"Alack! Alack!" cried the servant, "the youth has the fever, or he is perchance mad."
Hagiwara faltered not at all. He looked neither to the right nor to the left. Straight forward he went, for he said to himself, "All roads lead past my love's house." Soon he came to a quiet suburb, and to a certain house whose garden had a split bamboo fence. Hagiwara laughed softly and scaled the fence.
"The same, the very same shall be the manner of our meeting," he said. He found the garden wild and overgrown. Moss covered the three stone steps. The plum tree that grew there fluttered its green leaves disconsolate. The house was still, its shutters were all closed, it was forlorn and deserted.
The samurai grew cold as he stood and wondered. A soaking rain fell.
There came an old man into the garden. He said to Hagiwara :
"Sir, what do you do here?"
"The white flower has fallen from the plum tree," said the samurai. "Where is the Lady of the Morning Dew?"
"She is dead," answered the old man; "dead these five or six moons, of a strange and sudden sickness. She lies in the graveyard on the hill, and O'Yone, her handmaid, lies by her side. She could not suffer her mistress to wander alone through the long night of Yomi. For their sweet spirits' sake I would still tend this garden, but I am old and it is little that I can do. Oh, sir, they are dead indeed. The grass grows on their graves."
Hagiwara went to his own home. He took a slip of pure white wood and he wrote upon it, in large fair characters, the dear name of his lady. This he set up, and burned before it incense and sweet odours, and made every offering that was meet, and did due observance, and all for the welfare of her departed spirit.
Then drew near the Festival of Bon, the time of returning souls. The good folk of Yedo took lanterns and visited their graves. Bringing food and flowers, they cared for their beloved dead. On the thirteenth day of the seventh month, which, in the Bon, is the day of days, Hagiwara the samurai walked in his garden by night for the sake of the coolness. It was windless and dark. A cicala hidden in the heart of a pomegranate flower sang shrilly now and again. Now and again a carp leaped in the round pond. For the rest it was still, and never a leaf stirred.
About the hour of the Ox, Hagiwara heard the sound of footsteps in the lane that lay beyond his garden hedge. Nearer and nearer they came.
"Women's geta" said the samurai. He knew them by the hollow echoing noise. Looking over his rose hedge, he saw two slender women come out of the dimness hand in hand. One of them carried a lantern with a bunch of peony flowers tied to the handle. It was such a lantern as is used at the time of the Bon in the service of the dead. It swung as the two women walked, casting an uncertain light. As they came abreast of the samurai upon the other side of the hedge, they turned their faces to him. He knew them at once, and gave one great cry.
The girl with the peony lantern held it up so that the light fell upon him.
"Hagiwara Sama," she cried, "by all that is most wonderful! Why, lord, we were told that you were dead. We have daily recited the Nembutsu for your soul these many moons!"
"Come in, come in, O'Yone," he said; "and is it indeed your mistress that you hold by the hand? Can it be my lady? . . . Oh, my love!"
O'Yone answered, "Who else should it be?" and the two came in at the garden gate.
But the Lady of the Morning Dew held up her sleeve to hide her face.
"How was it I lost you?" said the samurai; "how was it I lost you, O'Yone?"
"Lord," she said, "we have moved to a little house, a very little house, in the quarter of the city which is called the Green Hill. We were suffered to take nothing with us there, and we are grown very poor. With grief and want my mistress is become pale."
Then Hagiwara took his lady's sleeve to draw it gently from her face.
"Lord," she sobbed, "you will not love me, I am not fair."
But when he looked upon her his love flamed up within him like a consuming fire, and shook him from head to foot. He said never a word.
She drooped. "Lord," she murmured, "shall I go or stay?"
And he said, "Stay."
A little before daybreak the samurai fell into a deep sleep, and awoke to find himself alone in the clear light of the morning. He lost not an instant, but rose and went forth, and immediately made his way through Yedo to the quarter of the city which is called the Green Hill. Here he inquired for the house of the Lady of the Morning Dew, but no one could direct him. High and low he searched fruitlessly. It seemed to him that for the second time he had lost his dear lady, and he turned homewards in bitter despair. His way led him through the grounds of a certain temple, and as he went he marked two graves that were side by side. One was little and obscure, but the other was marked by a fair monument, like the tomb of some great one. Before the monument there hung a lantern with a bunch of peony flowers tied to its handle. It was such a lantern as is used at the time of Bon in the service of the dead.
