The great man looked up, puzzled though wilful. He could, nor did, comprehend that she, too, might have dreamed, marvelled the penalties exacted of rightful living, and evolved a retribution, if less human, then the more in keeping with an instinct born of subtler virtues.

“You shall not deny me, Oyea?” plead he, half doubtful of the motive, if altogether innocent of her intentions.

“Deny you? Of what? Yodogima?”

“No. A son.”

“Aye, aye, my lord. A higher authority than mine denies you that.”

“There is none higher. You are my lawful wife.”

“Fie on you! We but declare, while impotency reigns. My faith is in virtue.”

“Then I’ll not trust you—though the bonzes had served better, your purpose, than these self-called priests: who preach to prey while their victims pray but ‘peach.’ I once had confidence in you: I never had any in them.”

“What of priests and bonzes, you might yet better charge a blessing to the care of one whose influence nor beauty stands anyone in hand or harm: though only a wife, I should serve no less an encouragement.”

“Rickety, rickety, fiddlede, fiddlede; a woman is a woman, her tongue an appendage. Therein the certainty of wagging. Both jealousy and consistency may be jewels, superb and allusive, but each in a tiara. I’ll let you have it out in Azuchi; Yodogima is already at Ozaka: between creeds, or independently, there may yet formulate a crown. See you that your conduct is no less attuned than her estimate deserves; I have business at the capital.”