T was night when the runners of the Prince Mori’s norimon, having travelled the highway to its gated termination, entered Kioto. Uncertain as to his exact course, the Prince was settled upon one thing—haste—haste to arrive in the neighborhood of the Mikado’s palace, that he might plan in the shadows his future actions.
He had passed through the city’s gates, and with new cries to his runners was again urging them forward, when a cloaked figure, holding in one hand a naked sword, barred to the norimon farther passage. The runners stopped abruptly. Impatiently Mori thrust his head through the curtains.
“What now, you laggards?” he demanded, in no gentle voice.
At the sound of Mori’s words the man in the roadway uttered a cry of surprise.
“Thou, Mori!”
“What then?” inquired the Prince, defiantly, preparing to leap to the ground, sword in hand.
“It is I, Echizen. I will join you in your norimon.”
“Good!” said Mori. “Urgently I need your advice.”
Echizen climbed into the vehicle quickly. With a swift movement he drew Mori’s cloak about his shoulders in such a way that it hid his face.
“There is danger in Kioto for you,” he said. “Just now as I passed, the sound of your voice instructing your runners struck me with its familiar tones. When you raised your voice I recognized you immediately. You must be more careful, my lord.”