“Kwannon be praised!” he whispered. “They did not see us! For common beggar-priests to be caught staring down upon a daimio’s train—Namu!”
I peered forward and down into the Tokaido, which ran past less than a hundred yards below us. Along the broad roadway was marching the most curious and stately procession I had ever seen. It was the retinue of a daimio who was going up to Yedo for the half-year’s visit required by law. By far the greater part of the procession was already strung out Yedo-ward farther than the eye could see. But half a thousand of the rearguard had yet to pass.
Used as I was to the sight of Yoritomo’s garments, there was much to surprise and interest me in the appearance of the daimio’s retainers. Though as short as our women, they were of a more stalwart build than I had expected, and the samurais, or two-sword men, carried themselves with a proud assurance that went far towards offsetting their lack of height. Among the loose ranks of these gentlemanly men-at-arms marched lesser retainers,—grooms with grotesquely accoutred led-horses and porters with rattan baskets and lacquered chests.
Yoritomo whispered that the box-like palanquin, or norimon, of the daimio had long since been carried past by its bearers. Yet this rear end of the procession marched slowly along with a demeanor that could not have been exceeded in solemnity and stateliness had the daimio been present in its midst. The hush was almost oppressive. No man among them called out or spoke or even whispered. The only sounds were the scuffle of sandals in the dusty road and the muffled thud of straw-shod horse hoofs.
“What is the crest?” I whispered, staring at the insignia embroidered on the outer garments of every retainer and marked on every piece of baggage. “It looks like a white cross in a circle.”
“A circled cross,” confirmed Yoritomo. “You saw it in Kagoshima Bay,—the crest of my friend Nariakiri, Daimio of Satsuma.”
“The Prince of Satsuma!” I exclaimed. “Why not hasten down and join him?”
“Hasten down, and be slashed or beheaded by the first samurai we passed!” rejoined Yoritomo, grasping my sleeve as I sought to spring up. “Even without these tattered robes it would mean certain death. Each daimio is appointed a time for passing along the highroad. Any one who breaks in upon the procession may expect to die without benefit of medicine.”
“But he is your friend, and if you are so anxious to reach home by nightfall—”
“There are no by-ways through the rice swamps,” he replied. “We must trail after the rearguard.”