“Say rather dishonored,” said Aidzu under his breath.
“Mori,” said the Mikado, with an effort at great sternness, “you have dared to murder the Regent Ii, to burn the treaty houses and legations of the foreigners. What have you to say for yourself?”
“Oh, your Majesty!” was all Mori could exclaim, between his desire to retain his respectful attitude and his impulse to protest against such injustice from the one for whom he had labored long.
“No doubt,” continued the Mikado, “you have come to me thinking I shall countenance such an act, and to ask for protection and mercy?”
Mori sprang to his feet. Every nerve in him was tingling and quivering. He heeded not the traditional etiquette to be observed before the Son of Heaven, whereby no man must look the Mikado in the face. Mori was of princely blood himself, and of a lineage as proud and old as his master’s. So his own eyes, keen and true as those of a brave and innocent man, met the shifting glance of Kommei Tenno.
“Nay, your Majesty; I come not to ask for mercy, but for justice.”
“Justice?”
“Ay, your Majesty.”
“But you have committed these atrocious crimes,” said the Mikado, his glance wandering uneasily from Aidzu to Mori, “and these crimes will bring upon us the vengeance of these foreign peoples.”
“I have committed no crimes, your Majesty. I am innocent of that of which you accuse me.”