Not until I stood in my own apartments in Owari Yashiki, alone with Yoritomo, did I give way to the tempest within my soul. Even then the frailness of the walls compelled me to speak with lowered voice, but my pent-up rage and despair vented themselves in a flood of bitter complaint. Never had I seen my friend so concerned. Yet it was the outcome he had predicted, and he could give me no hope.

“I grieve for you, Worth,” he said. “You have learned the truth. The remotest suggestion of your desire would seem madness to Iyeyoshi.”

“But she loves me—”

“The daughters of daimios and shoguns are presumed not to love until after marriage. Your statement to him that she loved you was most unfortunate. Even a samurai of the lowest rank would consider such a declaration an aspersion upon his family honor. Had it not been for that—”

“Forgive me, Tomo! I have played into the hands of your enemies—I have endangered all your plans! The tyrant will not stop at punishing me. He will wreak his anger upon those who have harbored the hated tojin. I shall leave Owari Yashiki at once and turn ronin, taking with me Yuki. Neither of us shall continue to bring danger upon the House of Owari.”

For some moments he sat silent, regarding me with a smile of womanly tenderness. When he replied he spoke as if quoting from the Chinese classics: “Far better is death in the consciousness of honor than a grovelling prosperity. The laws of hospitality are sacred: they may not be violated. A house that cannot stand upright should fall.”

“The House of Owari bears the weight of the contest against Mito,” I argued. “The enemies of Owari seek to use the harboring of the tojin as a lever to overthrow the real friends of Nippon.”

“It is of no avail, Worth,” he said. “Your sacrifice would result in no good. If we are not strong enough to shelter you, we are not strong enough to resist Mito. The matter is in my hands, not yours. Let writing materials be brought.”

“What would you do?” I demanded, seized with a premonition of his purpose.

He smiled almost gayly. “The time has come for me to give myself for the success of my mission.”

“Tomo,” I cried, “not that! not that!”

“What is death?” he argued. “A passing from blind form to unhampered spirit; a freeing of the bonds of earthly desire. Other and higher incarnations await him who has sought to overcome self.”

“Tomo, I have brought you to this fearful thought—I can never forgive myself!”

“You have nothing to forgive, Worth. You are in no manner responsible for what I am about to do. That was determined upon by me before I so much as saw your ship in Kagoshima Bay. How often have I told you that my life has been vowed?”

“Yet it might not have been required! It is my selfishness that is forcing you to this dreadful decision. At the best I am a condemned man. It is my right to do what little I can to free the House of Owari from blame.”

“The House of Owari stands or falls in honor. To thrust you out as a ronin would stain that honor, and it would rightfully be considered as evidence of weakness. No, brother! There is one chance, and only one, to check the intrigues of Mito.”

I shuddered. “So dreadful a death, Tomo! Could I but take your place!”

“I am samurai bred. It is a privilege to offer one’s life in a great cause. You, I fear, will have the harder task. I shall ask you to perform for me the service of best friend.”

“You mean—?”

“You will act as my chief second in the ceremony.” “No! no!” I cried, quivering with horror. “If you cannot be turned from your dreadful sacrifice, let Yuki—but I—the very thought—my God!”

“Yuki is your retainer. I will accept him as my inferior second. You are my friend and equal. I ask you to perform the highest office of friendship.”

“No!” I protested. “The very thought is too terrible! I cannot endure it.”

“The chief second is not always required to act,” he said. “I may have the fortitude to dispense with assistance. Will you not render me this great service of friendship? It is the custom. You will win the gratitude of my father, the grateful respect of the Owari clansmen. Promise me the favor.”

“Tomo! you know how abhorrent to all my Western ideas—”

“It is the highest office of friendship. My brother, you admire the samurai spirit because it is in your blood. No samurai will flinch when duty demands. You are my friend, my kinsman. You will serve me, Worth! With my sword in your hands, I will undertake the ceremony certain of an honorable outcome. Remember, you are now a son of Dai Nippon.”

“You insist?—Good God!”

“In honor to your dearest friend—” “I am only a tojin. They will call my service a dishonor.”

“You have been received by Iyeyoshi as the equal of Satsuma. I have no other friend. Will you fail me in my need?”

“My God!” I cried. “How can I?”

“I speak only of friendship. I will not urge your assent on the ground of consideration for my father. For the sake of Dai Nippon, I went out into your tojin world and returned to die. You chose to return with me, brother. Will you now forsake me in my need?”

Suddenly the veil of horror parted before me, and I saw the intended sacrifice with the eyes of my friend. Iyeyoshi had been duped by the wiles of the reactionaries. The Mito party, if not quickly checkmated, would turn the Shogunate against all progress and greet the American expedition upon its return with an attack no less vicious than futile. After that, war and reprisals; bombardments by the black ships, rebellion, internecine war, and a weakened Government; harsh demands by the domineering tojin powers—possibly a conquest!

What more inspiring than the thought that all might be averted by the giving of one life? My friend was about to offer himself as a willing sacrifice for the good of his country. It was my privilege to ease the ordeal for him and to lend an added dignity to the ceremony. What did it matter if my Occidental prejudices were shocked and horrified at the part required of me? To the Japanese it was an almost sacred duty. He had well said that it was the highest service a man could render a friend.

