HEN the company of foreigners had passed into the Treaty House, the few moments intervening before the beginning of the ceremonies within were employed by the samurai still on guard outside in scrutinizing the cards of those citizens whose rank permitted them to fill the vacant rear of the hall.

At first the samurai, exacting in their task, examined carefully the invitation of each applicant. When, however, those in charge warned them that the time was short, they crowded ceremoniously within their lines into the hall, while those without, whether card-holders or not, were driven back roughly.

The movement had been noted in its first stages by Mori, who with Toro and Jiro had been forcing his way steadily towards the guarding samurai. When the first press of the rejected smote him on all sides, he turned to Jiro.

“If we are separated in this turmoil, I would charge you, Jiro—” he began.

The sudden interposition of a double rank of samurai drove him back, while it swept his companions within the circle of those being forced into the Treaty House. Turning, Jiro watched Mori struggle under the disadvantage the crowd imposed upon him. Then, with a resigned smile and a shrug of the shoulders, Mori made to Jiro a sign of writing. A moment more and Toro and Jiro found themselves within the audience-chamber. They gained places beside an opening through which the samurai preserving order outside could be seen.

When the American commodore addressed his first words to the interpreter, the Lord of Catzu arose. Toro and Jiro whispered together as they caught sight of the gorgeous figure. The interpreter translated to him the words of the American. Then through the interpreter the Lord of Catzu made reply:

“August sir, Lord Admiral of the unknown fleet, we will have joy in answering your honorable questions—any and all—in good time,” he said. “But first allow us to offer our apologies. We were unable to provide you with arm-chairs such as your excellency is accustomed to occupy on board your honorable ships; for that reason we are greatly pained, and trust you will overlook our impoliteness. But that chair which you now fill and whose brothers we humbly occupy, out of compliment to your excellency, resembles it so far as our abilities have been able to copy it.”

The American commodore looked at the chair he occupied. If the first words of the commissioner appealed at all to his risibilities, he was both too courteous a gentleman and too astute a diplomat to betray any sign. His face was grave to solemnity as he regarded the superb workmanship of the chair upon which he sat, plainly an Oriental interpretation of an American article.

“The chair is comfortable. It serves its purpose and honors its makers,” he made reply. “But I desire before presenting my credentials to question the prince-commissioners.”

Some one tapped Jiro lightly upon the shoulder. Looking about, he saw that a samurai, half extended through the window, had thus drawn his attention, and he was now making him the peculiar secret sign of the Imperialist, that of dropping suddenly downward the left hand with the little finger extended. Jiro looked into the face of the samurai Genji, where a smile of peculiar meaning shone. In the shock of surprise, Jiro’s face was raised so that Genji’s eyes gazed closely upon the entire contour, as for a moment the hair fell back from the youth’s brow. Instantly the smile in Genji’s face changed. His expression became involved. In it, Jiro read surprise, then delight, distrust, and apprehension.

As Jiro’s eyes met Genji’s again, the crimson flushed with sudden violence the lad’s cheeks. His eyes sank. Genji slipped into his hand a tiny roll.

“What is it?” whispered Toro.

“Genji,” said Jiro, with an expression of terror; “he recognized me.”

“But what did he want?”

Then Jiro recalled the paper in his hands. He opened it with trembling fingers. It was brief, and from Mori, who had evidently trusted his old friend Genji to deliver it to his attendant Jiro.

“If aught is said of the cause, defend!” he read.

“What is the meaning?” said Toro.

“Plainly what he says,” returned Jiro; “if any one speaks ill of the cause I am to silence and confound him.”

Toro smiled with superiority.

“You!” he whispered; “it is for me.”

With a passionate movement of negation, Jiro thrust the epistle into his bosom.

“Do nothing,” urged Toro; “if you disturb this gathering you are as good as dead. For a samurai it would be a pleasing feat.” Toro swelled in appreciation. “But for you—” He broke off. “Mori would not have asked it if he had known—”

“Silence!” whispered Jiro. “Listen.”

Several of the Dutchman’s translations had been lost by Toro and Jiro, but the interpreter was now speaking again for the American.

“I desire to know,” he said, “before I deliver my letters, with whom I am treating—with what Emperor—with which of the two?”

The Japanese were astounded.

“You are dealing with the Emperor of Japan,” they responded.

“But there are two. Which one?”

“We are unable to explain,” said Aidzu; “we cannot account for your strange belief.”

“Perhaps,” interjected the wily Catzu, “the Lord Admiral has confounded the head of our religion with the head of our state.”

“I must speak,” said Jiro, who was laboring under repressed excitement. “It is time.”

