“You did nobly, Sakuma: my father’s house owes much to your abilities.”

Sakuma’s eyes sparkled, but the daring, impulsive soldier, middle-aged and aggressive, made no answer. He knew this Gonroku: knew him to be a chip off the block he had served well and truly: had come to regard their praise and assurance at its true worth. Yodogima’s words would have pleased him more; she inherited well her mother’s traits. The Taira stock had taken deep root in the princess, and above all else Sakuma worshipped at this ancient particular shrine. Then, again, she had advised him somewhat of her wishes—without at all disclosing any motive, though he may have guessed as much—and he had sworn in secrecy to do her service at the cost of death; be that his own, or his master’s, or his lordship’s good and faithful son’s.

“It is less than I would do, were Shibata my age,” replied Sakuma, after a little, striking his metal pipe harder than was polite against the resonant hibachi.

“Father is rather old, and a bit fidgety; but Gonroku is young and in good favors: pray don’t overlook that.”

“But you forget Katsutoya. I must confess that I thought better of—our lord’s age than his placing at Nagahama, in the front, between Kitanoshi and Kyoto, the capital, that—fellow, only an adopted son, even though he carry the shogun’s blood—poor stuff, in these days—a thing any true knight might fairly doubt.”

“Sh—h—h. Not above a whisper, my good Sakuma.”

“Why so? These walls have no ears, I promise.”

“But Hideyoshi has. They say his spies are everywhere, and anywhere; and some—I told you so; there comes Junkei, now.”

“He’s an ass—frivolous, foolish, and a mask: a counterpart of the monkey-faced Hideyoshi himself. I shall not rise—what say you, Gonroku?”

“Flout him; I take it his superior shall fare no better at the hands of the daimyos.”