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CHAPTER XXIX.
THE HIGH-PRIESTESS OF THE SUN

The earliest temple to Ten-Sio-Dai-Tsin is situated in the province of Ise, and is bathed by the waves of the Pacific Ocean. According to sacred legend, the Goddess Sun was born upon the very site of the temple.

Here antique tradition and vague legends of a bygone age are religiously preserved by the priests, who meditate upon the deep meaning of their symbolism.

In the mysterious time before the world existed, the confused assemblage of elements floated in space. That which afterwards became earth, that which became the heavens, was then mingled together as the yolk and the white are blended in the embryo egg.

But three immaterial gods arose, – the Supreme God, the Creator of Souls, and the Creator of Matter; and chaos ceased. The heavy and opaque bodies were gathered together, and formed the earth; the light and subtile portions rose, and became the heavens.

Soon from the soft and slimy mass constituting the earth arose, among the floating fogs, a half-open, velvety flower, bearing in its cup the nascent Reed God. He brooded for countless years over the infant world. The Spirit of the Waters came after him, and reigned for a thousand million years.

During these immeasurable periods of time one god succeeded to another in heaven, until the seventh of the divine dynasties ruled in the invisible ether.

One day, from the height of a bridge that spanned the clouds, the God Iza-Na-Gi and his companion, Iza-Na-Mi, looked down upon the earth.

"I see nothing but an immense expanse of waters," said the God.

He stirred the surface of the sea with his jewel-tipped spear; the mud and ooze bubbled, rose, and spread over the waters. Thus the primitive island of Japan was formed. Soon it was covered with vegetation; it was peopled with birds and beasts, and became so attractive that Iza-Na-Gi and his companion descended and came to dwell there. The birds taught them love, and the Sun-Goddess was born; then the divine couple gave birth to the Spirits of the Wind, the Rain, and the Volcano; to the Moon God, "who gazes through the darkness of night;" and finally to the first men, whose posterity peopled the island. Then the creators of Japan re-ascended to heaven, confiding the government of the world to their beloved daughter, the Sun-Goddess.

All the subjects of the bright divinity are bound, at least once in their lifetime, to make a pilgrimage to her temple at Naikou, to purify their souls. Therefore that city is always thronged with pilgrims coming and going, – some in norimonos or on horseback; others, – and these are more meritorious, – on foot, carrying a straw mat which serves as bed, and a long wooden spoon, to dip water from the roadside stream.

The temple is of the utmost simplicity of construction. It is a small structure, open on one side, surmounted by a broad thatched roof, surrounded by hundred-year-old cedars, and preceded at the distance of twenty paces by a tory, or sacred gateway, composed of two tall posts leaning slightly together, and united at the top by two crossbeams, the uppermost being arched upwards at the ends. The temple contains nothing but a large round mirror of polished metal, – symbol of purity and perspicacity.

Opposite this mirror, upon the few wooden steps leading to the temple, the Prince of Nagato knelt at the moment appointed by the Kisaki. It was already night; the moon had risen, and its light, broken by the thick screen of leaves and branches, fell upon the ground. Solitude reigned around the temple; the priests had returned to the sumptuous pagodas adjacent to this rustic monument of the earliest ages; the pilgrims had departed; nothing was to be heard but the low rustle of the cedars in the wind.

The Prince listened. Involuntarily impressed by the sanctity of the spot, the night seemed strangely solemn to him. The silence was somewhat menacing; the shade of the cedars was hostile; the azure eye of the moon seemed to weep upon his upturned face. Why did such unspeakable agony oppress his soul? What was he about to hear? Why was the Queen at Naikou, instead of at her palace? A hundred times he asked himself these questions, which he could not answer.

At last he felt a light touch on his shoulder; he rose; a young bonze stood beside him; he walked away without a word. Nagato followed.

They traversed bamboo groves, avenues of cedars, and reached a broad stone staircase, rising between two slopes, upon which the moon cast a snowy light; they climbed these stairs, leading to the terrace of a high pagoda, whose pointed roof, narrow as an inverted lily, was terminated by a slender spire.

The young bonze paused, signed to Nagato to remain where he was, and retired. The Prince then saw a white form issuing from the pagoda and advancing towards him from the shadow of the roof. The light of the moon struck full upon it, and he recognized the Kisaki. She was clad in a long sleeveless tunic of white silk, over a garment of cloth of gold. It was the dross of the high-priestess of the Sun.

