The sudden departure, therefore, of Hideyoshi, seemingly miffed and more than ever under the influence of Ishida, who grew thereby less in favor among the captains, roused some of them to greater concern, if not about somebody's sanity, then as to their own welfare. Among these grizzled or enthusiastic warriors and supporters none took to heart more than Kuroda the matter of Hideyoshi's seeming change; the two had grown up together, from early days, the one as retainer, the other his aid, and they loved each other as only men similarly situated and suited can love. Ishida, however, had poisoned the elder, and with his establishment at Fushima--selected on account of its isolation yet accessibility--the veteran fighter, Kuroda, was at last turned from the door. "It is a terrible blow, Yodogima, to be torn from a lifelong friendship," said he, to her, shortly afterward, while sitting in the fall of evening, at the Ozaka castle, overlooking the vast throngs around, who came and went with less attending joy or sorrow, "and Ishida is to blame. Yet I cannot criticise your resolve; you have fought a noble battle, my dear child: you did right, and there isn't a man worth his while in Hideyoshi's service but would stand by you to the last--I wonder; has the kwambaku lost his mind?" "No. He has, though, lost confidence in me," replied Yodogima, suppressing with difficulty the tears fast rising in her downcast eyes. "Impossible!" "It is true." "Then Ishida has done more than play the traitor; he has vilified a good woman: more, he has sought to ruin a worthy wife. I swear it, he shall rue the day." In all these years Yodogima had done everything in her power to live the life of a faithful, dutiful, and appreciative wife--such as the law and the pleasure of man had enforced. No longer might she question the act, or consult morals; she had chosen to abide the sterner edicts of a social organism utterly beyond the revision or prevision of any one individual, much less a woman: who had neither voice nor hand in the making, nor could suggest its undoing. Yet the closer the reality the more transcendant became her one inspiration. The star that had guided her from infancy shone the brighter for the gloom; that enshrouded a heart, in which there lived a conscience: the dictates of which had long ago flung her upon the mercies of a less grinding, more tolerant fate. "I will be true to my Kami, though declared false by all the creeds of all the gods," promised she, to herself, long after the grey-haired Kuroda had gone: when the stars had inspired that larger comprehension than of things we think we know.