When we came out into the portico Satsuma girded on his own sword and, in the face of the hatamoto officials, ordered our swords and dirks to be returned to us. We were in his charge and not yet under sentence. Next he called Yuki, the ronin, before him, and ascertained that the injuries suffered by the brave man from the torture, though fortunately not of a permanent character, disabled him from walking any distance. The Daimio demanded the use of a kago from the hatamotos, and ordered that the injured man should be carried before us. With the kago, the hatamotos fetched the sword and dirk which had been taken from Yuki upon his imprisonment.

Yoritomo and I now entered our norimons, across which the symbolic nets were again flung, and the procession marched slowly out on its way to the nearest Satsuma yashiki. I surmised that the court and the Council of Elders had thought to flatter the Daimio by entrusting him with the charge of the heir and the guest of the Prince of Owari. If so, they had proved their ignorance of his warm friendship for Yoritomo, and must have been both puzzled and chagrined at his courteous bearing towards the self-confessed breakers of the law.

On the other hand, I jumped to the rash conclusion that the great Daimio would interpose himself between us and our enemies, and, if necessary, even defy the court. When we entered one of the lesser Satsuma yashikis, within the official quarter, our gaoler-host could not have welcomed us beneath his roof with greater state and warmer hospitality had we been visiting daimios. Yoritomo, still in mourning, could not be present at entertainments. But I was free to witness the clumsy contests of the Daimio’s huge and bloated wrestlers, with which he sought to amuse me while his cooks prepared a feast in my honor.

After a formal banquet graced by the exquisite dancing of geishas, I was shown to the apartment assigned to our use, much exhilarated by the merriment of the girls and the many thimblefuls of hot sake that they had served me. Though the hour was close upon midnight, I found my friend kneeling beside his silken bedquilts, with his palms clasped in prayerful meditation.

“Mon Dieu! what a long face!” I laughed. “Get up and dance a hornpipe with me, Tomo-bomo! Jig till the lamps tumble! In the words of Perry’s great brother, ‘We have met the enemy, and they are ours!’”

“You do not understand, brother,” he replied, in a tone that brought my dancing feet to a sudden stand. “It would appear that we have escaped torture in our examination. You forget the many tortures inflicted with the death penalty.”

“Death penalty!” I cried, clutching the revolver through the folds of my robe.

“There is only one certain way of escape open—a ball for you; for me hara-kiri,” he murmured.

I stared in bewilderment. “Now? But Satsuma is your friend. He will stand between—”

“He cannot save us. Even he dare not venture to oppose the Shogunate in such a matter.”

“But—”

“Our only chance for life is that the Shogun will take action. The sentence of the court must be confirmed by the seal of the Council of Elders.”

“Midzuano has that ready, up his sleeve,” I interrupted, with forced flippancy. “So we are to forestall him by the personal application of ball and blade?”

“Not now, brother,—not until the last extremity. The Shogun may interpose even after we have been led out to the execution ground.”

“But they will search and bind us—we will be unable to avoid the torture and shame!” I exclaimed.

“I must risk all, for the chance of sealing my memorial with my blood. For you there is the hope of dying in company with your Princess.”

“Of living and wedding her!” I cried. “Yet the risk of waiting till the last!—They will surely search and bind us!”

“Wait,” he replied, and he sat for some moments in profound thought. At the end he clapped his hands, and called to the attendant who appeared: “The presence of Yuki the ronin is desired.”

I seated myself beside my friend, and waited with such patience as I could command. Yoritomo returned to his prayers. Presently a screen slipped open, and Yuki entered, dressed in new silk garments and already somewhat restored to strength by the food and skilful treatment. Though just roused from the midst of sleep, he came to us smiling, and kowtowed with courtly politeness.

“Ten thousand felicitous years to Yoritomo Sama and to the tojin lord!” he murmured. “Humble thanks are offered to the courageous swordsmen who saved from shame the daughter of Minamoto Iyeyoshi my lord!”

“The heart of the brave samurai is loyal even in disgrace!” commended Yoritomo. “Has Satsuma-no-kami yet offered to receive the ronin among his retainers?” “Offer has not been made, my lord.”

