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The day dawned bright, and all Kitanoshi livened with anticipation. Great masses of foliage bended or thirsted under the golden dew drops that trickled and glistened in the creeping sun’s modest warmth. Everywhere men and women, clad in comfort or donning their due, wafting song-words or grumbling at fate, busied themselves with that beginning which marks the endless round of time’s eternal quest and God’s immutable law. Little had been left to the wild, for here the untrained had long ago found his tenantless haven; the ox and the fragile alike had surrendered to the call of higher being; here, where the human over-lords the beast, man went his way: marveled only at the beauties of God-striven energy.

Shibata eagerly tripped again into the council chamber; years of earnestness sat lightly upon his shoulders; Takigawa of Ise was there to meet him; both had suffered intolerable insult at Hideyoshi’s ruthless assumption of authority, and now that others more vain or less discerning sought shelter under their own disconsolate roofs these two, more subtle, if less capable, would consolidate forces and move upon what they none too soon conceived to be a common necessity.

Ieyasu arose later; life to him seemed the better conserved in leisure; and while Shibata, his host, and Takigawa, his neighbor, wrangled the exigencies of war, or planned doubtful expediencies, a more inviting, though perhaps no less urgent prospect lolled and soothed the gallant young daimyo into more than a customary morning’s peaceful dreaming of love’s over-powering, life-building virtue.

“Yodogima, my Yodogima,” whispered he, as the great red sun arose and cast its fiery rays into the opened room around him.

“You are mine, for Amaterasu, the good sun goddess, reveals you, sweet Yodogima, in every trace of her lovely countenance. Come closer, oh, my darling; come closer, that Ieyasu may feel, may know, may live the divine. You are my savior, earth’s true progenitor, and the stars in heaven reveal but your eternity. O, Amaterasu; O, Jimmu; O, Yodogima—my Light, my Purpose, my God.”

The waterfall in the distance murmured its time-honored song of powers subdued. The pine, dwarfed into miniature proportions, revealed the potency of patience rigidly enforced. Nodding stones here and there symbolized again and anon the power of truth. A half-hidden lakelet in the distance conjured a magnitude there impossible, and from the castle crag in the garden’s center, receding round to the dim horizon beyond, no thing remained untouched or thought neglected in the making of this a place not alone inhabitable but as well inviting.

A lone lespedeza straggled and bloomed significantly close at the wall side; where, perhaps, ages ago its fair protegé long since a goddess had met and won with no more grace a far less gallant lover. Would Yodogima come there too?

Ieyasu breathed contentedly of its fragrance and willed afresh that herein lie the potency of man’s everlasting generation.

A cuckoo came and cocked itself upon the side house-sill.

“Sing to me,” commanded Ieyasu, bending forward intently.

The cuckoo stood stark still, amazed at the sound of his voice. Some ominous thing—too uncanny for thought, more than consciousness would reveal—presently suggested, “I’ll kill the cuckoo if he does not sing.”

“No, no; not I—only Nobunaga could say that. Ieyasu—”

“Sing to me,” demanded he this time, straightening up defiantly.

The bird ruffled its plumage, as if ready to fly or do battle, and conscience bade him, “I’ll make the cuckoo sing.”

“Ah! That sounds like Hideyoshi. Those are his sentiments. Ieyasu—”

“Sing to me,” said he now, leaning back adroitly.

The little thing tucked its wings, and closing one eye stood confidingly in the warm sun’s rays. Ieyasu—only said:

“I’ll wait till the cuckoo sings.”

And he did wait—but presently his eyes were opened by the sound of a voice that arose not from nature, nor from the ethereal, for his own consciousness revealed it, and all the senses rose and the soul stooped to a common level. Ieyasu, the one prince who had resisted every temptation to yield at the call of devotion; who had withstood the force of power, ignored the claims of conquest, and shunned at the taste of wealth; who had succeeded to opportunity, yet studied its consequence; had held his own against, without intruding upon others; partaken of the fruits of life and looked forward into the indeterminate beyond—had welcomed any test that man or God invoked, now stood dazed at the charm of woman’s potency.

He looked up, and the same green vine still carried its own true offering, the cuckoo had long flown, the sun rose and the earth responded, but underneath it all, above the rest, and whence he knew not, came the call that for good or for bad, at once and for all, too soon or too late, moved him to do and to know.

“Come to me,” cried he, thrilled with the notes that issued, loftier than the cuckoo’s, more heavenly than are the skies.

“Come to me,” repeated he, yet composedly, “for it is you, Yodogima; none other could sing so sweetly. I must have you.”

Still the tanka (verse) issued, its soul-stirring message only tightened the grip of one human heart upon another. For ages these gentle maidens and their ardent suitors had dwelt upon its perfection. No base word had been left to mar its symmetry; not a thought of mortality jarred the sense; the unreal had been made real; yet hitherto in his mind no voice had risen to essay its value.

Ieyasu listened and Yodogima rendered; sang as if possessed of a spirit never before felt or touched, and Ieyasu hurled at constancy’s feet all that tradition or enlightenment had vainly invoked.

