All night I lay tossing in the anguish of my grief, unable to sleep and forget. Morning found me distraught and fast losing my senses in the delirium of fever.

When I reawakened to consciousness I found myself in a large room that opened upon an entrancing view of the yashiki gardens. There had been a heavy rain, and a flood of morning sun rays were streaming through the gray clouds to scintillate among the foliage with iridescent splendors. This, I believe, was what had roused me. I turned my head for a better look, and discovered that I was strangely weak. Then I remembered, and I no longer saw the magic glory of the gem-flashing garden. I groaned and sank back upon my silken quilts.

Gentle fingers stroked my forehead. I opened my eyes and gazed up into the soft eyes of the quaintly beautiful little lady Tokiwa—his mother! How could she endure the sight of him who had held the sword!—Again I groaned and closed my eyes.

A man’s voice murmured a prayer for me to give heed. I looked up and saw a benevolent old man with huge grotesque eyes. He bent forward tremulously, and I perceived that the supposed eyes were Chinese goggles. He kowtowed and, quivering and sweating with fear, offered me a bowl of medicine. I took a sip of the nauseating draught, and thrust the bowl from me in violent loathing. The physician drew back before my angry gesture, gray with fear.

“It is required that the august lord should receive treatment,” he murmured.

“It is my mind, not my body, that is sick,” I rejoined. “Go!”

He crept away in trembling obedience. The Princess Tokiwa bent over me to stroke my forehead with her soothing fingers. I shrank from her touch and threw my arm across my eyes.

“August lady,” I cried, “how can you bear to come near the tojin?—Forgive me!”

“Forgive?” she asked, in evident wonderment. “Not forgiveness but gratitude is due the august lord. The House of Owari is the debtor of Woroto Sama.”

I stared at her incredulously. Was it possible that even she could feel gratitude towards the man who had held the sword? She was his mother!—Yet I could not mistake the expression of her gentle face. It is not alone the men of Nippon’s nobility who are samurai bred. There was profound grief in the depths of her dark eyes, but it was a grief crowned with the glory of her son’s heroic martyrdom, and in her sight I was illumined by the reflection of his glory. In the realization of that fact my conscience was appeased. The terrible feeling of blood-guilt passed from me and I was healed.

“August lady,” I whispered, “the customs of the tojin world are far different from the customs of Dai Nippon. I served my friend according to his wish. It has made me a Japanese.”

She beamed upon me with a radiant smile, utterly unconscious of my real meaning.

“Is not Woroto Sama a kinsman of Owari?” she murmured. “Though he came from beyond the seas, he has proved that he is samurai bred. No longer will the clan of Owari think of him as a man of tojin birth.”

“It is true, august lady. I am now Japanese. The country of my brother Yoritomo is now my country, and his mission is my mission.” I sat up. “See! My strength returns at the very thought. Let Yuki be sent to me. He and I have alike incurred the displeasure of the Shogun. We will become ronins.”

“Is the august lord angered that he would shame the hospitality of Owari?” she protested.

“I have brought danger upon the family of my friend and kinsman!” was my answer. She rose and glided from the room. I turned to creep to a rack upon which my clothes were hanging, but when I began dressing myself I found that I could hardly stand. Trailing my girdle behind me, I tottered back to my bed and sank down upon it. Before I could recover sufficient energy to finish my dressing, the Prince entered and seated himself close beside me.

When we had exchanged salutes, he regarded me gravely and asked: “Has my guest been affronted that he should wish to leave my roof?”

“The presence of the tojin threatens the House of Owari with disaster.”

“Should Iyeyoshi command the punishment of my guest, I must submit. Otherwise I would sooner cast out my grandson than permit my guest to go from my gate a ronin.”

“What is my life against the winning of that for which a far more precious life has been given?”

“The honor of Owari forbids,” he replied, in a tone of finality that checked all further protest. His manner softened to the familiarity of a father addressing a son. “Woroto may not be aware of the time that has elapsed since he fell sick. The last writing of one who has gone from us has been presented to the Shogun, and the witnesses have given their evidence of the proof of sincerity. The welfare of his friend and kinsman was not forgotten by the testator.” “He mentioned me in so solemn a document?” I exclaimed.

“Your fate and the fate of Nippon together await the decision of Iyeyoshi. To-morrow is the funeral. After that I go to the palace.”

“To-morrow?” I murmured. “Have I lain here so long?”

“There have been no delays,” he answered. “You will wish to accompany the cortege to Uyeno. You must now eat and sleep, that your strength may return.”

He withdrew, and presently Tokiwa Sama entered bearing a tray of nourishing food prepared by her own hands. I ate, and sank into a refreshing sleep. At nightfall she roused me for a second meal, and after a time I again fell asleep. At dawn I wakened hungry and much restored in strength.

Fujimaro appeared to conduct me to my bath, from which I returned to find a dainty breakfast that had been sent by Tokiwa Sama. While I was eating Yuki came in from a night trip to Shinagawa. He had made it on the pretence of a carousal, but in reality to spy upon the Mito samurais and to ascertain whether all was well with Kohana. The girl had returned home the night of Yoritomo’s death.