“I—will serve—you, Tomo!” I gasped.

He sprang up, beaming. “There is no time to lose. Send Yuki to Shinagawa for Kohana. I must see my father and prepare a declaratory testament to be presented to the Shogun. Fujimaro will make all the necessary arrangements. Until the time comes, brother—”

He turned to go, but I sprang before him to grasp his hand. “Tomo! must it really be? Is there no other way?”

“Your sorrow is my sole regret,” he replied. “All others whom I love will rejoice with me in my deed.”

To this I had no reply. He gave my hand a responsive grip, and hastened out. I sank down, overcome with a wave of returning grief and horror. But he had said there was need for haste. I sat up and clapped sharply for Fujimaro and Yuki. They entered and bowed to receive my urgent commands. Yuki rushed out to ride posthaste to Shinagawa, Fujimaro to make arrangements for the ceremony of hara-kiri. I was left alone with my anguish. Twilight approached. My attendants came with lamps and the evening meal. I could not eat, and I dared not refresh myself with sake. There was need for me to retain perfect control of mind and body. I could do nothing but suffer and wait for the terrible moment, hiding my pain as best I could behind a mask of austerity.

At last Yuki came to announce his return with Kohana San. I ordered the geisha brought in and Yoritomo notified. As the girl kowtowed before me I saw by her pallor that she had been told. Yet she had the fortitude to smile and murmur the usual complimentary greetings. Only once I caught her gaze and read in her agonized eyes the grief and despair which etiquette compelled her to conceal.

Soon Yoritomo entered, gravely serene, yet radiant with the solemn joy of self-sacrifice. His final testament was in the hands of his father. All was now in readiness for him to undergo the ultimate test of sincerity. When he seated himself beside me Kohana prostrated herself at his feet. He regarded her with the tender compassion of a saint for a suffering child.

“Kohana is of samurai blood,” he said. “She knows that death is a small matter.”

“The servant implores the honorable joy of following her lord!” she murmured. “Greater service is asked,” he replied. “Those whom I leave behind may still profit by the craft of Kohana.”

“Must I then linger?” she sobbed. The weakness was only of a moment’s duration. She looked up, her face bright with the same glory of self-sacrifice that shone in the serene countenance of my friend. “The will of my lord is the joy of his servant!”

Yuki kowtowed to me and whispered: “My lord, now is our time for purification.”

I rose and followed him to the bath, leaving Yoritomo and his beloved to say their farewells alone. When we returned, purified by the water and attired in ceremonial costume of hakama trousers and hempen winged jackets, I found my visitors gone. In their place Fujimaro waited to hand me my friend’s sword. The time had almost come.

To make certain of my part, I asked a number of questions and agreed upon a signal from Yuki. Fujimaro then led us to the wing of the palace in which a chamber had been set apart for the ceremony. In the centre of the room the mats were covered with a spread of white silk, upon which in turn were laid two red quilts. At each corner of the quilts stood a single whitewood candlestick with its hollow-wick taper. The only other lights in the room were two candles beside a pair of bench-like seats, five or six paces distant from the quilts.

Chancing to glance behind a set of white folding screens that stood across from the seats, I saw my friend’s dirk lying upon a tray of unvarnished cypress wood. There were other objects beside the tray. I looked hastily away. Having assured ourselves that all was in readiness, Yuki and I went out into a side room, and waited.

We heard soft footsteps in the chamber. After a few minutes Yoritomo came down a corridor, accompanied by several chamberlains. He had already taken leave of his father and mother, and was dressed in the prescribed ceremonial costume of white linen. Kohana had gone, and the Prince did not appear. Fujimaro entered and together with the other chamberlains kowtowed while Yuki and I conducted our principal into the chamber.

We found the witnesses to the ceremony seated upon the benches. Great as was my anguish, I thrilled with momentary pleasure when I recognized Ii Kamon-no-kami and the great Daimio of Satsuma. Not even Mito might doubt the testimony of such witnesses.

Yuki kowtowed. Yoritomo and I bowed low, and the daimios rose to return the salute. The daimios resumed their seats. Yoritomo seated himself on knees and heels in the centre of the quilts, facing so that the witnesses were before him on his left. I took up my position behind him and drew his sword as Fujimaro had directed me. Yuki brought the tray with the dirk from behind the screen, and knelt to present it.

Yoritomo bowed to the daimios, loosened his robes, and took the dirk from the tray. Yuki kowtowed in a position that enabled him to watch the fatal stroke and give me the signal. Yoritomo tucked the ends of his sleeves under his knees, that his body might not fall backward.

I stood in my place, rigid with horror. Fortunately I could not see his face or the frightful stroke. That at least I was spared. All I saw was the dear form of my friend bending over under the agony—to fail him now would mean a prolongation of his atrocious pain, possibly the fearful disgrace of an outcry—Yuki signed to me. I struck. Never had I aimed a truer blow!

The next I knew I was holding my sleeve before my eyes, and some one was leading me from the chamber of death.