“Then grant me fair. Remove these fawning, cringing courtiers, and bide you here; I am only human.”

“Perhaps more. Yet I’ll vow you safe in hands I know—Ishida never yet played me false. Come; out with it; who is there, that you prefer? Hideyoshi may wax blind, when occasion requires, but he need not for that be treated as dumb—to the workings of conscience or fancy. My wife loves: is her husband but a scapegoat?”

“It may be true, and she none the less abused thus accused. Take this man Ishida from the castle, and keep him without. Perhaps then you shall know that a woman may love and yet discern, if not command. I am your wife, and shall serve you as decreed; a chance is all that I shall ask or that you may require.”

Ashamed of his conduct and mortified over anxiety, Hideyoshi did not as bid, but left the castle with his suit, including the reluctant Ishida; who by long years of faithful attendance had so ingratiated himself—designing accordingly—that the kwambaku had already been put to straits upon more than one occasion to find a real or plausible excuse for keeping the fellow longer in his service. Nor was Yodogima altogether alone in her estimation of him; many of the kwambaku’s oldest and most trusted friends had suspicioned the wily body-servant’s good faith, in fact, at this early day mistrusted ulterior motives and cross purposes should the master accidentally or otherwise happen to die.

The sudden departure, therefore, of Hideyoshi, seemingly miffed and more than ever under the influence of Ishida, who grew thereby less in favor among the captains, roused some of them to greater concern, if not about somebody’s sanity, then as to their own welfare.

Among these grizzled or enthusiastic warriors and supporters none took to heart more than Kuroda the matter of Hideyoshi’s seeming change; the two had grown up together, from early days, the one as retainer, the other his aid, and they loved each other as only men similarly situated and suited can love. Ishida, however, had poisoned the elder, and with his establishment at Fushima—selected on account of its isolation yet accessibility—the veteran fighter, Kuroda, was at last turned from the door.

“It is a terrible blow, Yodogima, to be torn from a lifelong friendship,” said he, to her, shortly afterward, while sitting in the fall of evening, at the Ozaka castle, overlooking the vast throngs around, who came and went with less attending joy or sorrow, “and Ishida is to blame. Yet I cannot criticise your resolve; you have fought a noble battle, my dear child: you did right, and there isn’t a man worth his while in Hideyoshi’s service but would stand by you to the last—I wonder; has the kwambaku lost his mind?”

“No. He has, though, lost confidence in me,” replied Yodogima, suppressing with difficulty the tears fast rising in her downcast eyes.

“Impossible!”

“It is true.”