Yuki learned that her visit had been made without detection by our enemies. Not only was she safe,—she had gained some information. Yuki brought from her a message of warning, which Fujimaro read for me: “The way of the departed winds past the eyrie of falcons. The seabird should keep to his nest.”

“The Superior Mito Yashiki lies on the road to Uyeno,” explained Yuki.

“They would not dare to desecrate the funeral cortege by an attack?” I exclaimed.

“What Mito does not dare is yet to be seen. My lord and his escort will wear steel within their linen robes,” said Yuki, and he hastened out to fetch me a mail cuirass and a cap-like helmet, while Fujimaro brought me a mourning costume of white linen.

Leaving me to the chamberlain, Yuki withdrew to prepare himself and my retinue against treacherous attack. I was dressed and conducted by Fujimaro to a room in which I had often honored the ancestors of Owari by bowing to the Shinto god-shelf. But the shelf and its tablets were now hidden by a curtain of white paper.

We passed on into the chamber where the dead lay before the lighted candles of the Buddhist family shrine. Neither the Prince nor the Princess were present. I was received by the chief mourner, a grave and decorous-mannered boy of twelve, the son of Yoritomo’s elder brother. I had expected to see the square coffin or great red urn in which, as a rule, persons of noble rank are buried. But my friend was recumbent in a long lacquered case, the head of which was placed to the north.

A napkin lay across his neck. The serene smile on the face was so characteristic that I could have fancied he was asleep had it not been for the vermilion with which the coffin was in great part filled. The chamber was crowded with friends and relatives of the family, but I saw none of them. I looked at my dearest friend, and drew back to kneel among the other mourners, my eyes dim with the starting tears.

My arrival had been late. A Buddhist priest with a little bell entered. After a brief ceremony etas came in to bear out the corpse. None other than a pariah might touch the dead. All passed out into the open and formed the funeral cortege, led by the priest with his bell and next a boy carrying the ihai, or memorial tablet, of the deceased. All the men followed with the chief mourner, bearing flowers and symbolic banners. The coffin was borne after us on the shoulders of the etas in the reversed position of a norimon. Last of all came the women mourners.

The procession was very long. Before the rear left Owari Yashiki, the van was far outstretched on the causeway that led along the bank of the outer moat towards Mito Yashiki. Slowly and solemnly we paced along the deserted roadway, beside the still waters in which marvellous lotus blossoms reared aloft their great blue-green pads. A mile brought us to the bridge across the Yodogawa where it flows into the moat.

The causeway now turned with the moat from northeast to east and skirted the long walls of Mito Yashiki. Yuki and his men pressed up close beside me, and grasped their swords within the white robes. But the yashiki seemed as deserted as was the street before the funeral cortege of the son of Owari. Not a face appeared at one of all the long row of grated windows. The great gates were closed, and no warder peered from the porter’s window.

We passed by in a solemn silence broken only by the tinkle of the priest’s bell and the scuffle of heavy sandals. The Mito men had respected the dead, not, I surmised, through any desire to honor Owari, but because an attack on the cortege would have been considered little less than sacrilegious by the other clans.

With no thought of danger to divert me from grief, the long march on to Uyeno seemed to drag out to dreary infinity. Yet at last we passed up the wide Hirokoji Street and through the Black Gate of Uyeno. Park and mortuary chapels and monasteries were not unlike those of Shiba, and the great temple of To-yei-zan hardly less grand than Zozoji. But I had no heart for such wonders as the vast stone lantern and vaster bronze Buddha, the myriad-handed image of Kwannon, and the beautiful paintings, arabesques, and sculptures of gates and ceilings. The tombs and temples of shoguns were nothing to me. I was looking upon the coffin of my friend.

When the gorgeously robed priests had ended their chanted ritual, I rose in turn with the other mourners, to bow before the coffin and lay incense upon the smoking censer and withdraw to my place. When all had taken the last farewell, the etas bore him into the tomb.

“My lord,” murmured Yuki, “it is ill advised for us to linger. We should return without delay to the outer moat, and cross over through the official quarter. To repass Mito Yashiki would be to incur great risk.”

“What!” I demanded. “Are we to skulk from our enemies on our return from his funeral? Let others do as they choose. We return as we came.”

His eyes flashed with martial fire. “My lord speaks as a true samurai! His attendants will go with him gladly.”

“The hawks poise. Do not go, my lord,” whispered a voice behind me.

“Kohana!” I exclaimed, and I turned about swiftly. I saw her slender figure gliding in amongst a group of the women mourners. In a moment I had lost sight of her. Yuki sprang to overtake her, but I stopped him with a gesture.

“Come,” I said. “Let the hawks swoop. They will find heron beaks awaiting them.”

