Though the commander-in-chief of the shogun’s forces held positive in his stand, and was now strongly supported by both Daikomitsu and Okotsuba, and several other of the daimyos, he could no longer bolster up and encourage the waning Hitotsubashi. On the contrary the latter grew more cowardly and anxious, and long before Shibusawa had arrived, he, together with some twenty daimyos and a large number of retainers and hangers-on, withdrew from the walled palace, retiring to the castle of Mito in everlasting disgrace. Their withdrawal necessarily weakened the triumvirate, but it did still more: it again divided them in their policy, and scattered them in their last defence.

Daikomitsu had in the first place advised Hitotsubashi to go to Kyoto in compliance with the mikado’s request, but he had never considered the surrendering of the shogunate or the abandonment of its cause; and when the shogun had so flagrantly disregarded his advice and marched against Kyoto, he realised more than ever the necessity of ignoring him, and of establishing a more harmonious relation among the triumvirate. This he undertook to do, and had the shogun remained quietly in the palace at Tokyo they might yet have succeeded in saving their idolised institution.

Tetsutaisho not only was thus sorely tried with public duties and loss of prestige, but had been overwhelmed with sorrow at home. He had there met with new and bitter experiences and, in place of that consolation and comfort which a man in any position can ill afford to forego, was burdened with a deep and abiding grief.

Not until the night before the shogun’s departure had Nehachibana relented; then she came to her husband and in a confused manner confessed that Kinsan had not taken the life of Sodachinojoi. She told him of how the child of itself had slipped into the crevice; and without making any excuse for her own falsehood or expressing sympathy for the wronged one, she left him there, and the next day went out of the city, following the train of the shogun into seclusion.

Nehachibana had become a convert to the new religion, and believing herself a martyr now sought to relieve her conscience by a confession of the facts; thus preparing herself to ask His forgiveness and receive salvation. Tetsutaisho’s wife had been an easy convert and ready worker among her kind; it had been easy for her to become a Christian, offering a ready road to happiness; her own religion was not so easily adjusted or so well suited to like achievement. And while the missionary, Mrs. Lindley, escaped along with the shogun’s retinue, and took her convert with her, she had done a great good in the years she had been at Tokyo; for not only had she saved Nehachibana’s soul, but her little daughter had given much succour and some comfort to poor Kinsan while suffering the cruel revenge of her fiendish tormentor.

Tetsutaisho’s heart sickened upon hearing the confession; and hastening to rectify the awful mistake, he found Kinsan suffering all but the last pangs of starvation; for the attention even of the missionary’s little daughter had in the excitement of the hour failed her. The strong man fell upon his knees at her side, and with his own hands broke the lock which held the vile instrument at her neck. Gathering the frail form in his arms he carried her to her former lodge, and there summoned the best aid and nourishment at his command. Nor was he satisfied with this alone, but would have condemned Nehachibana even to a severer punishment had not Kinsan pleaded for her deliverance, saying feebly:

“She is but a woman; and no more accountable for her way than I am for my misfortune. It is not the deed, but the necessity that makes the wrong. In such an one there can be no crime—please do not inflict a punishment.”

Tetsutaisho yielded to Kinsan’s persuasion, for he now understood her, and appreciated the force of her intent, though not her logic. He remained a child of feudalism, and outside its tenets was a suckling, not knowing that there opened another way. To him woman seemed but an instrument, the better used to gratify man’s desire; and when he allowed Nehachibana to escape it had been only to encourage an eager, selfish hope.

Kinsan recovered rapidly; thus Tetsutaisho became relieved, and devoted himself more than ever to the strengthening of his defences and the preparations for a final combat. In his mind there was only one course to pursue, and that the heroic. It mattered not that a city be destroyed, that countless lives be sacrificed. He was as bold and intrepid as he was loyal and courageous; knowing neither the power of deception, nor the force of heartless mechanism. He marshalled not their cowardly virtues, but called to hand an humbler host, the glorious heroics of a dying age. He proposed to make a last triumphant stand, and dazzle mankind with the splendour of his achievement; but in this, too, he was doomed to disappointment.

Both Daikomitsu and Okotsuba reasoned patiently against the dangers of his policy. They knew too well the futility of matching valour against cunning, the human against the inhuman. They argued well that they had best make good their escape, holding the enemy in check and preserving their own forces until, in time, they could substitute a more effective warfare. But Tetsutaisho remained resolute and when the final day came, faced a hopeless attempt, realising only at the last moment the inevitable consequence of his folly.