"See," said the younger man with a smile, "I wanted to share with you, my favorite friend, the pleasure of this marvellous sight before any other eye rested on it. I was here yesterday: the grove was like a thicket of pearls; to-day all the flowers are open." "These trees remind me of what the poet says of peach-blossoms," said Iwakura; "only here the snow-flakes of butterflies' wings with which the trees are covered have not turned rose-colored in their descent from heaven." "Ah!" cried the younger man sighing, "would I might plunge into the midst of those flowers as into a bath, and intoxicate myself even unto death with their strong perfume!" Iwakura, having admired them, made a slightly disappointed grimace. "Far more beautiful blossoms were about to open in my dream," said he, stifling a yawn. "Master, why did you make me get up so early?" "Come, Prince of Nagato," said the young man, laying his hand on his comrade's shoulder, "confess. I did not make you get up, for you did not go to bed last night." "What?" cried Iwakura; "what makes you think so!" "Your pallor, friend, and your haggard eyes." "Am I not always so?" "The dress you wear would be far too elegant for the hour of the cock.[2] And see! the sun has scarcely risen; we have only reached the hour of the rabbit."[3] "To honor such a master as you, no hour is too early." "Is it also in my honor, faithless subject, that you appear before me armed? Those two swords, forgotten in your sash, condemn you; you had just returned to the palace when I summoned you." The guilty youth hung his head, not attempting to defend himself. "But what ails your arm?" suddenly cried the other, noticing a thin white bandage wound about Iwakura's sleeve. The latter hid his arm behind him, and held out the other hand. "Nothing," he said. But his companion grasped the arm which he concealed. The Prince of Nagato uttered an exclamation of pain. "You are wounded, eh? One of these days I shall hear that Nagato has been killed in some foolish brawl. What have you been doing now, incorrigible and imprudent fellow?" "When Hieyas, the regent, comes before you, you will know only too much about it," said the Prince; "you will hear fine things, O illustrious friend, in regard to your unworthy favorite. Methinks I already hear the sound of the terrible voice of the man from whom nothing is hid: 'Fide-Yori, ruler of Japan, son of the great Taiko-Sama, whose memory I revere! grave disorders have this night troubled Osaka.'" The Prince of Nagato mimicked the voice of Hieyas so well that the young Shogun could not repress a smile.