Long, long did the samurai stand as one in a dream. Then he smiled a little and said :
"'We have moved to a little house . . . a very little house . . . upon the Green Hill . . . we were suffered to take nothing with us there and we are grown very poor . . . with grief and want my mistress is become pale. . . .' A little house, a dark house, yet you will make room for me, oh, my beloved, pale one of my desires. We have loved for the space of ten existences, leave me not now . . . my dear." Then he went home.
His faithful servant met him and cried :
"Now what ails you, master?"
He said, "Why, nothing at all. ... I was never merrier."
But the servant departed weeping, and saying, "The mark of death is on his face . . . and I, whither shall I go that bore him as a child in these arms?"
Every night, for seven nights, the maidens with the peony lantern came to Hagiwara's dwelling. Fair weather or foul was the same to them. They came at the hour of the Ox. There was mystic wooing. By the strong bond of illusion the living and the dead were bound together.
On the seventh night the servant of the samurai, wakeful with fear and sorrow, made bold to peer into his lord's room through a crack in the wooden shutters. His hair stood on end and his blood ran cold to see Hagiwara in the arms of a fearful thing, smiling up at the horror that was its face, stroking its dank green robe with languid fingers. With daylight the servant made his way to a holy man of his acquaintance. When he had told his tale he asked, "Is there any hope for Hagiwara Sama?"
"Alack," said the holy man, "who can withstand the power of Karma? Nevertheless, there is a little hope." So he told the servant what he must do. Before nightfall, this one had set a sacred text above every door and window-place of his master's house, and he had rolled in the silk of his master's girdle a golden emblem of the Tathagata. When these things were done, Hagiwara being drawn two ways became himself as weak as water. And his servant took him in his arms, laid him upon his bed and covered him lightly, and saw him fall into a deep sleep.
At the hour of the Ox there was heard the sound of footsteps in the lane, without the garden hedge. Nearer and nearer they came. They grew slow and stopped.
"What means this, O'Yone, O'Yone?" said a piteous voice. "The house is asleep, and I do not see my lord."
"Come home, sweet lady, Hagiwara's heart is changed."
"That I will not, O'Yone, O'Yone ... you must find a way to bring me to my lord."
"Lady, we cannot enter here. See the Holy Writing over every door and window-place . . . we may not enter here."
There was a sound of bitter weeping and a long wail.
"Lord, I have loved thee through the space of ten existences." Then the footsteps retreated and their echo died away.
The next night it was quite the same. Hagiwara slept in his weakness; his servant watched; the wraiths came and departed in sobbing despair.
The third day, when Hagiwara went to the bath, a thief stole the emblem, the golden emblem of the Tathagata, from his girdle. Hagiwara did not mark it. But that night he lay awake. It was his servant that slept, worn out with watching. Presently a great rain fell and Hagiwara, waking, heard the sound of it upon the roof. The heavens were opened and for hours the rain fell. And it tore the holy text from over the round window in Hagiwara's chamber.
At the hour of the Ox there was heard the sound of footsteps in the lane without the garden hedge. Nearer and nearer they came. They grew slow and stopped.
"This is the last time, O'Yone, O'Yone, therefore bring me to my lord. Think of the love of ten existences. Great is the power of Karma. There must be a way. . . ."
"Come, my beloved," called Hagiwara with a great voice.
"Open, lord . . . open and I come."
But Hagiwara could not move from his couch.
"Come, my beloved," he called for the second time.
"I cannot come, though the separation wounds me like a sharp sword. Thus we suffer for the sins of a former life." So the lady spoke and moaned like the lost soul that she was. But O'Yone took her hand.
"See the round window," she said.
Hand in hand the two rose lightly from the earth. Like vapour they passed through the unguarded window. The samurai called, "Come to me, beloved," for the third time.
He was answered, "Lord, I come."
In the grey morning Hagiwara's servant found his master cold and dead. At his feet stood the peony lantern burning with a weird yellow flame. The servant shivered, took up the lantern and blew out the light; for "I cannot bear it," he said.