“But there are two. Which one?”
“We are unable to explain,” said Aidzu; “we cannot account for your strange belief.”
“Perhaps,” interjected the wily Catzu, “the Lord Admiral has confounded the head of our religion with the head of our state.”
“I must speak,” said Jiro, who was laboring under repressed excitement. “It is time.”
“Tsh-h!” growled Toro, staying his effort to rise.
“Let the prince-commissioner continue. I have been told that there are two emperors in this land, and that I have been placed in communication with the inferior, who is without authority to ratify his acts.”
“I assure you, my Lord Admiral,” said Catzu, “that you have fallen into an error common to foreigners.”
“Possibly,” was Perry’s brief assent.
“We have two heads, one a font of wisdom, the other of action. The one is the spiritual head, the divine Emperor; the other the true ruler and Emperor, with whom you are in communication. The spiritual head is without authority in mundane affairs. You make no error, for we, the princes of Japan’s real ruler, tell you this.”
Despite every attempted restraint of Toro, Jiro leaped to his feet.