FOR a moment there was consternation in the breasts of the two men, Mori
and Echizen, while the baleful personality of Aidzu, seeming to expand
on wings of hate, diffused itself throughout the room.
Mori answered before Echizen could interject a word.
“You honored me by your attention, your Majesty,” he said, while still
upon his knees.
“Say rather dishonored,” said Aidzu under his breath.
“Mori,” said the Mikado, with an effort at great sternness, “you have
dared to murder the Regent Ii, to burn the treaty houses and legations
of the foreigners. What have you to say for yourself?”
“Oh, your Majesty!” was all Mori could exclaim, between his desire to
retain his respectful attitude and his impulse to protest against such
injustice from the one for whom he had labored long.
“No doubt,” continued the Mikado, “you have come to me thinking I shall
countenance such an act, and to ask for protection and mercy?”
Mori sprang to his feet. Every nerve in him was tingling and quivering.
He heeded not the traditional etiquette to be observed before the Son of
Heaven, whereby no man must look the Mikado in the face. Mori was of
princely blood himself, and of a lineage as proud and old as his
master’s. So his own eyes, keen and true as those of a brave and
innocent man, met the shifting glance of Kommei Tenno.
“Nay, your Majesty; I come not to ask for mercy, but for justice.”
“Justice?”
“Ay, your Majesty.”
“But you have committed these atrocious crimes,” said the Mikado, his
glance wandering uneasily from Aidzu to Mori, “and these crimes will
bring upon us the vengeance of these foreign peoples.”
“I have committed no crimes, your Majesty. I am innocent of that of
which you accuse me.”
Echizen interrupted quietly.
“Your Majesty, I do assure you that the Prince Mori is guiltless.”
Kommei turned rapidly to the speaker.
“You can explain, Echizen?”
“I can.”
“Proofs are many,” said Aidzu, thrusting his head forward, “that this
young man incited the outrages.”
Again forgetting himself, the sensitive and impulsive Mori leaped
towards the speaker.
“You lie!” he thundered. Then recalling himself, he turned towards the
Mikado.
“I crave your Majesty’s pardon, but”—his voice trembled in spite of
him—“that worm lies.”
The Emperor stared from Aidzu to Mori, then back to Echizen.
“You are prepared to report concerning this?”
“I am, your Majesty,” answered Echizen.
“Proceed.”
The Prince of Echizen indicated the governor of the city with a slight
toss of his head.
“Privily, your Majesty, I beg,” he said.
Kommei hesitated. He seemed to be studying Echizen’s face. If read
correctly, he saw written there so much determination, so much loyalty
and faith and truth, that its very expression communicated to him some
of its lofty strength and resolve.
“My Lord of Aidzu will withdraw,” he said, quietly.
“But, your Majesty—” began Aidzu.
The first expression of imperial command came into Kommei Tenno’s face.
His head elevated itself, his eyes enlarged and became purple with
haughty command.
“I have spoken,” he said.
Instantly Aidzu bowed deeply, but into his face there crept a malignant
expression. He then withdrew from the chamber. When he was gone, the
Emperor made a dignified gesture of permission to Echizen.
“Sire, this young Prince Mori has devoted his life to your cause, as
have I,” he said, in a low but passionate voice.
“Hush! not so loud,” said the Emperor, with a slight shiver. “Wait.”
With quick footsteps he crossed to the door and flung it violently
aside. There was none without.
“Proceed,” he said, almost in a whisper.
Echizen lowered his voice still more.
“Sire, the Prince of Mori did not incite these massacres, but protested
strongly against them.”
“The proofs! Quick—the proofs!”
Echizen quietly withdrew his sword from his belt. Its point he applied
to his own breast. Upon his knees he offered its hilt to his master.
“Sire, my life is at your service, now as ever,” he said.
The Emperor bent upon him a gaze that in a man of genius would have
shown his soul.
“I believe you,” he muttered. Then to himself: “Whom may I, of a truth,
believe—whom may I trust?”
The Prince of Echizen, regaining his feet, continued:
“These massacres were the work of a ronin—Hasuda—who is all for the
cause, although an unauthorized agent. By this deed, however, he and his
men will aid the cause.”
