In the sunken garden directly beneath his rooms he saw that sinister thing below, waiting in a throbbing silence. It seemed as if his gardens were alive with them. Who had summoned them? For what were they waiting?

From his elevation above them he spoke, his clear voice booming out above their heads.

“Genji Negato, I desire your services.”

From somewhere in the shadows the voice of the interpreter came back at him like a cold slap in the face.

“When the evil spirit of Atago Yama shall have left the abode of the exalted Tojin-san, Genji Negato will humbly return for service.”

The Tojin-san’s incisive, perfectly controlled voice continued coldly:

“By command of the Prince of Echizen you are in my service. In his name, I order you to control your foolish fears, or take the consequences of your Prince’s displeasure.”

A strange voice, rumbling, sneering, responded to this statement. Like a flash, upon the retort, came the Tojin’s ringing order to the interpreter:

“Translate the words just spoken, if you please.”

“He says, your excellency, that the Prince of Echizen has been summarily called to Tokio. If the new law is indeed enforced he may not return.”

For a moment the far-seeing mind of the Tojin staggered before this appalling news, which, if true, meant the possibility of his being suddenly cast adrift and left to protect himself from the Jo-i menace, against which Echizen himself had taken such precautions in his behalf. While his mind revolved all the possible perils of his position, a new voice sprang ringingly out of the shadows of his garden—a boy’s clear, unfaltering voice with its reassuring note of loyalty and affection.

“Beloved sensei, we, your students, offer ourselves in place of your guard.”

“What may babes know of a sword’s honor?” snarled the samourai, who had already spoken. “Upon what strength may the foreign devil lean for his new support?” he demanded with cutting sarcasm.

The burly laugh that followed was suddenly stopped, as the student Higo flung himself defiantly before them all.

“I, Higo, kin of your absent Prince, will answer you. There are nine hundred students, samourai themselves, and sons of a thousand samourai before them. All of these are loyal to our teacher. They will protect and fight for him, if necessary.”

Now the answering voice snarled merely in explanation.

“Who spoke of harm to your sensei? It is not him we seek. We have come for the Fox-Woman of Atago Yama, who blights our fortunes, who brings sickness, poverty, and disaster upon our ancestors and our children, and whose doom has been spoken by Fukui. You have trapped her, young sirs of the college, like any other female beast of the woods. Let older, more experienced hands finish your honorable work. There are those of us whose hands performed a like service upon the debased parents of the gagama, and whose palms itch now to mingle her blood with her sire’s. Let but the Tojin-san eject this siren of the mountains, and we will be satisfied.”

“It cannot be done,” frantically cried the boy Junzo. “I myself have touched the wretched, helpless one, and, as the gods in heaven hear me, she is but—human, as ourselves!”

A roar of derision greeted the boy’s passionate outcry, and there was a concerted movement toward where the Tojin-san stood towering above them, his arms crossed, his keen, stern eyes regarding them piercingly.

Some one pushed forward the interpreter, and the craven, agitated fellow now faced his master. He made several ineffectual efforts to speak, gulped at the lump which rose persistently in his throat. Before him loomed the grim, sardonic face of this west-countryman he had always inwardly feared and respected; behind him the rabble of dissatisfied ronin.

Gasping, trembling, he repeated to the Tojin the verdict of the mob. They called upon him to deliver into their hands the fox-woman. Failing to do that, they would storm the Shiro and take her by force. Whiningly, pleadingly, he begged his master to hurl from his house the wretched spirit he was harboring.

To this demand the Tojin-san returned slowly, as though he carefully chose his words, that if one hair upon the head of the one he protected were touched, the whole Fukui should feel a vengeance such as never had befallen it before. He, the Tojin-san—a citizen of a mightier country than this—was the guest of one of their princes. Not alone his friends at home, but those here—the very Emperor himself, who had pledged himself publicly to uphold the new enlightened laws, borrowed from the West—would avenge insult and wrong done to him—the Tojin.

His answer, translated by Negato, raised a turmoil of angry discussion, and that one who seemed to be the leader of the company, sprang headlong forward, as if to show the way to those who hesitated. He climbed half-way up the steps to where the Tojin stood, and quick as a cat drew forward his swords.

Every eye was turned upon the Tojin-san. He was standing tautly erect, his heavy, pugnacious chin thrust out. As the sword of the samourai touched him he drew slightly backward, then with a swift, merciless bound sprang headlong upon his assailant, his great white fists flashing more vividly than the steel had done. Backward went the samourai, his swords flying out of either hand. Without a cry, he fell upon the grass path beneath.

And the Tojin-san was back in his place, facing them, waiting for them, calm, still unmoved, but very terrible and mighty to look upon.

In the deadly silence that followed, the student Nunuki passed the castle gates, followed by his valiant, stalwart little army of fellow-students. They moved in a line steadily onward, spread out on all sides and completely surrounded the house of the Tojin.

Ere the samourai could realize it they found themselves encircled by an army four times their own in number. Their leader lay before them, unmoving; and above them towered the grim, terrible figure of this west-countryman, who represented in his gigantic person all the power and strength they had come to know and superstitiously believe belonged to the West.

One by one, they moved toward the gates, broke into smaller groups, passing the long line of student warriors without a word or sign of war.

Presently the Tojin moved a step lower down into the garden. He stood a moment, staring frowningly at the still form lying at his feet. Then slowly, unwillingly he stooped, and turned it over. A deep breath escaped him. For a moment things swam dazedly before him, for the white, agonized face upturned was that of the Daimio’s high officer, the Samourai Gihei Matsuyama!