Then he promised.
After a little she stirred in his arms.
“What is it?” he said.
So soft her voice that it did not break the silence but floated upon it.
“The comb,” she murmured, “the golden comb.”
And Konojo set it in her hair.
A burden, pale but breathing, Konojo carried into the house of Hasunuma and laid upon the white mats and silken cushions. And after three hours a young maid sat up and rubbed her sleepy eyes. She was brown and quick and light and laughing. Her hair was tumbled about her rosy cheeks, unconfined by any braid or comb. She stared first at her father, and then at the young man that was in her bower. She smiled, then flushed, and put her little hands before her face.
“Greeting, O Lady of the South Wind,” said Konojo.