“Your parents survive? You have an heir?”

Yuki bowed to each question. Yoritomo nodded and continued: “Blessed is the samurai who can give his life to lift his parents from beggary to honored affluence; whose heir has full cause to stand before the mortuary tablet of his father with grateful reverence! Offer is made to receive the family of Yuki the ronin into the service of Owari.”

Yuki kowtowed. “The condescension of my lord is above the acknowledgment of empty words. Command the ronin to return into the hands of the torturers! His gratitude may not be expressed by the sacrifice of mere life.”

“Service, not martyrdom, is required,” replied Yoritomo. He drew the revolver from his bosom and handed it to the ronin. “Bear this in hiding with the dirk of Satsuma. To-morrow, when we come from the court, be at hand. If we are led out to execution, follow. Whatever the strength of the executioner’s guard, your part is to strike when I call to you; to cut our bonds, and hold back the hatamotos while we make use of dirk and pistol.”

“There will be no mistake. Loyal service is the joy of a samurai,” responded Yuki.

Yoritomo crossed over to a small writing table, wrote swiftly, and marked the paper with his seal. He returned and handed the writing to the ronin. “At sunrise go with your family to the Superior Yashiki of Owari, and present this to my august father.”

Yuki raised the writing to his forehead, kowtowed, and withdrew.

“What a man!” I exclaimed, in English. “Still suffering from the hellish work of the torturers, yet willing to rush to certain death at a word!”

“Filial piety is the supreme virtue,” replied Yoritomo. “He will serve his parents, and assure the survival of his family.”

“But why not reward him for what he has already done? He has suffered enough. Why not instead call upon one or more of your own samurais?”

“Their deed would be attributed to my father, and he will have enough to withstand as it is. Upon him alone will rest the burden of barring the return of Mito to power.”

“Upon him! and he disheartened by the death of your brother and yourself! You see no hope for us, Tomo?”

“Not disheartened, but strengthened by the desire for vengeance. Come, we must rest.”

“Rest?” I exclaimed. “When to-morrow brings us death, if not torture! I had trusted to the power and friendship of our host. But now—” “You have sacrificed yourself for the good of an alien people, brother.”

“Not altogether alien, Tomo. I have found myself strangely drawn to your people and customs—only this torture—But I suppose that has its place in testing men’s souls. Look at this heroic Yuki! If by any chance we escape, Tomo, I want that man for my retainer!”

“If we escape—Namu Amida Butsu!” murmured my friend, and slipping off his outer robe, he crept under the silken coverlet of the bed.

“Namu Amida—” he repeated, and fell asleep in the midst of the prayer.

Between his tranquillizing example and the soporific after-effect of the sake I had drunk, I was soon as sound asleep as Yoritomo, and enjoyed a profound and refreshing slumber until late the following morning.

An hour before noon we were roused and waited upon by polite attendants. Having been bathed, dressed, and served with food, all with a marked observance of ceremonial leisure, we were ushered out to our waiting norimons. In the portico our host greeted us with utmost gravity, and stated that every effort of Yoritomo’s father to reach the Shogun by message or in person had been blocked by Midzuano.

My friend smiled. “It would seem, Nariakira, that I am to go a little sooner than I had expected. Do not grieve for me. You know that I had already given my life for the cause before I came to you in your daimiate. Consider only what effort can be made to save my noble tojin brother.”

“There is always hope until the sword falls,” said the Daimio. “You may yet be saved together.”

“I am doomed,” replied Yoritomo. “They will execute me, if only as the son of my father,—as the heir of Owari. But Woroto is a stranger to the opposing clans. They should be satisfied to send him to Nagasaki for the Dutch ship to bear away, as it has borne many of the American sailors.”

“Not so fast, Tomo!” I put in. “For one thing, I shipped with you for the cruise. I’m not going to desert now because we’re on a lee shore. For another thing, the Mito party is not going to forgive my share in defeating Keiki’s plot.”

