A cuckoo came and cocked itself upon the side house-sill. "Sing to me," commanded Ieyasu, bending forward intently. The cuckoo stood stark still, amazed at the sound of his voice. Some ominous thing--too uncanny for thought, more than consciousness would reveal--presently suggested, "I'll kill the cuckoo if he does not sing." "No, no; not I--only Nobunaga could say that. Ieyasu--" "Sing to me," demanded he this time, straightening up defiantly. The bird ruffled its plumage, as if ready to fly or do battle, and conscience bade him, "I'll make the cuckoo sing." "Ah! That sounds like Hideyoshi. Those are his sentiments. Ieyasu--" "Sing to me," said he now, leaning back adroitly. The little thing tucked its wings, and closing one eye stood confidingly in the warm sun's rays. Ieyasu--only said: "I'll wait till the cuckoo sings." And he did wait--but presently his eyes were opened by the sound of a voice that arose not from nature, nor from the ethereal, for his own consciousness revealed it, and all the senses rose and the soul stooped to a common level. Ieyasu, the one prince who had resisted every temptation to yield at the call of devotion; who had withstood the force of power, ignored the claims of conquest, and shunned at the taste of wealth; who had succeeded to opportunity, yet studied its consequence; had held his own against, without intruding upon others; partaken of the fruits of life and looked forward into the indeterminate beyond--had welcomed any test that man or God invoked, now stood dazed at the charm of woman's potency. He looked up, and the same green vine still carried its own true offering, the cuckoo had long flown, the sun rose and the earth responded, but underneath it all, above the rest, and whence he knew not, came the call that for good or for bad, at once and for all, too soon or too late, moved him to do and to know. "Come to me," cried he, thrilled with the notes that issued, loftier than the cuckoo's, more heavenly than are the skies. "Come to me," repeated he, yet composedly, "for it is you, Yodogima; none other could sing so sweetly. I must have you." Still the tanka (verse) issued, its soul-stirring message only tightened the grip of one human heart upon another. For ages these gentle maidens and their ardent suitors had dwelt upon its perfection. No base word had been left to mar its symmetry; not a thought of mortality jarred the sense; the unreal had been made real; yet hitherto in his mind no voice had risen to essay its value. Ieyasu listened and Yodogima rendered; sang as if possessed of a spirit never before felt or touched, and Ieyasu hurled at constancy's feet all that tradition or enlightenment had vainly invoked.