Sakuma hid his face.

“Speak, Sakuma; a friend asks it.”

Could this man, a daimyo, so degrade himself as to speak to an eta (outcast)? His appearance disclosed the cast, and Hideyoshi had eyes, it was claimed, in the back of his head. He must answer, yet dare not utter a word in the presence of a superior; custom forbade it, and he had just learned a lesson. No; a subterfuge must serve him: so thinking, Sakuma dropped his burden, and slunk back out of sight.

“Ha, ha,” muttered Hideyoshi; “a fox’s head—I’ll warrant he thought it Katsutoya’s—reputed son of a foxier monk than Nobunaga or Christianity has yet outwitted.

“Here, Junkei. Exchange this for the real—no; he’s safe, atop Hiyeisan, I’ll warrant; a like one will do. Understand me?”

“Yes, honorable master.”

The likeness was soon enough returned—there were plenty of them in the ranks—and Sakuma was again brought in.

“Sakuma, you think yourself unfit to address even me: look at this,” commanded Hideyoshi, holding up to view the bloodless face.

Sakuma obeyed; there was no law or privilege that he knew depriving him of so flagrant a sight. All the joys of heaven could not have won him more; it seemed to be the head he really coveted.

“I am your servant,” promised he, and the two of them bowed respectfully.