The only one who was not joyous was Kennui, the farmer's faithful wife. She had heard so much from her spouse about the wickedness of the Hojos, that unconsciously she echoed his words, shaking her head as she muttered, "The Hojos know not mercy!" As the approaching procession became clearer to the view, defiling with clank of iron down the street, she gave a wild shriek, and fell swooning; for in the litter, under the fatal net, she had recognised the grizzled head and burly shoulders of him she loved best on earth. Awe-stricken, fearing they knew not what, the town turned out _en masse_ and silently followed the procession, until, crossing the bridge that led over the outer moat of the castle, the ponderous doors closed upon it and the prisoner. For, strange and incomprehensible as it appeared, there was no doubt that Koshiu was a prisoner. The net and chains, and scowling escort told as much. Why? Was the report a false one? Had he not succeeded in communicating with the Sublime One? Sure he who was the Fount of Honour had not spurned the humble prayer! If he had been gracious, why was the victim brought to his home with sinister pomp and circumstance? While the crowd in scattered knots were discussing the enigma, the gates opened again, a band of samurai rushed forth, and presently returned with--wonder of wonders!--Kennui and her little children, who, driven at point of spear, like the farmer vanished. Curiosity and impatience were getting the better of alarm, and some of the elders were about to cross the bridge, and knocking, make inquiries, when again the door swung upon its hinges, a man posted up a paper, and the gate was again shut to. A thrill of horror and consternation shivered over the crowd, as some one, mounting on a riding block, read aloud the proclamation. Crucifixion for the patriot and his innocent wife--the annihilation of his family and name! The injustice and brutality of such a sweeping sentence cried aloud to Heaven. Japan should ring with it. Come what might, the elders would remonstrate,--would lift up their voices in supreme protest against the iniquity of the cold-blooded tyrant. The head men of the town and surrounding villages assembled, one hundred and thirty in number, and drew up an appeal, affixing thereto their seals, and Rokubei and Zembei, whose consciences smote them somewhat, travelled with it themselves to Ki[^y]oto. There the streets were in commotion, business was put aside, and men sat on the mats in groups discussing the darkening future. In whispers, with furtive glances over the shoulder, they murmured that there must be an end of it; anything was preferable as a change to such a life as No-Kami prepared for the people. Submission was making matters worse instead of better. Letters must be sent to the surrounding provinces. They must shake off sloth, and rise as one to free themselves and their Mikado.