Arisuga crashed through the paper wall between them like the thunder-god. Before him was Hoshiko, preparing the sword for its work. About her, on the floor, was spread the pitiful evidence that she had tried to improvise a trousseau out of her funeral garments. There was a sheer white kimono of silk, the sleeves of which she had lengthened to the wedding size. (Death and marriage are both white in Japan.) She had just laid it down. It was with this—all useless now—that she had wrapped the sword. Above her stood her mother.
"What does this mean?" demanded Arisuga, taking the sword from Hoshiko.
"My mother wishes me to die," sobbed the girl.
"And you?" asked Arisuga, savagely.
"I wish to live. To marry you, lord."
"There are no wedding garments," said the mother.
"Nor any funeral garments now!" said Arisuga, slashing them with the sword.
"You wish my daughter for only a little while—then go!"
"That is my affair. I take her!"
"O Jizo," Hoshiko whispered within herself, "I thank you! Do not let your mercy stop! Perhaps—perhaps—O Benten!"