Our trip through the daimio quarter must have covered two miles and more. Though closely cramped in my elegant box, I managed by stooping over to peer out through the bamboo fringe of the windows. For some time we had on our left the walls of large yashikis and on our right the beautiful lotus-covered moat-lake, with the lofty rampart of the citadel across. The sun sank beneath the horizon as we turned westward down a wide thoroughfare.
Presently we turned again, and passed zigzag from one street to another between silent yashikis. The buildings were lighted only by quaint street lanterns hung beside their heavy gateways and by the dim glow of candles through the white paper screens of the windows. The few people passing along these aristocratic streets were provided against the gathering darkness by cylindrical lanterns marked with the crests of various daimios.
At last we came to one of the bastioned gateways of the outer moat, and, after a brief parley with the guard, passed through and out across the bridge. Shortly beyond, our escort halted before a grand double-roofed gateway. We had arrived at the main entrance to the largest of the yashikis belonging to the Prince of Owari.
While our bearers carried us across the stone bridge of the moat-ditch into the lighted space before the huge copper-faced gates, the old samurai leader announced us to the warden or captain of the gate. Almost instantly the ponderous leaves of the gate swung open before us, and a dozen Owari samurais hastened out to open the norimons and salute their occupants.
Yoritomo met their smiles and kowtowings and noisy insuckings of breath with an austere dignity that I took pains to imitate. But to my surprise, he accepted a pair of the lacquered clogs that were brought for us, and proceeded to leave his norimon. Catching my look, he explained in English: “I am yet to be made heir, and as a younger son I lack the rank required of one permitted to ride in through the gateway.”
“Your rank is known,” I replied. “Mine is yet to be established. I will make a start here and now. You know that in my country there is no man of better blood than myself. I will not enter your father’s gateway except in my norimon.”
“You are right. The point is shrewdly taken,” he assented, and he spoke gravely to the gate warden.
The retainer accepted the statement of his master’s son without a trace of hesitancy, and I was carried in beneath the carved and lacquered crossbeams of the gateway with Yoritomo walking beside my norimon. The iron-shod sandals of samurais and bearers clattered on the stone flags of the broad courtyard within the gate.
Crossing this court, we passed up a slope and through an ornamental fence, into a second court before the mansion of the prince. Wings and high hedges flanked the main building in such manner that we could have seen nothing of the yashiki gardens even had the day still lingered. I was, however, more than satisfied by the fairy-like vision of the palace. Though the building was of only one story, the white-tiled roof flung up its twisted gables against the blue-black sky with an effect of airy height, while the rows of lanterns, hung to the outcurving eaves, shed their soft glow over the artistic balustrades and polished planking of verandas wider than those of Zozoji.
In the centre of the façade was a grand portico of keyaki wood, supported by carved beams and pillars lacquered in vivid colors. Young pages came out to salute us and spread mats for us to step upon. I emerged from my norimon. Yoritomo returned our thanks to the old samurai for the courtesy of Satsuma, and stepped from his clogs onto the mats beside me as the bearers and escort turned back to the gate.