakes of misinformation.”

“Make note that the prisoner confesses his return to Nippon for the purpose of counselling the Shogunate with the forbidden knowledge of the barbarians,” said the magistrate nearest Midzuano. He turned to Yoritomo and repeated: “There remains the third charge.”

“The third charge is false,” replied my friend. “Adamisu Woroto, my august tojin kinsman, is not a member of the evil sect.”

“Your kinsman?”

“My kinsman,” repeated Yoritomo, and he gave a terse account of Will Adams, his relations with the great Iyeyasu, and his descendants.

The magistrates listened with intense interest, but the recital, instead of softening them, seemed to quicken their suspicions. One of them signed to the torturers and commanded: “Bring the fumie.”

Again I gripped my revolver, certain that the time had come. My first ball should rid the world of the corpse-eyed Chief Counsellor Midzuano; after that as many of the perjured judges as there might be time to remove from office before the need of putting a ball through my own brain—How could Yoritomo stand so serene!

One of the torturers hastened across the pit, and returned with a bronze plate, which he cast down on the stone flagging before my friend.

“Tread!” commanded a judge.

Yoritomo smiled, and struck the face of the plate with one of his clogs. A slight smile gleamed across the heavy face of Satsuma. Midzuano betrayed no sign either of relief or disappointment. The magistrates conferred. The one who had spoken at the beginning of the trial nodded to the secretaries. “Make full note that the prisoner denies the third charge and has trod upon the image. He may step aside.”

As Yoritomo crossed to the far end of the pit, the judge signed to me with his fan to come forward. I advanced and stood facing the magistrates, with head high and arms folded. Little did they suspect that their fate was in my hands, not mine in theirs. Angered by the defiant stare of my blue eyes, the youngest judge commanded harshly: “Kneel down, white devil!”

“White lords do not kneel to the servants of a servant,” I rejoined, recalling to mind that in theory if not in practice the Shogun is the servant of the Mikado.

The man recoiled before my angry gaze, fearful of my “demon” eyes, while the magistrate next to him cried out his indignation at my insolence. But an elder judge quieted his colleagues with a gesture, and addressed me with calm severity: “The barbarian speaks with intolerable insolence to the high retainer of the Shogun.”

“Civility for civility; insolence for insolence,” I rejoined. “He called me ‘white devil’; you call me ‘barbarian.’ You are both foolish children, pitifully ignorant of the mighty civilization of the tojin peoples. I have come to Nippon with Yoritomo Sama—”

“Wait,” he interrupted, “First let the charges against the prisoner be read.”

A secretary raised the indictment to his forehead, and murmured: “Charges are made that the tojin companion of Yoritomo, son of Owari dono, is a member of the evil sect; that he has discharged a firearm within the proscribed limits about Yedo; and that he is a spy sent to Nippon by the barbarians.”

“Regarding the first charge, I deny that I am a member of what you call the evil sect,” I stated.

One of the judges pointed to the floor beside me, with a laconic command: “Tread!”

I looked down at the bronze plate upon which Yoritomo had trod so readily. On its smooth surface was incised a Latin cross. I faced my judges again, prepared for the worst. I was not a Roman Catholic,—nor for that matter a member of any Christian denomination,—but I did not propose to spurn that symbol with my foot.

“Denial of the charge has been made,” I said. “The word of a tojin daimio is sufficient. I will not submit to a foolish ceremony.”

“Make note, the prisoner denies the first charge, yet refuses to tread upon the image,” called the youngest magistrate, without attempting to hide his exultance. “Bring forward the witness to the second charge.—Stand aside, barbarian!”

As I crossed to Yoritomo, one of the guards drew away a screen at the edge of the pit, and exposed to view a clumsy wooden cage. A second guard opened the cage. From within crept a half-naked man. The guards caught him on either side and guided his tottering steps across to the torturers’ post. Though his face was marked with the effects of atrocious suffering, I knew him at a glance. He was Yuki, the captain of the hatamoto cortege, now beggared and degraded by a perverse judgment. The freshly healed gashes on his chest and shoulders confirmed his identity.

“Has Yuki the ronin thought better of his obduracy?” demanded the eldest judge. “If so, let him look upon his fellow-culprits, and speak the full truth.”

Yuki gazed at us for several moments without betraying a sign of recognition.

“The truth has been spoken,” he said, facing the judges. “When the cortege in my charge was attacked by the ronins, two swordsmen in monks’ robes slew many of the evil band and put the survivors to shameful flight. There is no more to be said by me.”

