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.