“Tsh-h!” growled Toro, staying his effort to rise.

“Let the prince-commissioner continue. I have been told that there are two emperors in this land, and that I have been placed in communication with the inferior, who is without authority to ratify his acts.”

“I assure you, my Lord Admiral,” said Catzu, “that you have fallen into an error common to foreigners.”

“Possibly,” was Perry’s brief assent.

“We have two heads, one a font of wisdom, the other of action. The one is the spiritual head, the divine Emperor; the other the true ruler and Emperor, with whom you are in communication. The spiritual head is without authority in mundane affairs. You make no error, for we, the princes of Japan’s real ruler, tell you this.”

Despite every attempted restraint of Toro, Jiro leaped to his feet.

“Thou liest! Thou knowest there is but one true ruler in Japan, the Mikado!” he shouted, in a voice that, rapidly ascending in pitch, became femininely shrill.

Every eye in the assembly, foreign and Japanese, turned upon the slight, quivering figure there by the breeze-swept opening. The Lord of Catzu, still upon his feet, stood like a sable statue, his arm still held aloft in the concluding gesture he had used a moment before. The Prince of Aidzu remained in his chair, seemingly incapable of motion. The American Perry alone preserved his composure, looking from one to the other in a puzzled effort to determine the meaning of this interruption.

The silence within the hall deepened as the startled gaze of the assemblage continued fixed upon Jiro. So still was it that the voices of the samurai outside seemed annoyingly loud, as they floated into the quiet apartment.

There was a long moment of this stunned, bewildered, yet intense stillness. It was broken by Toro, who, ashamed of having been outdone in daring by his slighter companion, threw himself convulsively into the focus of the company.

“Thou, my Lord of Catzu,” he shouted—“thou knowest that the youth speaks truth. Banzai the Mikado! Banzai Nippon!”

Another sensational moment! The samurai Genji had placed himself nearer to the two.

The Lord of Catzu broke the spell of wonderment. As he frowned penetratingly upon Toro and Jiro, his face cleared in sudden recognition of his son. He raised his arm in imperative signal to the samurai.

“Eject for me these fanatics,” he cried, “and guard them closely.”

Instantly the gigantic Genji, leaping through the opening, laid a heavy hand upon the shoulder of the youth. Back to the opening he drew them.

“They are in my custody, my lord,” he answered.

While the samurai drew the struggling comrades into the outer air, there was the quick hum of voices over the assemblage that a moment before had seemed as stone. Neighbor conversed with neighbor, the Japanese in consternation, the Americans in wonder.

The interpreter rapidly translated to the American officer the words that had passed between the commissioner and his interrupters. Some of the Americans caught at the drift of events even before their comrades sitting near to the interpreter understood the Dutchman’s statements to their commander.

“’Pears to me to be something to this two-king business,” said a marine to his fellow.

“We’ll leave our bones here, sure enough,” was the pessimistic response.

“What explanation can you offer of this?” demanded Perry.

The Lord Catzu lifted his eyebrows.

“Explanation! I do not explain it. They were fanatical priests, madmen, who thought that the head of the church should take over the direction of the state. You have such in your own country?”

The American was not satisfied with this statement. The interpreter informed the commissioners of this fact. Said the Lord Catzu:

“If you do not believe me, I shall, with the concurrence of my colleague, be obliged to declare all proceedings estopped. I cannot continue under such circumstances.”

The American saw thus slipping from him the rewards of the labor of months. He might be making a mistake, but he must proceed at once.

“I am ready to continue,” he said.

“Very well. You may deliver your letters to the Emperor of Japan,” responded Catzu, with great dignity.

At a sign from Perry, two cabin-boys who had remained in the ante-chamber came up the central aisle, closely followed by two huge negroes in marine dress. The boys carried silver and gold salvers, upon which rested the richly set gold boxes containing the documents signed by Millard Fillmore, President of the United States of America, asking consideration of a treaty for open ports.

As the boys reached the red-lacquered box at the head of the hall they stood upon either side, while the negroes stopped between them. Lifting the letter receptacles from the salvers, the negroes deposited them in the red chest indicated by an aide of Catzu. This done, they retreated down the aisle.

“All is now done,” said Catzu. “Permit me to inquire when your excellency will return for an answer.”

“In some months’ time,” was Perry’s thoughtful reply.

“We need not detain you longer,” said the commissioner. “Permit us to express our gratification at meeting you and our compliments for your courtesy.”

The American commodore acknowledged the deep obeisance with which the commissioners and their staffs now favored him with a bow as courtly and dignified as their own.

Then foreigners and Japanese filed out from the Treaty House of Yokohama.