“He has yet to be informed, my lord.”
The Prince turned to his karo: “What is written in the records of Owari regarding Anjin Sama, the tojin counsellor of Minamoto Iyeyasu?”
“My lord, it is written that the fourth Daimio of Owari took to wife the daughter of Satsuma-no-kami’s brother Nagato. The wife of Nagato was the daughter of Anjin Sama’s grandson.”
The saturnine face of the Prince relaxed in a kindly smile, and Yoritomo bowed to me in grave salute. “My brother now sees that it was immutable Fate which drew us together in the bonds of friendship. We are blood kinsmen.”
Accustomed as are we of the South to trace out the ties of family through all its ramifications, I was astonished at this recognition of cousinship through so remote an ancestor, especially as I knew the Japanese hold strictly to the male line. But if the princely House of Owari was inclined to receive me as a member of the clan and family, it was not for me to repudiate the connection.
The Daimio spoke to the counsellors: “The heir of the Prince of Owari is entitled to present his memorial direct to the Shogun. See that Yoritomo Sama is registered at Zozoji, in the place of his elder brother, who is about to go from us.”
The counsellors kowtowed, and glided from the room. Yoritomo addressed his father, with a shade of anxiety beneath his smile: “My lord, I cannot go before the Shogun during my time of mourning. Yet the black ships may come any day.”
“Prepare the memorial. I myself will present it to the Shogun in private audience,” replied the Prince.
One of the screens of the side wall slipped open, and there entered a slender little old lady in dove-colored silk. She was the first aged woman I had yet seen in Japan whose features retained a share of youthful beauty. Her face was as exquisitely refined and almost as fair as that of the Shogun’s daughter, while her teeth, owing either to greater skill in the application or to better dye, were of a glossy black not altogether unpleasing even to my Occidental ideas of attractiveness.
Softly as a thistledown, she drifted across the mats and knelt before Yoritomo, her lips parted in a smile that went far beyond the demands of etiquette. Tears of joy glided down her soft cheeks, and in her eyes was a look of mother love and devotion that made all clear to me. No less deep and overpowering was Yoritomo’s joy at sight of his mother; his tears flowed quite as freely. Yet there followed no outburst of caressing words, no kisses and fond embraces. Weeping and smiling in decorous quiet, they kowtowed to one another and murmured formal words of greeting.