PON his return to the fortress, Keiki, as the capable and devoted leader of the cause of Imperialism, was deferred to by his brothers. He at once assumed in his own right the command of the resources of the clan.

The household was put upon a footing even more military than before. Regular watch was kept at all points of the estate and at the boundaries of the province. Reports of all crossing the boundaries of the province in either direction were made to Keiki each morning.

An army of laborers impressed into service from the Mori as well as the friendly southern provinces were put to work strengthening the defences of the Mori fortress, now become the war headquarters of the Imperial party.

The castle itself, situated within the centre of the province, approach to which on all sides must be made through friendly provinces, with the exception of the Catzu, because of its natural defensive properties, became the nucleus for a host of outworks sheltering the activities of Keiki. Within the line of fortifications surrounding the immediate vicinity of the fortress were the factories and foundries now built by those who acknowledged Keiki as their leader. For while all this owed its inception to the Shining Prince, it could not be carried out with his resources alone. The neighboring clans, whose lords in the past had held equal and superior rank to the Shogun, sent of their best to the Prince of Mori. The clans of Satsuma, Ozumi, Hinga, Nagate, Suwo, the Liu Kiu Islands, and others ordered their artisans and mariners to Keiki’s headquarters.

The old Prince of Satsuma, more learned in European civilization than Keiki (although Choshui was the home in Japan of Dutch sciences), was the Prince’s preceptor. Under his direction the cannon foundries, whose weapons of war were to oust the Shogun, were built. A sort of light rifle designed by Satsuma was manufactured under his direction near Keiki’s fortress. The castle, which in time of war would afford protection to all these works and foundries, was reduced in the number of its living apartments. These were situated within the inmost recesses. All about the old portions of the house were built broad platforms. Upon their edges were set stone walls with openings for cannon. These, as fast as they came from the foundry, were set in tiers so arranged that they could command the approaches to the large circle, within which were set the factories and works of the Imperialists.

In the midst of these activities Keiki found relief from the flood of memories that otherwise might have overwhelmed him. He felt that now he was rising to true greatness. For him personally, selfishly, life held nothing. It was for his country he labored. So austere and unbending was his demeanor, that for months after his return his brothers forebore to speak of the message that had come during his absence.

But one evening as he sat in his chamber alone, within the centre of the fortress, his brother, Komozawa, came to him and held out in silence the letter which had disturbed them. Keiki read sufficient to ascertain its tenor. Then gently he laid it aside. There was no passion to his tones or manner as he said, coldly:

“Brother, whatever truth or falsity may lie in this epistle is of the past, and concerns me alone. It cannot affect the future. Speak to me no more of the leaves of last autumn.”

“But—” began the brother, timidly.

Keiki sprang to his feet. There was a cloud upon his brow, dark and threatening. His sword showed half its bare length.

“Not a word,” he said, “or, dearly as I love you, this blade shall give you explanation.”

Komozawa bowed submissively and retired.

In the thoughts that the words of his brother had called into being Keiki was led to remember the imprisoned Toro, whose existence he had forgotten. Immediately he ordered the youth before him.

To his surprise he found that Toro, instead of appearing sullen or dejected, was quite cheerful and optimistic. He greeted the Prince with so much bonhomie and frankness that Keiki was puzzled at first to know how to treat him.

“Toro,” he said, “I have come to a decision regarding you.”

“That is good,” said Toro, at once, “for I really am becoming interested in my prospects.”

“And what are your prospects?” said Keiki.

Toro fingered his sash buoyantly, and assumed the attitude of a gay spark.

“Well, if it please you, my lord, I should wish to remain in Choshui, but at peace and liberty, pray understand.”

Keiki frowned impatiently, but Toro remained apparently unconcerned.

“In fact,” he added, ingenuously, “I would very much like to remain in Choshui as a guest—such as your excellency was in my own province. I do assure you, my lord, that I have not been treated with the equal hospitality and courtesy offered to your highness in Catzu.”

“It is impossible for you to remain here,” said Keiki; “matters have changed.”

“Then let me recall a certain promise made to me by your excellency. For my services in your behalf with my lady cousin in Catzu, you in return—”

He stopped abruptly, held by the expression on the other’s face. For the first time he perceived that the Prince was in an unnatural state of mind.

“Wistaria, my lord—what of her? You do not mean to tell me that you failed in your suit!”

With a sob in which no tears intermingled, Keiki raised his sword, only to drop it, groaning inwardly.

“Return to your father, Toro. Be warned by me that this is best.”

“But I wish to repeat that your highness promised—”

“Listen. If you remain here, your life will not be safe. Do not further protest. I will say this, that if your lordship does not care to follow my suggestion, I shall be forced to eject you or allow my officers to deal with you.”

Toro shrugged angry shoulders, a gesture to Keiki reminiscent of his mother. The action displeased him. Sharply he clapped his hands. To the officers answering his summons he said, briefly:

“Be good enough to have my Lord of Catzu taken to Catzu under such escort as he may require.” To Toro he bowed perfunctorily: “Good-day, my lord.”

The preparations and activities of the past few months had brought all within the domination of Keiki to active readiness for war. Keiki himself was now of greater value to his cause, since old Satsuma had taught him all he knew—the result of years of European study and reading—of the making of the munitions of war. The lingering disease which threatened Satsuma need carry no fear to the Imperialists. Keiki, the disciple and heir in knowledge to Satsuma, could well cope with any man in the world in the utilization of the war resources at his hand.