“If any way of escape could be found,” said the Daimio, “Woroto Sama would be cordially welcomed at the Castle of Kagoshima. I would rejoice to receive and honor as a teacher of my samurais a tojin lord of such prowess and learning.”

“My grateful thanks to the Daimio of Satsuma! But I have cast in my lot with my friend and brother Yoritomo Sama.”

“The answer of a true samurai!” commended the Daimio.

Yoritomo flashed me a swift glance of affectionate acknowledgment, and turned to enter his norimon. A few minutes later we were being borne again through the official quarter as netted prisoners in the stately cortege of our host.

Near the yashiki of the court I caught sight of a samurai crouched in the shadow of the wall. He wore a deep-brimmed hat and was writing a poem on a long scroll. Though he did not look up, I knew that Yuki the ronin was at hand to perform his part.

We entered the yashiki and, having handed over our swords and dirks, were at once conducted before the magistrate. To my surprise and relief, the court was convened in an audience chamber, not in the horrible trial room. As before, Midzuano Echizen-no-kami, the Chief of the Council of Elders, sat at the left of the magistrates. Satsuma was ushered to a place of equal honor.

My relief was short-lived. I caught the dull cold stare of Midzuano. Guards with man-catching hooks and forks closed in behind us. We were led to the sill of the raised floor upon which sat the judges and daimios.

“Kneel down! Kowtow!” commanded one of the secretaries.

“To the servants of the Shogun, the servant of the Mikado!” called Yoritomo, kneeling and bowing his forehead to the floor.

I knelt, but sat erect on my heels, a still greater insult to the Shogunate than my friend’s naming of the Shogun as the servant of the Mikado. There was an angry murmuring among the judges. But Midzuano sat unmoved and whispered quietly to his servile mouthpiece. He was far more desirous of our destruction than our disgrace, and Satsuma had shown sympathy for us. It was expedient to regard the feelings of the greatest of clan lords.

The magistrate beside Midzuano stilled the heated discussion of his colleagues, and addressed us: “The son of Owari dono has confirmed the evidence of his treason by his insolent reference to the great Tycoon. The white barbarian has proved his uncouth ignorance of etiquette. Let the sentences against the prisoners be read.”

One of the secretaries lifted a scroll to his forehead, and read: “Yoritomo, son of Owari dono: Whereas, contrary to the explicit wording of the ancient edict, you voluntarily departed from the shores of Dai Nippon and returned, bearing the forbidden knowledge of the tojin peoples, the sentence of the Court is that, for this traitorous conduct, you shall be borne to Bell Grove in bonds, there to be bound to a cross and transfixed with spears, and after death your head shall be struck off and exposed on a pole.”

In the midst of the hush that followed the reading, Yoritomo smiled, bowed, and called out in a clear voice: “The favor of the high magistrates will be remembered by Owari’s heir.”

The judges glanced furtively at Midzuano, plainly troubled by the menace beneath the suavely ironical words. The Chief Counsellor sat cold and unmoved. Another secretary raised a scroll to his forehead, and read:

“The tojin called Adamisu Woroto: Whereas, contrary to the explicit wording of the ancient edict, you, a tojin, entered the domain of the Sei-i-tai Shogun to spy upon Dai Nippon, and whereas you have confessed to discharging a firearm within the bounds of Yedo, each of which crimes is worthy of death, the sentence of the Court is that you shall be borne to Bell Grove in bonds, there to be boiled to death in oil—”

I heard no more of the hideous sentence. The sound of the reader’s voice dwindled to a drone like the singing of insects. I swayed forward, dizzy and pallid. To be boiled alive!—I forgot Yuki, but I remembered the revolver in my bosom. A cold fury of despair seized upon me. I would end all, now while I had the chance first to send to hell that corpse-eyed Chief Counsellor.

My hand stole in between the folds of my robe. Not a moment too soon to stop me, I heard Yoritomo’s piercing whisper: “Wait! Not now—not now!”

The magistrates were rising to leave the hall of audience. But Midzuano remained seated. I paused with my hand gripped on the butt of my revolver. They were minor officials,—mere tools in the hands of our enemies. The man who had dictated their actions still lingered. I could wait.