"Queen!" cried the Prince, springing toward her, "am I the victim of a dream? That dress – "

"Is henceforth mine, Iwakura," said she. "I have laid aside my crown; I have drawn nearer to Heaven. Still, from a last feeling of weakness, I wanted to see you once more, to bid you farewell for ever."

"Ah! perjured one!" exclaimed the Prince; "so this is the way you keep your promises!"

"Come," said the Queen, "the night is mild; let us leave this exposed place."

They entered a long path bordered with bushes and filled with silvery mists.

"Listen," said she; "and do not condemn me unheard. Many things have happened since you left Kioto. Know, friend, that on the day, – the recollection of which still charms me against my will, – the day on which you saved me, and we talked together so long, sitting beneath a bush, a man was listening to all we said."

"Impossible!" cried the Prince, in alarm.

"It is true; he who carried me off, instead of escaping, returned and overheard us. He was a spy of Hieyas. That perfidious wretch knew how to profit by the secret which his servant discovered; he revealed it to the Mikado. At first the Son of the Gods was incredulous; he was filled with indignation against the infamous villain who stained the land with blood. But by skilful wiles Hieyas contrived to change the sentiments of the Mikado, and to win his confidence. He cited, as a proof of our guilty understanding, your devotion and heroic conduct at the time of the attack on Kioto. Then the Son of the Gods called me to him, and when I stood before him he handed me a paper upon which our conversation was reported, but perverted and made infamous. Falsehood never stained my lips. I proudly owned that my heart was yours, though never while I lived should I have cause to blush for my deeds. But after this confession I could no longer remain at the Dairi. The high-priestess of Ten-Sio-Dai-Tsin had died some time previous. She was my husband's sister. I asked permission to fill her sacred office, desiring to end my life in retreat. The Mikado at once sent me the title that I craved, and a few days later married the granddaughter of Hieyas, – a child of fifteen."

"Oh, grief!" exclaimed the Prince, falling at the Queen's feet. "For my sake, you have descended from your throne; you have left the palace of your ancestors, to kneel, sad and alone, in the shade of a temple, – you, the smiling divinity whom a whole nation adored."

"I shall love this solitude, Iwakura," said she. "Here at least I am free; I am delivered from the affection of a husband whom I did not love, although he was a god. My thoughts shall be wholly yours."

"Why will you not fly with me? Have we not suffered enough? You love me, and I only breathe because you are on this earth. Why should we torture ourselves thus? Come! Let us exile ourselves! You are my country; my world is the spot where your feet rest! What do we care for what the gossips say? The celestial music of our love will drown their despicable voices. What does the bird who soars aloft, intoxicated with light, care for the hiss of the reptiles writhing in the swampy mire?"

"Hush, friend!" said she; "do not make me repent my wish to see you once more."

"Why will you not hear me? why are you so merciless, so cruel? If your husband has taken another wife, you are free."

"No, Prince, I have not fallen so low; the Mikado has added one more to the number of his wives, but he has not raised her to the rank which I held. I am his equal, and he is still my lord and master. If I were really free, despite the blame I might incur, I would drain the nuptial cup with you, and I would live wherever you liked."

"Ah! I will kill the man who parts us!" cried the Prince, whose mind began to wander.

"Silence, Iwakura!" said the Queen, in a grave voice. "Behold the dress I wear; think what I am. Henceforth I belong to this world no more; its fevers, its follies can touch me no longer. Purified by the divine flame of the Sun, I must meditate upon her mysterious and creative essence, become absorbed in her splendor, let her rays penetrate my being, identify myself with her light, and become as pure as she, until the day when my soul shall fly hence and receive its merited reward."

"Forgive me!" said the Prince. "What matters one man's despair? I was mad to entreat you. See, I am calm now, – calm as the dead in their tombs. Forgive me for offending your ears by my too human words."

"I have power to pardon you now," said she; "and I absolve you with all my soul. Rise, friend! we must part."

They retraced their steps. At the end of this path, bathed in diffused light, all would be over for them; they must part to meet no more. Involuntarily the high-priestess slackened her pace. The Prince's sudden calm terrified her; she felt assured that it was the result of an irrevocable resolve. He was silent, and gazed at her with a peaceful expression.

