Yoritomo bowed low to him in mock politeness.
“Ten thousand years to the heir of Hitotsubashi!” he said. “Had Keiki Sama come sooner, he might have aided the progress of the Shogun’s daughter, instead of blocking the passage of the august lady.”
“Seize that false priest!” commanded Keiki, stung beyond self-control.
But before the eager samurais could spring in upon him, Yoritomo flung the priest robe from his shoulders, and exposed to view the Tokugawa crests upon his silk haori. Angry as were the Mito men, they stopped short at that insignia of the ruling family.
Again Yoritomo bowed to Keiki and spoke with biting sarcasm: “The son of Owari dono greets the son of Mito dono. It may be possible that Keiki Sama is disappointed at having arrived too late to share in the slaying of certain ronins. Wounds have been received by those who defended the august lady, but if the heir of Hitotsubashi will condescend to soil his honorable feet, proposal is made that he exhibit his wide-famed skill as a swordsman.”
For a moment I feared that the fiery young lord would snap at the ironical challenge. He flushed a dusky red beneath his olive skin and glared at my friend with a malignancy that caused me to raise and aim my revolver with an instinctive movement such as might have followed the sudden uprearing of a venomous snake. Had Keiki so much as signed to his retainers, he himself would have been the first to die. But a gray-bearded counsellor was murmuring quick words into the ear of his master. Keiki’s hate-distorted features relaxed to the blank, inscrutable calmness of Yoritomo’s.
“The heir of Hitotsubashi does not pollute himself by crossing swords with common street brawlers,” he answered.
Yoritomo smiled suavely. “Keiki Sama need not fear to pollute his sword. Such of the brawlers as have not fled are all slain. Fortunate is the evil-doer who dies beneath another’s sword or finds opportunity to commit hara-kiri. The stern torturers rack the limbs of criminals until they confess all the foul plans of themselves and their accomplices.”
Unable to face my friend’s challenging glance, Keiki turned to the wounded captain of Azai’s guard. “Yuki,” he called, “lead on again! My cortege is at the service of the Shogun’s daughter, to escort her safe to the inner castle.”
The younger samurai lady, who had knelt beside the norimon of the Princess, whispered across to the older lady. She in turn bowed and whispered to Yuki. Though tottering from his wounds, the hatamoto captain straightened and replied to Keiki in a tone of haughty command: “Stand aside with your men, lord. The daughter of the Tycoon is satisfied with the escort of the two priest-clad champions who, single-handed, destroyed the evil ronins.”