“Maeda harm me? There must be some mistake,” replied Ieyasu, a bit puzzled, but not the least shaken.

“There can be none, however, about this letter,” suggested Masuda, producing one, in the hand of its supposed writer. “Perhaps my lord is familiar with the handwriting. It was intercepted between Yodogima, the mother, and his grace, the good guardian—can your lordship unravel the meaning, to some better purpose?”

Ieyasu turned pale. Though understanding well enough its purport, somehow the chirography did not exactly satisfy him, and wheeFling round toward Esyo—who of late had made it her business to sojourn mostly between Fushima, Ieyasu’s recently adopted domicile, and Azuchi, Oyea’s deserted or despised hearth—Ieyasu—grandfather to Kita, Esyo’s first born, a daughter—significantly asked:

“Who wrote it, Esyo?”

Esyo stammered; for once she had been taken unawares:

“Perhaps Jokoin might know. Shall I call her; she is close by, engaged just now with Takiyama; you know he is quite friendly—”

“No; I would rather not put her to the test, as I did you, my daughter. But where is her husband, Kyogoku?”

“Oh, he’s at Ozaka; preferred Kitagira and the shrine to his wife and a church; though Maeda, really, distrusts them both; poor, lonely soul; he’s about the only Christian left there; a pleasing enough circumstance to Yodogima, I presume, now that she’s a favorite among the captains and the bearer of a—”

“Cannot you control your tongue? Now Kita, your own daughter, shall marry Hideyori, as I command. Go hence.”

“Where to, Azuchi?”