"He means to die," thought she. But she felt that nothing she might say would shake him in his determination.

They had reached the end of the garden-walk, and advanced along the terrace.

"Farewell!" said she.

As she uttered the word, her heart seemed to break within her; she was on the point of falling into the Prince's arms, exclaiming: "Take me; let us go where you will!"

"Farewell!" he whispered; "do not forget that you have given me your tryst on the threshold of another life."

She fled with a sob. As she reached the pagoda, she turned back for the last time. She seemed some super-natural being, standing in the moonlight, in her robe of gold, which glittered beneath her silk tunic, white as her face. Iwakura stretched out his arms to her; but the high-priestess of the Sun vanished in the darkness, which wrapped her round and hid her forever.

CHAPTER XXX.
BATTLES

Heiyas was at the gates of Osaka with an army of three hundred thousand men. Coming from the northern provinces, he had traversed the great Island of Nipon, crushing, as he passed, the detachments stationed to guard the country. The soldiers of Fide-Yori died like heroes; not one flinched. The troops of the princes, on the contrary, made but a feeble resistance. However, it was impossible to stay the course of Hieyas' army, mighty as a river swollen by rain. It reached Osaka, and surrounded the city. Without pausing for rest, it attacked the town simultaneously on every side.

Fide-Yori had divided his army into three bodies of fifty thousand each: Signenari and Moritzka commanded the first; Harounaga, Moto-Tsoumou, and Aroufza, the second; Yoke-Moura, the third. The soldiers were valiant; their leaders determined to die if they could not conquer.

The first shock of arms was terrible. The men fought with unparalleled fury and desperation. Had their numbers been equal, Fide-Yori's troops must have carried the day; they were so resolved to be slaughtered rather than retreat, that they were not to be shaken. General Yoke-Moura was attacked by twenty thousand men armed with muskets, having himself but ten thousand stationed on the hill called Yoka-Yama; his men also had guns. One discharge of musketry followed another in rapid succession, until the ammunition was exhausted. Yoke-Moura was only waiting for that moment, having noticed that his adversaries were merely armed with guns and swords, and carried no lances. He then rushed headlong down the hill. His troops, lance in hand, fell upon their opponents, who, almost defenceless, fled in disorder.

Signenari, too, after a bloody battle succeeded in driving back the enemy; but at all other points the generals, overwhelmed by numbers, were defeated, and forced to retreat into the interior of the town with what soldiers remained to them.

Evening came, and brought a pause in the fighting. The weary soldiers lay down in the city streets, on the bridges, on the banks of the various canals. Signenari and Yoke-Moura alone were still outside Osaka, one on the plain, the other on the hill.

When night had fairly come, a man advanced to the foot of Yoka hill and asked to speak with General Sanada-Sayemon-Yoke-Moura, having a message from Hieyas. He was conducted to the warrior's tent, and Yoke-Moura recognized one of his former companions-in-arms.

"You come from Hieyas? You!" exclaimed the General, in a tone of reproach.

"Yes, friend, I believe in the powerful genius of that man; I know how much his triumph will benefit the nation. And yet, now that I stand before you, I scarcely dare mention the offer which I am directed to make you."

"Then it is a disgraceful one."

"Judge for yourself. Hieyas feels the highest respect for your valor, and he thinks that to vanquish you would be a defeat for him; because your death would rob the country of its noblest soldier. He proposes that you should join his standard; your terms shall be his."

"If Hieyas really feels a particle of respect for me," replied Yoke-Moura, "why does he feign to think me capable of selling myself? You can tell him that were he to give me half Japan, I would not even consider his offer; and that it is my glory to remain loyal to the master whom I have always served, and for whom I would gladly die."

"I was prepared for your answer; and if I accepted the mission offered to me, it was only from a desire to see my old comrade once more."

"You did not fear the just reproaches I might lavish upon you?"

"No; for I did not feel myself guilty. Now a strange remorse torments me at the sight of your calm, brave loyalty. I see that my deeds, dictated by wisdom, are not worth the folly of your blind fidelity."

"Well! it is not too late to repent; stay with us."

"I will do so, friend. If I fail to return, Hieyas will understand that the man who came to buy you with bribes has given you his soul."