A power unseen, unfelt, unknown, held supreme. The best that the energies of men had yet devised stood symbolized in this one man Ieyasu—nobody disputed that: not even he himself at heart could deny the truth. The exigencies of birth, the value of training, and the force of purpose alike marked this man as a leader among men. A full consciousness of the responsibilities urged him unequivocally to the fulfillment of his mission. He would do for his kind no less than the gods had done for theirs.

But here, confronting him, arose, commanding attention, a new authority.

Heretofore men and women had been considered one—man. Were it possible, after all, that they, too, were separated by a gulf as wide as that between heaven and earth? A destiny as incomprehensible as nirvana itself? A province as distinct as that revealed by the principles positive and negative? And did God but stand between and the devil behind them? Was it the devil between and the gods behind? Or were the gods beckoning them alone, and unhindered except by man himself?

These were stirring questions for Ieyasu, who had conceived Shinto, then suffered Buddha, at last to become threatened of Christ.

Thought crowded upon him till his head seemed in a whirl and only the body responded—to what he did not know; no lone man could tell.

Yodogima sat upon the lacquered bench, underneath the spreading lespedeza, innocent of a thought beyond the duty to which she, the eldest daughter of the host and betrothed of a superior, Katsutoya, had been assigned. Her place in the household made it incumbent upon her to entertain at this hour of the day a guest and patron of the rank and standing of Ieyasu.

The flowers overhead bespoke her innocence; the verse she sang portrayed a devotion unquestioned; while the dressing of her hair, the manner of her garments, and the method of her doing signified an age, station and disposition not to be mistaken.

Yet the pathos and the inspiration of her voice revealed an inner consciousness that is neither bought of preferment nor satisfied with precedent. The plaintive mournful notes, the anxious eager accents, the glad forgiving tones, all invited repose, stirred the interest and awakened impulse. Ieyasu conjured within his over-burdened conscience a duty consistent alike with inner compulsion and outward exigencies. He would surrender position, opportunity, everything to save his manhood: the very soul of being called aloud from the uttermost depths of unreality—the real paled with insignificance, the things around him shrivelled into nothingness, the earth itself rocked upon an uncertain axis, and the heavens alone bade him do.

He would have cried out, but words seemed a mockery; gathered her in his arms, had it not been vulgar; touched her with his lips, were not the flesh a repulsive thing; entranced her with a look, coaxed her with promises, inveigled her with deception, stolen her, coerced her, done anything to get her—but the tenets of his religion forbade.

Numberless generations of denial had made of him a man. All the instincts of brute being stood lost behind the ages of progressive enlightenment. The tutelage of an ancestry that fancy painted looking down with each star twinkle, that science tore from the hard face of phenomenon, that existence itself proclaimed with every heart-beat, guided this man and this woman toward an only rational attainment, to a predestined, uncontrollable end.

Man in his weakness had thought differently—no age had brought forth more than conformity, here or elsewhere on earth; history, travel, and science had proven that, and these men and women were not devoid of understanding—had conceived the earth as of heaven, conjured their state to be coexistent with the earth, and made man at once a master and its slave: woman had become the handmaid of fortune, the instrument of fate, and the idol of the gods.

Ieyasu pondered, and Yodogima wrought.

Clothed in garments that obliterated all trace of form or suggestion, of a texture that hid the weave and a making that disclosed no stitch, yet displayed a handiwork as perfect as it was simple; her hair waved and fastened round without an ornament or a device that could be seen; her feet sandalled in earthen-like wood, and her nails pink and cheeks olive and eyes trustful, Yodogima revealed in her presence and strove with a purpose all that time had been able to wrest from an humbler beginning. The green turf, the broken sky line, birds of plumage and the fragrance of flowers, the open expanse or covered nook, all bespoke a care and a concern intended to move and to weld mankind.

Yodogima remained seated, underneath the shade, amid an environment made, not creative. The sun drove its rays fiercer and more propellingly against Ieyasu’s stand. It remained for him to give; she could but receive. Love beamed from every distance, floated in close upon them, arose subtilely within, grew hard without, compelling, exacting, and vital. Ieyasu strode down the chiselled steps—overcome with the joy of doing, forgetful of every mandate in restraint—and falling upon his knees before her, whispered:

“Yodogima, I love you.”

Her song only quickened, then lowered a little, perhaps the least bit pathetically.

There was neither exultation nor regret, though for the moment a faint realization of duty—arising from a constantly receding past, battling against an urgently progressive present—flushed apparently, then whitened perceptibly her face: she sang more sweetly, if less deeply, than before.

Ieyasu’s eyes fell to the pebbled floor and his soul seared with anticipation.

Would she bid defiance away, under the stress of heart? Or would she starve self, to uphold tradition? The tanka progressed, and Ieyasu trembled underneath advancement’s harsher demands; time had wrought his inevitable change. Ages ago his nearest ancestors had snatched the coveted morsel and gorged unchallenged behind a fiercer deity. Yet still farther back and over that again stood Amaterasu, benign, supreme, unquestioned. Whence this fleeting thought of man? Were he but the crude remnant of an unbroken descent thence the God of gods? Man, only a product of decline, groping his way from past to present; often recovering, then again but losing; only to sink still lower, more hopelessly, till dust once and forever claimed him? Were hell his goal, or heaven his due? The tanka alone answered.

