We swung up a slope. From the crest, far away to the west-southwest, I caught sight of Fuji-yama’s grand cone rising in purple majesty through the twilight, while to the southward the dark sky was streaked with upshooting red and blue meteors,—the signal rockets sent up from every headland along the bay shores. Not Yedo alone was panic-stricken.
In vain I strained my eyes to discern the glimmer of ship lights on the vast stretch of the gulf. But it was easy to imagine the majestic sight of the great steam frigates Susquehanna and Mississippi lying at anchor with their consorts, in the lower bay. I pictured the tiers of gunports triced open for action, and the grim guns lurking within, charged and shotted against treacherous attack. For a moment I felt a pang of longing, of home-sickness—but only for a moment. I had cast in my lot with Yoritomo.
A horseman dashed up the slope after us, and drew rein beside our party, with a loud command to halt. The Satsuma men came to a sudden stand. I peered out and saw that the rider was Gengo the court chamberlain. He caught sight of me between the parted curtains, and bowed low across the barbed mane of his horse.
“The presence of Woroto Sama is required at the palace,” he called.
At a word from me, my bearers ranged up alongside the other norimon, until I was within arm’s-length of my friend’s out-peering face.
“You heard, Tomo,” I said in English. “What does it mean?”
He fixed a keen gaze upon Gengo, and demanded: “Does the command include both Woroto Sama and myself?”
Gengo bowed low as he replied: “The honored heir of Owari is still in mourning. The presence of Woroto Sama is alone required.”
“At once?”
“Woroto Sama should mount his led-horse.”