“Ah! she is often troubled with the nightmare,” said Ukon, “and perhaps this disturbs her now; but let us try and rouse her.”
“Yes, very likely,” said Genji; “she was very much fatigued, and since noon her eyes have often been riveted upwards, like one suffering from some inward malady. I will go myself and call the servants”—he continued, “clapping one's hands is useless, besides it echoes fearfully. Do come here, Ukon, for a little while, and look after your mistress.” So pulling Ukon near Yûgao, he advanced to the entrance of the saloon. He saw all was dark in the adjoining chambers. The wind was high, and blew gustily round the mansion. The few servants, consisting of a son of the steward, footman, and page, were all buried in profound slumber. Genji called to them loudly, and they awoke with a start. “Come,” said he, “bring a light. Valet, twang your bow-string, and drive away the fiend. How can you sleep so soundly in such a place? But has Koremitz come?”
“Sir, he came in the evening, but you had given no command, and so he went away, saying he would return in the morning,” answered one.
The one who gave this reply was an old knight, and he twanged his bow-strings vigorously, “Hiyâjin! hiyâjin!” (Be careful of the fire! be careful of the fire!) as he walked round the rooms.
The mind of Genji instinctively reverted at this moment to the comfort of the palace. “At this hour of midnight,” he thought, “the careful knights are patrolling round its walls. How different it is here!”
He returned to the room he had left; it was still dark. He found Yûgao lying half dead and unconscious as before, and Ukon rendered helpless by fright.
“What is the matter? What does it mean? What foolish fear is this?” exclaimed Genji, greatly alarmed. “Perhaps in lonely places like this the fox, for instance, might try to exercise his sorcery to alarm us, but I am here, there is no cause for fear,” and he pulled Ukon's sleeve as he spoke, to arouse her.
“I was so alarmed,” she replied; “but my lady must be more so; pray attend to her.”
“Well,” said Genji, and bending over his beloved, shook her gently, but she neither spoke nor moved. She had apparently fainted, and he became seriously alarmed.
At this juncture the lights were brought. Genji threw a mantle over his mistress, and then called to the man to bring the light to him. The servant remained standing at a distance (according to etiquette), and would not approach.
“Come near,” exclaimed Genji, testily. “Do act according to circumstances,” and taking the lamp from him threw its light full on the face of the lady, and gazed upon it anxiously, when at this very moment he beheld the apparition of the same woman he had seen before in his terrible dream, float before his eyes and vanish. “Ah!” he cried, “this is like the phantoms in old tales. What is the matter with the girl?” His own fears were all forgotten in his anxiety on her account. He leaned over and called upon her, but in vain. She answered not, and her glance was fixed. What was to be done? There was no one whom he could consult. The exorcisms of a priest, he thought, might do some good, but there was no priest. He tried to compose himself with all the resolution he could summon, but his anguish was too strong for his nerves. He threw himself beside her, and embracing her passionately, cried, “Come back! come back to me, my darling! Do not let us suffer such dreadful events.” But she was gone; her soul had passed gently away.
The story of the mysterious power of the demon, who had threatened a certain courtier possessed of considerable strength of mind, suddenly occurred to Genji, who thought self-possession was the only remedy in present circumstances, and recovering his composure a little, said to Ukon, “She cannot be dead! She shall not die yet!” He then called the servant, and told him. “Here is one who has been strangely frightened by a vision. “Go to Koremitz and tell him to come at once; and if his brother, the priest, is there, ask him to come also. Tell them cautiously; don't alarm their mother.”
The midnight passed, and the wind blew louder, rushing amongst the branches of the old pines, and making them moan more and more sadly. The cries of strange weird birds were heard, probably the shrieks of the ill-omened screech-owl, and the place seemed more and more remote from all human sympathy. Genji could only helplessly repeat, “How could I have chosen such a retreat.” While Ukon quite dismayed, cried pitifully at his side. To him it seemed even that this girl might become ill, might die! The light of the lamp flickered and burnt dim. Each side of the walls seemed to his alarmed sight to present numberless openings one after another (where the demon might rush in), and the sound of mysterious footsteps seemed approaching along the deserted passages behind them. “Ah! were Koremitz but here,” was the only thought of Genji; but it would seem that Koremitz was from home, and the time Genji had to wait for him seemed an age. At last the crowing cocks announced the coming day, and gave him new courage.
He said to himself, “I must now admit this to be a punishment for all my inconsiderateness. However secretly we strive to conceal our faults, eventually they are discovered. First of all, what might not my father think! and then the general public? And what a subject for scandal the story of my escapades will become.”
Koremitz now arrived, and all at once the courage with which Genji had fought against calamity gave way, and he burst into tears, and then slowly spoke. “Here a sad and singular event has happened; I cannot explain to you why. For such sudden afflictions prayers, I believe, are the only resource. For this reason I wished your brother to accompany you here.”
“He returned to his monastery only yesterday,” replied Koremitz. “But tell me what has happened; any unusual event to the girl?”
“She is dead,” returned Genji in a broken voice; “dead without any apparent cause.”
Koremitz, like the Prince, was but young. If he had had greater experience he would have been more serviceable to Genji; indeed, they both were equally perplexed to decide what were the best steps to be taken under the trying circumstances of the case.
At last Koremitz said, “If the steward should learn this strange misfortune it might be awkward; as to the man himself he might be relied on, but his family, who probably would not be so discreet, might hear of the matter. It would, therefore, be better to quit this place at once.”
“But where can we find a spot where there are fewer observers than here?” replied Genji.
“That is true. Suppose the old lodgings of the deceased. No, there are too many people there. I think a mountain convent would be better, because there they are accustomed to receive the dead within their walls, so that matters can be more easily concealed.”