“I can save you trouble,” suggested Hideyori; reluctantly, however, for the baby looked pretty; “I am already engaged—”

“To Jokoin,” interposed Harunaga; “I have the mikado’s permission.”

A storm of applause followed upon the one side, occasioning as violent denunciation from the other. No one except the shogun had for a long time so much as thought of profaning the precincts of celestial Kyoto, let alone essaying to voice a message thus sacredly emanating.

“Who is this Harunaga?” demanded Fukushima, most cruel and savage, an old captain of the guard and relative to Oyea, but not averse to Christian tolerance. “What right has he to put words into the mouth of a taiko’s son?”

Kuroda, still older, and more devoted to the sympathies of Yodogima, grumbled accordance.

Esyo held her tongue; she wanted her daughter—strange to believe, except as she knew—married to Kyogoku, and deemed it best not to interfere.

“Oh, I guess, you are not so much, Mr. Fukushima; we have Sanada, Goto, and a few more equally as reliable; if you want to rebel, I think we shall be able to make out; what say you, Esyo?” put in Jokoin, boastfully.

“I give my daughter to Kyogoku.”

“What? He is married,” threatened Kitagira, nervously.

“He can divorce me,” replied Jokoin, concernedly.