Instantly two of the torturers seized the heroic victim and began lashing him to the post. The sight was more than I could endure. I sprang forward, and cried out to the merciless judges: “Hold! Question me first! If your wish is to prove the second charge against me, I admit that I used a firearm—”

“The prisoner confesses to the second charge,” commented the eldest judge.

“In defence of your Shogun’s daughter,” I added. “Write that also.”

“Do not write,” commanded the judge.

“I call upon the Daimio of Satsuma to bear witness,” I cried. “The crime charged was committed in defence of the Shogun’s daughter against the attack of evil traitors, yet the Shogun’s magistrates refuse to make note of the truth.”

“Let the claim of the prisoner be noted,” ordered the judge.

I turned eagerly to the loyal martyr at the post. “Speak, Yuki!” I urged. “The truth is now known. Your testimony will work no further harm.”

“There is no more to be said by me,” he replied. “I saw no crime committed by the defenders of the Shogun’s daughter.”

The deep voice of Satsuma-no-kami brought all heads towards him: “Permission is requested of the august magistrates to ask a question.”

“The august daimio is entreated to speak,” murmured one of the judges.

“Condescend to state the charge against the ronin Yuki.”

“The obdurate witness has refused to testify regarding the second charge against the accused tojin.”

“The charge has now been admitted. The testimony is no longer required,” remarked Satsuma.

The judges conferred. If any wished to carry on the martyrdom of their victim to the bitter end, their lust for cruelty gave way before the general eagerness to curry favor with the most powerful of all daimios. The eldest judge bowed to him, and responded obsequiously: “Wisdom flows from the lips of Satsuma-no-kami! The testimony of Yuki the ronin is no longer required. He is free to go.”

The daimio drew out his sheathed dirk, and handing it to an attendant, spoke with deliberate distinctness: “Present this gift to Yuki, the brave and loyal ronin, from one who values heroic conduct. Ask him to await me in company with my retinue.”

The torturers had already loosened their cords. When the attendant delivered the dirk and message, Yuki faced the daimio, and holding the gift above his head, kowtowed until his forehead touched the bloodstained stones. He rose and staggered across the pit to the steps, where attendants hastened forward to support and conduct out into the open the man favored by the great daimio. Even the magistrates followed the departure of their tortured victim with envious glances.

Only Midzuano the Chief Counsellor had not been diverted by this touching incident, and at a whisper from him, the nearest magistrate called to me sharply: “The tojin prisoner has yet to answer the third charge.”

I stepped back before the centre of the platform, and replied: “Instead of coming to Nippon as a spy, I accompanied Yoritomo Sama my friend for the purpose of warning his country to prepare for the appearance of my country’s fleet.”

“Is, then, the tojin disloyal to his country, that he asserts friendship for Nippon?”

“The warships of my country come upon a peaceful mission. In loyalty to my country and no less in friendship to Nippon, I have come before the fleet with Yoritomo Sama, to counsel acceptance of the honorable friendship offered to the ruler of Dai Nippon by the exalted ruler of America.”

“Intercourse is forbidden. The American envoy will find the ports of Nippon closed against him.”

“The envoy of my country comes half around the world, with a stately escort of warships worthy his rank and his mission. He comes in peace, with offers of friendship, but he is no low tradesman, to be turned from your ports without a hearing. Of this I have come to warn Nippon. The American admiral will exact a respectful hearing.”

“Does the tojin threaten? Nagasaki is far from Yedo. Even should the black ships venture into Yedo Bay, none but the smallest craft can come within a great distance of the Shogun’s city. Can the cannon of the black ships shoot so far?”

The jeer goaded me beyond discretion. I rejoined: “There are cities on the shores of Nippon unguarded by shoals. Can the Shogunate defend them? If not, what of the prestige of the Shogunate in the eyes of those who conspire to overthrow the rule of the Tokugawas?”

Even Midzuano Echizen-no-kami betrayed his astonishment at so audacious a rejoinder. Perhaps he was stung by the consciousness of guilt, or rather, by the fear of exposure. He leaned across and whispered to the nearest magistrate. The latter made a signal with his fan, and commanded: “Enough. There is no need of enforced examination. The prisoners have made sufficient confession. They are remanded into the charge of Shimadzu Satsuma-no-kami, to be brought before the High Court to-morrow for sentence.”

“For sentence!” I cried, too indignant and angry to feel thankful for our escape from all attempts at torture.

Yoritomo clattered across the pit pavement, and led me to the foot of the steps. Satsuma and the swordbearers had risen. We shook off our clogs, and mounted the steps, to follow the Daimio out of that chamber of judicial torment.