“Pray do not prostrate yourself; the victor may not prove to have been worthy.”

Ieyasu held himself, sat there in bended fashion, considering half-doubtfully, half-consciously the warning. A thousand possibilities leaped to the fore, suddenly and provokingly. Had he been wrong, and her detractors truthful; were she clever, and he over-trustful; did some terrible revelation parch those lips he had sworn divine; or was it the idle mockings of his own brutal response that troubled her and mystified him?

“Tell me, Yodogima—no, no; you must not; it would kill me; it is not true; they speak falsely—shall this weapon vindicate me, or you, Yodogima; you have but to nod the head, and spare your lips!”

“Ha, ha, ha—Ieyasu! Put away that knife and invoke a wit. I should never have guessed you half so sentimental. Why, I do believe you would make a martyr of yourself, or me—who wouldn’t be at all worth the trouble. Come; sit down again; let us reason it out; one drop of blood is, after all, worth a lot of nobleness—as codes are written in these times.”

“I’ll never sit down, till you declare them false—that you are determined to talk, as all women are. Nor have I anything to gain, at my age, by reasoning; acting is all important, whatever the point, now that the end crowds fast upon me. Shout it if you like, but consider well the effect.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind. Take care of your own shattered prospects; I have all I can do to bear with you, let alone conserve your ease. You deny me the privilege of explaining, hence defeat me of a duty I had intended performing.”

“Oh, well; I can presume as much.”

“If you like, pray do.”

“I shall.”

“Then what?”