The late king dying without
issue, his adopted son, the present king, ascended the throne. During
his minority his father acted as regent--a position the latter found to
suit him so well that, by-and-by, when his son became of age he refused
to abdicate the throne in favor of its lawful occupant, threw off all
semblance of allegiance, and assumed a high-handed and arrogant bearing,
especially exhibited towards the queen and her family, with whom the
regent was at bitter feud. To compass their destruction was then his
first care, and he openly declared to the mutinous palace guard that
their grievances would not be redressed until they had compassed the
queen's death. He even suggested to them how they were to set about
it--nay, even offered to aid them. On a certain night during last July,
and according to previous arrangement, the soldiers repaired to the
palace, shouting "the queen, death to the queen." That innocent lady,
turning to her unnatural father-in-law, asked what the shouting meant
and what the people wanted of her? and he, pretending to advise her for
her good, told her that rather than live to be outraged by the soldiers
it was better she should die by her own hand, at the same time placing a
cup of poison before her, which she in her extremity actually drank,
sharing it with her son's wife, a girl only eleven years old. The king
was compelled to seek safety in flight, and according to last accounts
is still in hiding.

The regent, now left master of the situation, next turned the people
against the Japanese embassy, of whom there were twenty-eight in all.
The subsequent adventures of this little band of brave men reads more
like a page of a romance than a fact of to-day's occurrence. After
fighting their way through immense odds--crossing rivers in open boats
amidst flights of stones and arrows--lying down to rest, to find
themselves, on awaking, surrounded by a revengeful and infuriated
people--they at length reached the shore to find no junk or vessel of
sufficient size to convey them across the narrow sea to their own
country. Driven to face their enemies on the very verge of the ocean,
they eventually succeeded in retreating to some small boats--in which,
wounded and bleeding, but all alive, they confided themselves to the
sea, as being more merciful than their relentless and cruel foe. All
this, I say, savours of the romantic. Fortunately for the poor worn-out
voyagers help was at hand, for soon H.M