and fond of pretty faces -- gave orders that the girl should be brought to

the place; and she was taken hither" target="_blank" title="ad.到那里 a.那边的">thither at once, without ceremony.
Tomotada sorrowed unspeakably; but he knew himself powerless. He was only

an humblemessenger in the service of a far-off daimyo; and for the time
being he was at the mercy of a much more powerful daimyo, whose wishes were

not to be questioned. Moreover Tomotada knew that he had acted foolishly,--
that he had brought about his own misfortune, by entering into a

clandestine relation which the code of the military class condemned. There
was now but one hope for him,-- a desperate hope: that Aoyagi might be able

and willing to escape and to flee with him. After long reflection, he
resolved to try to send her a letter. The attempt would be dangerous, of

course: any writing sent to her might find its way to the hands of the
daimyo; and to send a love-letter to anyinmate of the place was an

unpardonable offense. But he resolved to dare the risk; and, in the form of
a Chinese poem, he composed a letter which he endeavored to have conveyed

to her. The poem was written with only twenty-eight characters. But with
those twenty-eight characters he was about to express all the depth of his

passion, and to suggest all the pain of his loss:-- [4]
Koshi o-son gojin wo ou;

Ryokuju namida wo tarete rakin wo hitataru;
Komon hitotabi irite fukaki koto umi no gotoshi;

Kore yori shoro kore rojin
[Closely, closely the youthfulprince now follows after the gem-bright maid;--

The tears of the fair one, falling, have moistened all her robes.
But the august lord, having one become enamored of her -- the depth of his

longing is like the depth of the sea.
Therefore it is only I that am left forlorn,

-- only I that am left to wander along.]
On the evening of the day after this poem had been sent, Tomotada was

summoned to appear before the Lord Hosokawa. The youth at once suspected
that his confidence had been betrayed; and he could not hope, if his letter

had been seen by the daimyo, to escape the severest penalty. "Now he will
order my death," thought Tomotada;-- "but I do not care to live unless

Aoyagi be restored to me. Besides, if the death-sentence be passed, I can
at least try to kill Hosokawa." He slipped his swords into his girdle, and

hastened to the palace.
On entering the presence-room he saw the Lord Hosokawa seated upon the

dais, surrounded by samurai of high rank, in caps and robes of ceremony.
All were silent as statues; and while Tomotada advanced to make obeisance,

the hush seemed to his sinister and heavy, like the stillness before a
storm. But Hosokawa suddenly descended from the dais, and, while taking the

youth by the arm, began to repeat the words of the poem:-- "Koshi o-son
gojin wo ou."... And Tomotada, looking up, saw kindly tears in the prince's

eyes.
Then said Hosokawa:--

"Because you love each other so much, I have taken it upon myself to
authorize your marriage, in lieu of my kinsman, the Lord of Noto; and your

wedding shall now be celebrated before me. The guests are assembled;-- the
gifts are ready."

At a signal from the lord, the sliding-screens concealing a further
apartment were pushed open; and Tomotada saw there many dignitaries of the

court, assembled for the ceremony, and Aoyagi awaiting him in brides'
apparel... Thus was she given back to him;-- and the wedding was joyous and

splendid;-- and precious gifts were made to the young couple by the prince,
and by the members of his household.

* * *
For five happy years, after that wedding, Tomotada and Aoyagi dwelt

together. But one morning Aoyagi, while talking with her husband about some
household matter, suddenly uttered a great cry of pain, and then became

very white and still. After a few moments she said, in a feeble voice:
"Pardon me for thus rudely crying out -- but the paid was so sudden!... My

dear husband, our union must have been brought about through some
Karma-relation in a former state of existence; and that happy relation, I

think, will bring us again together in more than one life to come. But for
this present existence of ours, the relation is now ended;-- we are about

to be separated. Repeat for me, I beseech you, the Nembutsu-prayer,--
because I am dying."

"Oh! what strange wild fancies!" cried the startled husband,-- "you are
only a little unwell, my dear one!... lie down for a while, and rest; and

the sickness will pass."...
"No, no!" she responded -- "I am dying! -- I do not imagine it;-- I

know!... And it were needless now, my dear husband, to hide the truth from
you any longer:-- I am not a human being. The soul of a tree is my soul;--

the heart of a tree is my heart;-- the sap of the willow is my life. And
some one, at this cruel moment, is cutting down my tree;-- that is why I

must die!... Even to weep were now beyond my strength!-- quickly, quickly
repeat the Nembutsu for me... quickly!... Ah!...

With another cry of pain she turned aside her beautiful head, and tried to
hide her face behind her sleeve. But almost in the same moment her whole

form appeared to collapse in the strangest way, and to sank down, down,
down -- level with the floor. Tomotada had spring to support her;-- but

there was nothing to support! There lay on the matting only the empty robes
of the fair creature and the ornaments that she had worn in her hair: the

body had ceased to exist...
Tomotada shaved his head, took the Buddhist vows, and became an itinerant

priest. He traveled through all the provinces of the empire; and, at holy
places which he visited, he offered up prayers for the soul of Aoyagi.

Reaching Echizen, in the course of his pilgrimage, he sought the home of
the parents of his beloved. But when he arrived at the lonely place among

the hills, where their dwelling had been, he found that the cottage had
disappeared. There was nothing to mark even the spot where it had stood,

except the stumps of three willows -- two old trees and one young tree --
that had been cut down long before his arrival.

Beside the stumps of those willow-trees he erected a memorial tomb,
inscribed with divers holy texts; and he there performed many Buddhist

services on behalf of the spirits of Aoyagi and of her parents.
JIU-ROKU-ZAKURA

In Wakegori, a district of the province of Iyo (1), there is a very
ancient and famous cherry-tree, called Jiu-roku-zakura, or "the Cherry-tree

of the Sixteenth Day," because it blooms every year upon the sixteenth day
of the first month (by the old lunar calendar),-- and only upon that day.

Thus the time of its flowering is the Period of Great Cold,-- though the
natural habit of a cherry-tree is to wait for the spring season before

venturing to blossom. But the Jiu-roku-zakura blossoms with a life that is
not -- or, at least, that was not originally -- its own. There is the ghost

of a man in that tree.
He was a samurai of Iyo; and the tree grew in his garden; and it used to

flower at the usual time,-- that is to say, about the end of March or the
beginning of April. He had played under that tree when he was a child; and

his parents and grandparents and ancestors had hung to its blossoming
branches, season after season for more than a hundred years, bright strips

of colored paper inscribed with poems of praise. He himself became very
old,-- outliving all his children; and there was nothing in the world left

for him to live except that tree. And lo! in the summer of a certain year,
the tree withered and died!

Exceedingly the old man sorrowed for his tree. Then kind neighbors found
for him a young and beautiful cherry-tree, and planted it in his garden,--

hoping thus to comfort him. And he thanked them, and pretended to be glad.
But really his heart was full of pain; for he had loved the old tree so

well that nothing could have consoled him for the loss of it.
At last there came to him a happy thought: he remembered a way by which

the perishing tree might be saved. (It was the sixteenth day of the first
month.) Along he went into his garden, and bowed down before the withered

tree, and spoke to it, saying: "Now deign, I beseech you, once more to
bloom,-- because I am going to die in your stead." (For it is believed that

one can really give away one's life to another person, or to a creature or
even to a tree, by the favor of the gods;-- and thus to transfer one's life

is expressed by the term migawari ni tatsu, "to act as a substitute.") Then
under that tree he spread a white cloth, and divers coverings, and sat down

upon the coverings, and performed hara-kiri after the fashion of a samurai.
And the ghost of him went into the tree, and made it blossom in that same