Her notes quickened, and it strengthened him: there remained but a single verse, and it seemed as if breathing were a penalty.

Sakuma passed them by, at some distance, in the garden below. The concerned captain had just left the council chamber, and walking as if in a hurry, toward the armory, not far distant, underneath the inner ramparts, at the farther side of the castle enclosure, without observing the lovers, well hidden behind the overhanging vine’s long drooping branches—they were as unmindful of him as he was careless about them—Sakuma only heard, though marvelled its more than usual pathos the last informing strains of Yodogima’s world-appealing message.

Knowing though who her auditor might be and divining the occasion for such feeling—only the last measures had reached him distinctly—there appeared no need for any closer contact: the grizzled veteran went his way, determined, however convinced.

Yodogima and Ieyasu both had risen, and standing facing, each bowed earnestly, meditating deeply the responsibilities they had then for all time of their own will so freely assumed.

“Pardon me, Ieyasu; I did not mean to be irreverent. Some ungovernable impulse truly possessed me—relieve and forget.”

“Forget I could not, and why relieve? Is it not meet to take?”

“You know my father’s will.”

“And I know yours.”

“And your own?”

“Yes.”

“You disadvantage me.”

“I’ll prove it’s not a quandary.”

“Then I am yours, for I have confidence in you, and confidence rightfully bestowed is truly real liberty won.”

“Quite democratic, Yodogima, and—perchance justly so; were men without some wholesome check the world should sooner reach its final doom.”

“But we live, Ieyasu, and—is not life worth the while? Does it not portend something more than merely living?”

“It would were it not for the price—but trust me, Yodogima; I live only for you.”

“I do.”

“Then you are mine, and the world can take care of itself.”

They bowed low, and Ieyasu, strengthened, as only a wholesome appreciation can strengthen, took his leave, fully determined to remove every obstacle to the consummation of a love that had grown and ripened from childhood associations, that germinated with an earliest contact and sent its roots deep down into the fertile soil of a consciously overpowering affinity.

Yodogima stood still at first, fairly puzzled at the daring of Ieyasu’s conception.

All that time or task had taught her seemed crushed underneath a possible truth. Were man but a stretch between something and nothingness, then generation must be a curse and love only a consequence. And if it were not true and marriage were a thing in which a parent, the state, or society at large rightly had an interest, then her answer had been a crime; she had transgressed, and therein must lie the sin.

Then she remembered that the sages had sung in all lands and at all times of man’s strength and woman’s worse than weakness.

“I will trust him and he shall prove the truth.”

Yodogima ran out of the bowery and into the open: Ieyasu turned, the sun reflected its rays, and in that parting look, only a tender glance, a message from thence, she beheld her God.

Ieyasu hurried on, toward his mission; the noise at the armory, Shibata’s high purpose, and his own inner determination bade him act quickly and knowingly were he to save Yodogima—he did not apprehend Sakuma; Ieyasu was only human; other exigencies than his there were in more directions than one.

Now that her lover had gone, removed himself beyond the fetch or force of feeling, Yodogima, too, at once realized with all the ableness of intellect at her command—strengthened and driven by a will as heartless as it was unremitting—a duty that till then had lain dormant under the influence of a controlling if perhaps inexcusable situation. Not that she pondered the course that he would pursue, no more the virtue of their undertaking; it were for him to determine successfulness: God alone might judge them true or false—but her father, the one who had given her place and opportunity, who had conceived differently, was at that very moment embarking upon enterprises and assuming responsibilities wholly dependent upon her.

And one false step, a single controverted thought, must necessarily lead to his uncertain downfall—his death had been a small thing, her own a welcome sacrifice, but the bushido! Hell itself were a blessing as compared with everlasting disgrace.

The blood fairly froze in her veins, thought refused obeisance, fain spirit paled at the consequence, and only duty urged her now; she must speak, she would save him, she should uphold tradition, even at the cost of self.

“Father,” begged she, accosting him at the threshold of his abandoned chamber, his friend, Takigawa, supporting him vainly, close at one side.

“Yes, daughter.”

“Please return into the house; I should like to speak with you.”

“What? A daughter thrust herself into a father’s affairs? Did you hear that, Takigawa?”

“It’s like a woman: I can retire, and let her have her say, if only for once; it can do no harm, Shibata.”

“Not so, Takigawa. Wives pleading, daughters interfering, and everybody for himself, these days—I tell you Hideyoshi is the curse of this land. On with the business, and when Shibata has laid low the last of them, stood right above might and attained his rightful place, then Katsutoya may rule and Yodogima can speak—consolation is a husband’s due, obedience a parent’s command.”

“Honorable father—”

“Tut, tut; Shibata’s child knows not irreverence. See her, my lord? Ha, ha; how gracefully she falls! An angel could not look sweeter, there is no better plaything—let us be off, Takigawa, lest we disturb her and miss the enemy; it is a long way to Shizugataka.”