Fifty men, all mail-clad under their white robes, followed me out through the Black Gate and down Hirokoji Street. Our sandals were bound on tight, and we swung along at a brisk road pace that promised to carry us past Mito Yashiki a good half-hour before sundown. We had no wish either to slip by unseen or to be ambushed in the dark.

The quickness of our return did not take the Mito men by surprise. They had watchmen in a tower at the corner of the yashiki, who signalled our approach. When we came opposite the great gate it was open, and Keiki stood in the entrance with a band of Mito and Hitotsubashi retainers, all in full armor. Keiki shone resplendent in a grotesque harness of green and red and gold that gave him the appearance of an iridescent-scaled insect. His helmet closed across his face in a hideous mask.

Keiki’s swordbearer clanked out into the roadway to intercept us, his mail apron lending to his gait a ludicrous appearance of waddling. But there was nothing ludicrous in his purpose. Yuki sprang before me and exchanged a formal bow with the challenger. A moment later their swords flashed out. Yuki was the first swordsman of Yedo, but his opponent was a close second.

For a long two minutes their swords clashed in terrific blows, stroke upon stroke, with lightning swiftness. One of the shoulder-brassards of the challenger fell clanging on the hard ground, shorn off by Yuki’s blade. In turn Yuki’s mail barely saved him from a half-parried blow. Had he worn no armor he must have been killed by that master cut. Twice they wounded one another with frightful slashes that shore through brass and steel and silk wadding to the flesh, yet each time failed to maim or kill.

The crest of the challenger’s helmet was a pear-shaped ornament. At the height of the combat the man stooped forward with the force of a supreme stroke. Yuki glanced the whistling blade, and struck back a tremendous downward blow that split the pear in half and cleft down through the helmet. The challenger fell as if struck by a thunderbolt.

My men raised a jeering shout, but Keiki advanced alone, and they fell silent again. The young lord strutted out within a few paces of me, and called tauntingly: “Does the barbarian consider the day ill-omened for Hitotsubashi? If so, let him take the place of his ronin dog.” “There is a tojin saying that meets the situation,” I replied. “It is to the effect that any cur may be expected to yap before his own kennel. Mito Yashiki swarms with retainers ready to pour out and overwhelm my small band. Keiki and his followers are in full armor. I refuse to be tricked. If I draw sword, it means death to me, whether or not Keiki dies first. Such being the scheme, I will even the odds in this manner”—I drew both my revolvers—“the life of Keiki is in my hand. He will do well to let the mourners of Yoritomo Sama pass in peace.”

The uplifting muzzles of my heavy pistols were arguments to convince the most sceptical. He drew back three or four paces. I signed to my men to march on, but Yuki waited beside me. When the rear had passed, we turned our backs upon Keiki and swung away after the others. Keiki and his men watched us go, without uttering a word or attempting a single hostile movement, though the champion of Mito lay outstretched in the public highway and his blood called for vengeance upon Owari.

“The hawks have darted upon the heron beaks—and swooped back to their eyrie!” I exclaimed. “You are not seriously hurt, Yuki?”

“Not yet, my lord.”

“Not yet?”

He glanced up at the high, barred windows of the yashiki, from which helmeted heads were peering down upon us. I looked back at the gate. Keiki and his men were withdrawing into the yashiki. There was something ominous in their quick retreat and in the silence of the out-peering retainers at the windows. I called upon the men to hasten. They swung into a half trot.

A barbed arrow whistled past my cheek and across Yuki’s shoulder. Another struck my breast and fell blunted from my mail. Yuki sprang to my right side with upraised sword.

“Run!” he shouted. “The long hawks swoop!”

He clipped a whirring shaft in mid-air with a dexterous stroke, and dragged me forward into the midst of the men. A storm of arrows burst upon us, streaming down through the barred windows. We broke into headlong flight. Beyond the farther corner of the yashiki was safety, and the distance was not great. But the barbed shafts flew thick and fast. Had it not been for our armor I doubt if a single one of us would have won through.

A man beside me plunged backward, struck through the throat. I would have paused, but Yuki dragged me onward. The man was dead. We, too, would be slain if we lingered. More than once Yuki clipped in the air arrows that might have pierced between my steel collar and helmet. Other arrows bruised my flesh through steel and padding. I was the central object of the cowardly attack. The tempered steel of my daimio armor alone saved me from death. Another of my men fell dead, and several were wounded by shafts, many of which were intended for myself. We rushed on up the road, each wounded man between two of his fellows.

We passed the corner of the yashiki. The deadly shower was slackening. A bolt-headed arrow pierced my upper left arm from the rear. Yuki sprang behind to shield me with his body. But it was the last shot.

As, a little farther on, we checked our flight, Yuki said with grim humor: “My lord now knows what hawks were meant by Kohana. They have made us pay two men for one. It was well the Mito men did not think sooner of the armor-piercing arrows, else my lord would have been riddled.”

Without pausing in his stride, he snapped the arrow that had passed half through my arm, and drew the end from the wound, and a minute later it was tightly bandaged. The other wounded men received the same rough, efficient surgery, but one died in the very gateway of Owari Yashiki.