Midzuano drew from his sleeve a written scroll and a seal, and called for a brush and ink. One of the secretaries who had remained brought a tray of inks and brushes. Midzuano took up a brush, dipped it in a saucer of freshly ground ink, and unrolled the scroll.

Satsuma turned his powerful face squarely about to the Chief Counsellor. “Is Midzuano Echizen-no-kami in such haste to issue the warrant of the Council of Elders confirming the sentence against the prisoners?” he demanded.

“Too great zeal cannot be shown in ridding the land of spies and traitors,” replied Midzuano, and he filled in a blank space in the warrant with swift strokes of his brush.

“A word of counsel to the Counsellor,” interposed Yoritomo.

Two of the guards sprang before him. Midzuano waved them aside. He did not lack courage and courtesy. “The condemned men are free to speak,” he said.

“Midzuano knows that two of the charges against the tojin prisoner are false,” said Yoritomo. “Woroto Sama is not a spy, and no more a member of the evil sect than are the Dutch at Nagasaki, who have not been required to tread upon the cross for a long period. Regarding the third charge, the act confessed, though against the letter of the Shogun’s law, was committed to save the Shogun’s daughter from the shame of captivity. The warships of the prisoner’s august ruler will soon appear off the coast of Nippon. Advice is given that the prisoner be honorably delivered over to the exalted commander of the American fleet!”

“Nagasaki is far from Yedo. The hairy barbarians will hear nothing regarding their countryman,” replied Midzuano, and he signed the warrant.

“The counsellor is wise,” I jeered. “He is well advised to stop the mouths of those who might tell of his share in the ronin plot against the Princess.”

Midzuano looked down the room at me with his dead-alive stare for a full half-minute.

“A false move, brother,” whispered Yoritomo. “Say no more!”

Midzuano picked up the seal. As he stamped it in the ink, the floor quivered as if before the precursor of an earthquake. An instant later the air resounded with the clangorous boom of a mighty bell. It was the alarm note of the great bell at the Temple of Zozoji. Midzuano paused with the seal suspended above our death warrant.

There was a scurry in the anteroom, and a voice cried shrilly: “The barbarians!—the barbarians have come! Woe to Nippon! The black ships enter Yedo Bay!”

Other bells were joining the clamor of their harsher notes to the sonorous thunder from Zozoji.

Without a trace of hesitancy or emotion, Midzuano brought the suspended seal down upon the warrant. The man was samurai bred. He straightened and beckoned to the captain of the hatamoto guard. Perry had come—and in the same hour, this cold-blooded Counsellor would drag us out to shameful execution! I began to draw my revolver.

“Wait, brother! Not yet!” entreated Yoritomo, above the thunderous tocsin of the alarm bells.

The captain knelt to receive the warrant. I glanced about to assure myself that the guard was not approaching to seize us. Once in their grip, only Yuki would stand between me and a hideous death. The risk of his failure was too great. I could now be certain of myself and of Midzuano as well.

A hatamoto was approaching us from the rear. I half drew my revolver. A second glance showed me that the man was not one of the guard, but Gengo, the new court chamberlain. He walked arrogantly up the chamber to the place of highest honor, before the tokonoma, raised a scroll to his forehead, and kowtowed with his back to all in the room. Beams and floors were shaking and screens rattling in their slots with the boom of temple bells and the wild clang of firebells in every quarter of Yedo. The alarm was sweeping over the city like a tidal wave. Yet not a man about us stirred. Every eye was fixed upon the messenger of the Shogun.

Gengo rose, faced about, and displayed the great vermilion seal of his master upon the scroll. All in the room, from the humblest samurai among the attendants to the daimios of Satsuma and Echizen, kowtowed before the emblem. Gengo swelled with pride.

“Give heed to the command of His Highness the Tycoon!” he shouted above the booming of the bells, and he cried out the contents of the scroll: “All proceedings against Yoritomo, son of Owari dono, and Woroto Sama the tojin, are annulled. The prisoners are freed within the outermost boundaries of Yedo, upon the recognizance of Owari dono. Strict obedience is required. Minamoto Iyeyoshi.”