The silence was profound. "Who did you study under?" someone asked.

"Toko Fujita was one of my Sensei,"

Hiraga said, every part of him ready for the next killing.

"Eeeee!" This was one of Mito's revered sword masters who had been killed in Yedo's earthquake of '55 when a hundred thousand also perished.

"They are shishi, and men of Mito do not kill shishi, their own kind," one of the men said softly.

"Sonno-joi!" Warily, this man moved aside a pace, not sure of the others, his sword still ready. They looked at him, then at one another. Opposite him another man moved.

Now there was an inviting, narrow path between them, but all swords stayed poised.

Hiraga readied, expecting a trick, but Ori nodded to himself, his pain forgotten, victory or death the same to him. Taking his time, he cleansed his blade and sheathed it. Politely he bowed to both the dead men and strode through the narrow passage, looking neither right nor left nor backwards.

In a moment Hiraga followed. Equally slowly. Until they turned the corner. Then they both took to their heels and did not stop until they were well away.

The five Bakufu representatives came leisurely into the Legation forecourt in their palanquins. They were an hour late and preceded by samurai with banners bearing their official emblems and surrounded by guards. Sir William stood at the top of the wide steps that led to the imposing entrance. Beside him were the French, Russian and Prussian Ministers--their aides, Phillip Tyrer and others of the Legation staff to one side--and an honor guard of Highlanders with some French soldiers Seratard had insisted upon. Admiral Ketterer and the General had remained aboard, in reserve.

Ceremoniously the Japanese bowed, Sir William and the others raised their hats.

Ritually they conducted the Japanese to the large audience hall, trying to restrain their amusement at their outlandish costumes: small black lacquered hats set square on their shaven pates and tied elaborately under their chins, the vast shouldered overgarments, multicolored ceremonial silk kimonos, voluminous pantaloons, thong sandals and shoe socks split between the toes--tabi--fans in their belts and the inevitable two swords. "Those hats aren't big enough to piss in," the Russian said.

Sir William sat in the center of one line of chairs with the Ministers, Phillip Tyrer on one end to balance the delegation. The Bakufu took the opposite row, interpreters on cushions in between. After lengthy discussion they agreed on five guards each. These men stood behind their masters and eyed each other suspiciously.

Following strict protocol the adversaries introduced themselves. Toranaga Yoshi was last: "Tomo Watanabe, junior official, second class," he said, pretending a humbleness he did not feel, and took the lowest position at the end of the row, his clothes less elaborate than those of the others who, with all guards, had been commanded on pain of punishment to treat him as the least important official here.

He settled himself, feeling strange. How ugly these enemies are, he was thinking, how ridiculous and laughable with their tall hats, outlandish boots and ugly, heavy black clothes --no wonder they stink!

Sir William said carefully and simply: "An Englishman has been murdered by Satsuma samurai..."

By five o'clock European tempers were frayed, the Japanese still polite, smiling, outwardly imperturbable. In a dozen different ways their spokesman claimed that... so sorry but they had no jurisdiction over the Satsuma, or knowledge of the murderers or any way to find them, but yes, it was a regrettable affair but no, they did not know how to obtain reparations but yes, under some circumstances reparations might be sought but no, the Shogun was not available but yes, the Shogun would be pleased to grant an audience when he returned, but no, not in the foreseeable future but yes, we will immediately petition for an exact day, but no, it could not be this month because his present whereabouts are not known for certain, but yes, it would be as soon as possible but no, the next meeting and all meetings should not take place in Yedo, but yes in Kanagawa but so sorry, not this month, perhaps next, but no so sorry we do not have authority...

Every point had to be translated from English to Dutch to Japanese--as usual to be discussed at length by them--then pedantically resubmitted into Dutch into English with an inevitable homily, and ever polite requests for explanations on the most trivial point.

Yoshi found the whole proceeding vastly interesting, never having been near gai-jin en masse or attended a meeting where unequals, astonishingly, discussed policy and did not listen and obey.

Three of the other four were genuine though unimportant Bakufu officials. All had used false names, a normal custom when dealing with aliens. The imposter, who secretly spoke English, sat beside Yoshi. His name was Misamoto. Yoshi had ordered him to remember everything, to tell him discreetly of anything important not translated accurately, otherwise to keep his mouth shut. He was a felon under sentence of death.

When Yoshi had sent for him the day before yesterday, Misamoto had at once prostrated himself, shaking with fear.

"Get up and sit over there." Yoshi pointed with his fan to the edge of the tatami platform on which he sat.

Misamoto obeyed instantly. He was a small man with slitted eyes and long, grizzled hair and beard, the sweat running down his face, his clothes coarse and almost rags, hands callused and his skin the color of dark honey.

"You will tell me the truth: your interrogators report that you speak English?"' "Yes, Lord."

"You were born in Anjiro in Izu and have been to the land called America?"' "Yes, Lord."

"How long were you there?"' "Almost four years, Lord."

"Where in America?"' "San Francisco, Lord."

"What is San'frensiska?"' "A big city, Lord."

"Just there?"' "Yes, Lord."

Yoshi studied him, needing information quickly. He could see that the man was desperate to please but at the same time frightened to death, of him and of the guards who had hustled him in and shoved his head to the ground.

So he decided to try a different approach.

He dismissed the guards and got up and leaned on the windowsill, looking at the city. "Tell me, quickly, in your own words what happened to you."

"I was a fisherman in the village of Anjiro in Izu, Lord, where I was born thirty-three years ago, Lord." Misamoto began at once--obviously the tale told a hundred times before. "Nine years ago I was fishing with six others in my boat, a few ri offshore, but we were caught in a sudden storm that quickly became a great one and we were blown before it for thirty days or more, eastwards, out into the great sea, hundreds of ri, perhaps a thousand, Sire.

During this time, three of my companions were washed overboard. Then the sea became calm but our sails had been ripped to pieces and there was no food and no water. The three of us fished but caught nothing, there was no water to drink... One of us went mad and jumped into the sea and began to swim to an island he thought he saw and drowned quickly. We saw no land or ship, just water.

Many days later the other man, my friend Ishii, died and I was alone. Then one day I thought I had died because I saw this strange ship that went along without sails and seemed to be on fire, but it was just a paddle steamer, American, going from Hong Kong to San Francisco. They rescued me, gave me food and treated me as one of them --I was petrified, Lord, but they shared their food and drink and clothed me..."

"This American ship took you to this San place? What happened then?"' Misamoto told how he had been put with a brother of the Captain of this ship, a ship's chandler, to learn the language and do odd jobs until the authorities decided what to do with him.