The same proposal was made to General Signenari.

"Hieyas offers to gratify my every desire!" exclaimed the youthful General. "Very well; then let him send me his head!"

Next day considerable forces were gathered before Signenari's camp. The young warrior knew that the battle in which he was about to engage must be his last. He went the rounds of the camp, exhorting his men before the fight. Grave, gentle, and handsome as any woman, he passed along the ranks, tolling his attentive men how slight a value should be attached to life; not hiding the fact that the result of the day must be either death or dishonor. He added that a glorious death was enviable, and the life of a coward not worth that of a dog.

He then returned to his tent, and despatched a message to his mother, informing her that he was about to die, and sending her a costly dagger in remembrance of himself. Next he stepped to the mirror; and pouring perfume upon his head, placed on it his helmet of black horn, crowned in front with a copper plate of crescent shape; he tied it under his chin, and cut the loose ends of silk cord. This signified that he would never untie them again; that he vowed himself to death. If his head were taken to the victor, the latter would understand that he had allowed himself to be killed voluntarily.

The battle began, Signenari opening the attack; he rushed eagerly forward at the head of his men. The first of the fight was favorable to them; they broke the enemy's ranks, and slaughtered great numbers of them. Signenari's army, decimated the night before, and reduced to scanty numbers, pierced the enemy's ranks as a ship ploughs through the waves; but they closed behind the little band, who were surrounded and captured, but still undaunted. The soldiers of Hieyas thought they had imprisoned the whirlwind. Desperate men are terrible. The carnage was awful; the wounded went on fighting; the earth, bathed in blood, grew slippery; men stumbled in the mud; it seemed almost as if it had rained. But ten thousand men could not hold out long against one hundred thousand. Still the heroes who encircled the youthful leader were not conquered; they did not flinch; they met death on the ground that had been wrested from them. But their numbers lessened rapidly; soon there was nothing left in the centre of the army but a vast heap of corpses. Signenari, covered with wounds, fought on like a lion; he was alone. The enemy wavered before him, they admired his courage; but some one shot an arrow at him, and he fell.

Hieyas was on the battle-field in a litter. His men brought him the fair young head of Signenari. He saw that the helmet-strings were cut, and inhaled the perfume with which the hair was soaked.

"He preferred death to joining my cause," he said, with a sigh. "This victory saddens me as if it were a defeat."

The same day Fide-Yori, sending for Yoke-Moura, asked him what now remained to be done.

"We must attempt a general sortie to-morrow," he replied. "All the remnants of the various armies assembled in the city make a sum total of about sixty thousand men; to which we must add the garrison of the fortress, the ten thousand men still left of my command, and the ten thousand volunteers that you have collected. We may venture to undertake the struggle."

"Shall you return to the city?" asked the Shogun.

"It will be better, I think, for me to keep my advanced position on the hill. When the army is set in motion I will attack the enemy from another point, so that he may be obliged to divide his forces."

All the officers were called together for consultation. The gravity of the situation silenced the quarrels which usually separated them; all yielded to Yoke-Moura.

"The enemy's forces extend entirely round the city," said the General; "so that at whatever point you make your attack, you will be met by numbers fully equal to your own. The sortie must be effected on the south, so that, if possible, you may drive the enemy into the sea. Lot the leaders cheer their men by word and deed, and we may triumph yet.".

"I will take my place at the head of the army," cried Fide-Yori. "Let the royal insignia, borne before my father in battle, be drawn from their velvet cases, and the gilded gourds mounted on scarlet handles, which have always been the signal for victory whenever they appeared, be brought forward. That reminder of Taiko-Sama will inspire the men; it will recall the former triumphs, the glorious battles won in its shadow. This talisman will protect us, and will fill the perfidious Hieyas with alarm, calling up before him the image of the man whose trust he has betrayed."

The generals returned to their troops, to prepare them for the decisive battle of the morrow. Fide-Yori hastened to his betrothed. "This may be the last day that we shall spend together," he said; "I must not lose a second of it."

"What say you, sire?" asked Omiti. "If you die, I die too; and we shall be reunited – to part no more."

"Never mind," said the King, with a sad smile; "I could wish that our happiness had lasted a little longer upon this earth, – it has been so brief, and my misery so long. And you! so gentle, so devoted, you have suffered ills of every sort for my sake; and for your reward, when I longed to load you with riches, honors, and joy, I can only offer you the spectacle of the horrors of war and the prospect of speedy death."