“How?”
“They will embroil the shogunate with the powers—the shogunate, which is
responsible to the foreigners for the peace.”
“But the shogunate had naught to do with these burnings and killings.”
“True,” said Echizen, smiling slightly, “but think you that the silly
foreigner is possessed with your penetration, sire? At the burning of
the foreign houses the ronins cried in the name of the shogunate.”
“A stroke, truly,” said the Emperor, thoughtfully.
And having dared this observation the cautious Emperor hastened to
qualifications.
“That is,” he began, “that is—” Then, remembering the presence of Mori,
“What is his errand?” he asked.
Mori stepped forward. His head was thrown back. The Shining Prince had
forgotten again that he was in the presence of the Mikado.
“I have come to urge a national necessity upon your Majesty,” he said.
“What is that?”
“To urge your Majesty to give an order for the expulsion of all
foreigners within your empire.”
“What!” exclaimed the startled Emperor.
Fervently Mori continued:
“The presence of these foreigners makes the re-establishment of your
Majesty in your proper position impossible. They distract the
Imperialists from their purpose. Fear, or, rather, uncertainty, in
regard to them causes the Imperialists to hesitate in attacking the
shogunate and forcing civil war upon the country while these foreigners
are upon the soil. They have multiplied in such numbers lately that all
over the country the people protest against the privileges granted to
them by the shogunate.”
“This sounds logical,” said the Emperor, half to himself.
“Your Majesty, permit me to suggest that the wrath of the foreigners,
through the recent acts in Yedo, will fall upon the shogunate. This is
well for us. We must take advantage of these very acts of the ronins.
Let us follow them up by expelling the foreigner. If thou wilt but issue
such a command, a united country will back you. The shogunate will fight
because it must, while we will do so for our cause and our homes. Then,
the foreigner expelled, thou, sire, thou and the weakened shogunate may
reckon together.”
Eagerly Kommei listened to the Prince’s words—eagerly, and with his eyes
fastened upon Mori’s face. Down dropped his head in thought.
Echizen, seizing the opportunity, seconded Mori’s appeal.
“Sire,” he exclaimed, “the shogunate must fall through the foreigner. It
cannot rest upon the people. Already is it weakened. Only give the
command to expel the foreigner and we will drive him into the seas. He
will attack the shogunate, and that once vanquished, thou wilt reign and
make peace, perhaps friendship, with these foreigners.”
Still the weakened Emperor hesitated.
“I see clearly the results you foreshadow,” he said, “but if any detail
were to miscarry—” He shrugged his shoulders and shivered.
There was a sound at the door. The confidential valet appeared.
“What is it?” demanded the Emperor, impatiently.
“Your Majesty,” said the valet, kneeling, “the Shogun Kii, accompanied
by the Lord of Catzu, has entered the palace and craves audience of your
Majesty.”
The valet backed from the room, drawing the sliding doors behind him.
Mori drew near to his sovereign until his burning eyes held Kommei in an
embrace of enthusiasm.
“See—see, sire,” he said, slowly, strongly, so that every syllable tore
its way to the understanding of the Mikado—“see, the shogunate is
already weakened. It comes creeping to Kioto to give that nominal
submission to your Majesty ordained by custom to be paid once a year,
but deferred up to this day for just two hundred and thirty years.
Already the shogunate, needing your divine support, crawls. Crush it,
sire—crush it!”
To Echizen the diplomat, this new development in the situation had
unfolded itself with intuitive rapidity.
“Sire,” said Echizen, “I can tell your Majesty what the shogunate will
advocate.”
“What?”
“The closing of the ports and the sending away of all foreigners.”
“But that is just the policy you advocate,” said Kommei. “You will grant
me that this is suspicious,” he quickly added.
Echizen answered:
“Your Majesty, the shogunate, realizing its own weakness, will outwardly
identify itself with a popular policy. In secret, it has its own
policy.”