Only a pretext, a happening that should afford the opening wedge for war, was wanting to the Imperialists. The public mind must be quieted by the outbreak of hostilities as the logical outcome of some event, not as a sudden, uncaused outburst.

It was during these days of waiting that the old Lord Satsuma sought Keiki out in the interior of the fortress. There was an evident perturbation and embarrassment manifest in his bearing. Keiki, alarmed lest some accident should have endangered one of the projects of the labor of years, started upon sight of his hereditary friend.

“My Lord Satsuma, is it ill with you?” he inquired with solicitude.

He noted that the face of Satsuma showed as never before that its master would never live to see the Restoration. This thought saddened him.

Satsuma, though in some pain, smiled gently.

“Ill indeed it is with me,” he said.

Keiki reached out and impulsively seized the hand of the old warrior, pressing it with sympathy that words could not have expressed.

“I may not be with you,” continued Satsuma, “on the day of the bakufu’s undoing.”

“Nay, do not say so.”

“It is so, nevertheless,” said Satsuma. “I must go before—”

“My lord, it is but the common lot—the common happiness of life to give up, to cease to struggle. Your achievements have been many. This rifle by my hand, that cannon in the embrasure, all these will speak for you with terrible effect after you yourself are long silent.”

“Prince Keiki, it is not for myself I think thus sadly of life and death. I have a daughter. We are on the eve of war, the country is unsettled. I cannot leave her unprotected to share its uncertain fate.”

“But surely,” said Keiki, with a mild surprise, “your daughter will be well cared for among her many honorable relations.”

“Alas, no, that is not possible. Her stepmother is ill disposed towards her, and all of her brothers are pressed into the Imperialist service.”

“This is very sad,” said Keiki, “and if it were in my power to aid you I would beseech you to command me immediately.”

“It is possible for your highness to aid me,” said Satsuma, slowly.

“How? Let me know at once how I can do so.”

“By permitting my insignificant daughter to have the personal protection of so chivalrous a prince as your excellency.”

“My personal protection!” exclaimed Keiki; “but I am engaged in the work of warfare.”

“True, but my lady would not distract you from these tasks. Her presence in the fortress need scarcely be felt.”

Keiki sprang to his feet and began to pace the apartment in a perturbed manner. Under his thick brows old Satsuma regarded him keenly.

“My lord,” said Keiki, stopping suddenly in his walk, “your suggestion gives me much pain, because I am unable to grant your request. It is quite impossible. This is not the place for a woman.”

Drawing himself up proudly, Satsuma replied, in a ruffled voice:

“Very well, your excellency. You refuse me.”

After a moment, as Keiki averted his face and did not reply, he continued:

“I am an old man, travelling over the last stage of the journey of life. I had a natural longing to have with me in these my last days my beloved child. Hence, feeling assured that you would not deny the wish of a dying father, I took the liberty of bringing her hither with me.”

“You brought her here!” cried Keiki, in amazement.

“She is within,” said the old Prince, quietly, as he indicated the interior apartment.

With difficulty Keiki curbed his temper. Satsuma had not long to live. He would tell him his secret: he would bare to him the source of his buried grief. Thus his old friend would recognize the impossibility of his being brought into contact with any woman, and perceive how unfitted he was for the task of protecting her.

So it happened that while without a storm raged, and rainy blasts struck sharply into the faces of the sentinels about the fortress, Keiki related his story to his aged friend. Once during the recital the shoji moved, then there appeared in it two tiny holes. Once there crept into the room, mingled with the tempest and the sentinels’ sharp cries without, a muffled sob.

“You have passed through the heart’s narrowest straits to the mind’s broadest realm,” said old Satsuma; “but permit me to still insist that while your highness’s story has touched me deeply, I cannot agree with you that it should be permitted to affect the fate of my daughter.”

“You are right,” said Keiki, gently. “It must not do so.”

“You will allow her to remain here?”

“Yes.”

Satsuma bowed deeply and gratefully.

“The camp,” said Keiki, thoughtfully, “is no place for a woman, but here in my fortress she will be safe.”

“Your highness,” said Satsuma, with much emotion in his voice, “no words of mine can express the thanks of a grateful heart. Goodnight, my brave boy; the gods comfort and bless you.”

In the adjoining apartment a small figure, half crouching by the dividing doors, sprang to its feet. A girl ran to him with a little cry and threw her arms about his neck, pressing a little, wet face gratefully against the heavily limned one of the old Prince.

“It is well,” said Satsuma, patting her head.

“How can I thank thee?” she breathed.

“By endeavoring to feel as if thou wert indeed my own daughter instead of a distant relative. But come, thou art pale, and your garments are soiled and torn with travel.”

“The journey was long,” she sighed, glancing at the frayed ends of her kimono, “and do you know, my Lord Satsuma,” she added, “I could scarcely hire a runner to carry me, because of my unworldly attire, and so I was compelled to make much of the journey on foot.”

Meanwhile Keiki sat alone, his hands clasped before his eyes. All the bitterness of a lifetime welled within his bosom. He was trusted above men; at young years the idol of a brave nation; fate was bearing him upon a wave of the highest destiny that could not fail to beat down the rotten dikes of oppression. Yet all this brought no peace, no happiness. He realized in a moment the futility of all his efforts to put the soul of the Lady Wistaria out of his heart. Only in fierce action and strain that should engross all his faculties could he even find a temporary easement. After that, the gods pity him! After that, he could not live. There should no longer be any delay. There should be war, and that speedily, perhaps on the morrow.