"You gave me your love," replied Omiti.

"Oh, yes!" cried the King; "and that love, which was my first, would have been my last; it would have filled my whole life. Why can I not carry you far from here, – escape this struggle and this slaughter? What care I for power? It never gave me any pleasure. To live with you in some deep retreat, forgetting men and their guilty ambitions, – that would be true felicity."

"Let us not think of that," said Omiti; "it is an idle dream. To die together is an additional delight, which will not be denied us."

"Alas!" cried the Shogun, "my youth revolts at the thought of death. Since I have found you again, dear heart, I have forgotten the contempt which I was taught for this transitory life; I love it, and I would not quit it."

Under cover of night, Harounaga contrived to regain the heights of Tchaousi, which he had lost. General Yoke-Moura had advised him to make the attempt, whose success would allow him to protect the Shogun's sally.

All was ready for the final effort: the soldiers were full of ardor; their leaders were hopeful. Fide-Yori was encouraged; he believed that they would be victorious. One thing, however, grieved him, and that was the absence at this supreme moment of his most faithful friend, his wisest counsellor, the Prince of Nagato. What had become of him? What had happened to him? No news had been heard of him since he left Osaka so abruptly, three weeks before.

"He is dead, since he is not by my side in the hour of danger," thought the Shogun, sighing heavily.

From the earliest dawn the inhabitants of Osaka thronged the approaches to the fortress; they wanted to see the Shogun come forth from the castle in battle array, in the midst of his richly dressed warriors. While they waited they chatted with the soldiers encamped in the streets, pouring them out bumpers of saki. The aspect of the city was joyful; in spite of all that had occurred, the gay disposition of the citizens gained the upper hand. They were going to see a fine sight; they were happy.

Towards the eighth hour the gates of the second wall of the stronghold were opened wide, and revealed a confused mass of banners floating among the bright rays of the tall spears.

The first division of the Shogun's lancers advanced, wearing cuirasses; on their heads the helmet with visor, hollowed at the neck, and ornamented over the forehead with a sort of copper crescent; lance in hand, a little flag fastened behind the left shoulder. Then came the archers, their brows bound with a strip of white stuff, the ends streaming behind them, their backs bristling with long arrows, holding in their hands the tall lacquer bow. After them marched strange creatures, who looked more like huge insects or fantastic shellfish than like men. Some wore above their grinning black masks a large helmet decked with copper antennæ; others had their heads adorned with monstrous horns curving inward, and their masks bristled with red or white mustaches and eyebrows; or else they had a hood of mail brought over the face and head, leaving nothing visible but their eyes. The plates of their armor, made of black horn, were square, heavy, and oddly arranged; still, beneath the parti-colored silken stitches fastening the sheets of horn together, they produced a fine effect. These warriors, dressed as were their ancestors, were armed with halberds, monstrous bows, and two-handed swords. They filed by in long lines, to the great admiration of the people. At last Fide-Yori appeared upon a horse with braided mane. Before him were borne the gilded gourds, which had never been taken from the castle since the last victories of Taiko-Sama. They were hailed with enthusiastic shouts.

"I intrust them to you," cried Fide-Yori, showing his army the glorious insignia. He said no more; and drawing his sword, rode off at a gallop.

The whole army, moving with heroic impetus, left the city. The people followed them beyond the suburbs.

From the summit of the hill, Yoke-Moura watched Fide-Yori and his troops march out from Osaka and deploy in the plain. He awaited the Shogun's first offensive movement to attack Hieyas' men.

"Certainly," thought the General, "victory is possible. Signenari, who met death so nobly yesterday, did the enemy much injury; I myself repulsed with considerable loss the detachment which attacked my position. We may cut to pieces that division of the army upon which the Shogun pounces. Then the two hostile forces will be almost equal; and with equal numbers we shall surely triumph."

Fide-Yori's army halted on the plain, occupying the ground where Signenari's camp had been pitched the day before.

"What can they be waiting for?" wondered Yoke-Moura; "why do they pause in their forward movement?"