“Sire,” interjected Mori, beseechingly, “I pray you answer them with the
majesty that is Japan, and commit yourself to no policy with them. Once
they are gone, command the expulsion of the foreigner, and we, your true
and faithful Imperialists, will obey you at once.”
The Emperor’s faith was still unsettled. Their proposals he respected,
but their loyalty he distrusted.
“You, Echizen, and you, Mori,” he said, abruptly, closing a period of
silence and thought—“I shall put you to the test. Come with me to the
audience-hall. If you have fathomed the counsels of the shogunate, it
shall be as you wish.”
The Emperor left the chamber. Mori would have taken the Mikado blindly
at his word and have followed him to the audience-hall, but for the
detaining grasp of Echizen.
“His Majesty means,” he explained, “that we shall join him in the
ante-room of the audience-hall. He regains his own palace by paths of
which we must appear ignorant.”
Although transported with joy, and in a state of mind that would permit
of little restraint, Mori was kept in the room by Echizen until a
sufficient time had elapsed. Then Echizen conducted the Prince to his
own quarters, where both made suitable changes in their attire. At the
end of an hour the confidential servants of the Mikado came in person to
summon them to the audience-hall.
Early as was the hour, the whole Kioto court was astir to enjoy a
profound sensation—the coming of the Shogun to Kioto. The news ran like
fire through the palace, carried by servants and masters alike.
Courtiers hastened to seek out the finery they too seldom wore of late.
The astute reasoned, and the profound were dumb.
Some rumor of the events in Yedo had gained strength. Even the least
consequential felt that a turn in fortune had come.
Within the spacious audience-hall, Echizen and Mori found vantage spots
on a side of the Emperor’s screen, opposite to that occupied by the
sullen Aidzu. Mori now found that he had enjoyed a privilege given to
the few in having seen the whole person of his Emperor. Upon state
occasions, only the face—or voice, even—gave sign of the presence of the
Son of Heaven.
At the head of the hall a raised platform extended across the entire
breadth of the apartment. To its edge there hung from the ceiling richly
embroidered curtains of heavy silk. The design was that of a dragon
whose two frightful bodies met at the head, which occupied the exact
centre of the tapestry. The closely observant eyes of Mori detected
lines near the head, showing that a square of the material could be
removed, leaving a small opening. It was through this alone that the
Emperor, as the Shinto deity, received the homage of his court.
There was a signal from the samurai who acted as master of ceremonies.
The outer doors were pushed to either side to admit the procession of
the Shogun Kii, a boy scarce fifteen years of age, and his numerous
advisers, ministers, and court. Among the richly attired crowd of lords
about him was Catzu, plainly the virtual Regent, and head of the bakufu.
The Shogun, the Lord of Catzu, and the entire assemblage fell upon their
knees at a sign from the master of ceremonies.
There was a pause of expectation. Then the square in the head of the
dragon moved aside. Dimly seen, appeared the upper portion of the head
of the Emperor Kommei Tenno.
The Lord of Catzu spoke while still kneeling, without daring to gaze in
the direction of the Emperor behind the screen.
“Your Serene Majesty, Son of Heaven and Father of Earth,” he said,
unctuously, “the insignificant shogunate desires, as of old, to render
its filial submission to thee, and to give every evidence of its love
and devotion.”
“It is well,” said a voice from within the dragon’s head.
“The Shogun,” continued Catzu, after a respectful pause, “as war lord of
your Serene Highness, desires to ask your Majesty’s permission to banish
all foreigners now in your imperial realm as most noxious to your
Majesty, and to close again the ports of Nippon. The Shogun has sent an
embassy to Europe, that this may be done without violence and in
dignity.”
This time there was no response from the Mikado behind the tapestry.
Catzu, having paused an instant, resumed:
“Has your Serene Highness any commands for his war lord?”
The voice issued again from the dragon hangings. It was a trifle raised
now, but perfectly clear.
“It is decreed that the Prince of Echizen is made premier to the Shogun,
and first minister in all our empire.”
Catzu was taken aback. His head, however, was bent to the ground in
submission.
“Thou art the Son of Heaven,” he said, while rage choked his throat.
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[Illustration: Decoration]