Oyea, also, had insulted him; dared to flaunt in his face what he knew that she knew was not his: the taiko was angered.
Ieyasu withdrew, as quietly as he had remained, and no one would have been the wiser had not Yodogima—hidden away so disguised that even he had failed her—observed his every movement: when he had gone, then Harunaga shadowed his further progress and—
Doffing the veil, Yodogima quickly, yet softly, and considerately, approached, unwrapping and laying before his highness another child, not unlike the first in face and form.
Hideyoshi looked up, a changed man; in a mothers presence there had dawned a new understanding.
Ishida rushed forward, and Oyea drew back: a common wrangle ensued, and no one appeared to know just what to say or think or do. Some contended that one or the other of the two children belonged to Oyea, for had she not brought it there, and proffered hers for recognition? But which one? Why her silence? Others claimed that only a mother could know her child; whereat the taiko frowned and Ishida smiled.
Which one, Ishida; this is an important business, and there should be no mistake?
Yodogima had claimed them both, now, in the absence of Oyea, who stood back, trembling and cogitating. No thought disturbed the mother, whose only care centered in the child; to deprive her of hers, she alone must make the selection: Hideyoshi had never knowingly committed an avoidable wrong.
Ishida blushed; the truth had at last dawned also upon him, and turning to Yodogima the closely cornered man mumbled:
Which is he, Yodogima?
Let the guilty determine, as I have done, replied she, interested and secure.