The leaders ran to the flanks of the various battalions. Strange agitation prevailed in the ranks; evidently something new had occurred. They hesitated; they were making plans. All at once the whole army wavered, faced about, and retracing their steps, re-entered the city.

"What does that mean?" cried Yoke-Moura, amazed, and pale with rage. "What sudden madness has seized upon them? It is a mockery! Are they cowards?"

The soldiers of Hieyas then advanced across the plain abandoned by Fide-Yori. At the same moment Yoke-Moura's men gave the alarm. They were attacked on two sides at once.

"It is well," said Yoke-Moura; "all is now lost."

He summoned his young son, Daiske.

"My son," said he, "return to the city; rejoin the Shogun, and say to him that nothing is left for me now but to die a glorious death for him, as I intend to do before evening. Remain with the master while he lives, and die with him."

"Father," said Daiske, casting an imploring look at the General, "I would rather die with you."

"Do as I bid you, my son," said Yoke-Moura, his voice trembling slightly.

A tear rolled down the boy's cheek; but he made no answer, and went. The General watched him for an instant as he descended the hill, sighed, and then plunged abruptly into the thick of the fight.

Without resistance, without exchanging one shaft with the enemy, the Shogun's army had returned to the city in disorder! The people could not believe their own eyes. What had happened? Why should rout precede the battle? This is what really occurred: Harounaga, suddenly abandoning the position which he held on the hill, hastened towards Fide-Yori, accompanied by a man coming from the camp of Hieyas. This man, who was a relative of Hieyas, declared that the majority of the army had gone over to Hieyas, and that when the fight began Fide-Yori would be hemmed in and taken prisoner by his own men. He said that he had surprised this secret, and hastened to warn the Shogun, to prevent his falling into an odious trap.

"Return to the fortress," said he to Fide-Yori. "In the shelter of its ramparts you may defend yourself still, and die nobly; while here you are at the victor's mercy."

After some hesitation the troops returned to the city. This tale of treachery was completely false: it was an act of perfidy planned by Hieyas, who, although he was strong, did not disdain to employ a ruse. But the people refused to accept the plea; the retreat of the soldiers produced a fatal effect.

"They don't know how to behave!" was the cry.

"They are lost; all is ended!" —

"After all, it's no concern of ours."

Half the citizens began to desire the accession of Hieyas.

The Shogun had no sooner returned to his castle, than the hostile army attacked the outskirts of the city. The inhabitants shut themselves up in their houses. A terrible conflict ensued; the ground was defended inch by inch, and yet the enemy advanced. They fought in the narrow streets, on the brink of the canals, upon whose waves, red with blood, dead bodies rocked to and fro; every bridge was carried after a desperate struggle. Little by little, Fide-Yori's troops were driven back towards the fortress.

Inside the castle the confusion was great. No one thought of defending the outer wall; the bastions no longer existed; the moat had not been re-dug to a depth of more than two feet. All withdrew into the second enclosure; but there they were too remote to offer any aid to those who fought. The latter, after three hours of struggle, were repulsed to the walls of the castle; they invaded the first courtyard, and shouted to those within to open the second, otherwise they must be crushed against the walls.

Yodogimi cried to the men to open the gates. All the doors were thrown wide at once, and the soldiers rushed in. But the enemy were at their heels; when they had passed, the doors could not be closed, and the followers of Hieyas came in behind them.

Fide-Yori, with a thousand men, had taken refuge in the third courtyard of the castle, which contained the great goldfish tower, the residence of the Shogun, and a few palaces of the most noble princes. He did not hope to to defend himself, but merely that he and his family might not be captured alive. In a hall of his palace, drawn sword in hand, between his mother and his betrothed, he gazed through the open window, and with bowed head listened to the awful clash of arms behind the second wall. Many of his troops surrendered. The man whose duty it was to guard the gilded gourds of Taiko-Sama, whose name was Tsou-Gawa, burned them outside the palace, before the eyes of Fide-Yori.

"All is over!" murmured the Shogun. "O you who are dearest in all the world to me, you must die for me and with me! I must take your life to save you from falling into the hands of the victors alive."

He looked at his naked blade; then raised his eyes to his mother and sweet Omiti with a bewildered air. "Is there no way to save them?" he cried; "to let them live? What does it matter to the victor, so I but die!"

"Live without you!" said Omiti, in a tone of reproach. Both women were pale, but calm.