It was possibly the fiftieth appeal he had penned to her. Hitherto he had borne the bitter chagrin of seeing the torn bits of paper fall from a little hand that parted the silken curtains of her gilded norimono and scattered them to the winds.
The lover rode within sight of his mistress’s palanquin until the first gray darkness of approaching night crept like an immense cloud over the heavens, chasing away the enchanting rosy tints that the departing sun had left behind.
Undaunted by the fact that his letter received no response, encouraged rather by the fact that it had not shared the fate of its predecessors, the lover now set himself to the task of composing more ardent and flowery epistles. What time was not occupied in eagerly watching for the smallest glimpse of the little head to appear was spent in writing to her. He wrote his love-letters and poems with a shaking hand even while his horse carried him onward. He wrote them by the light of the moon when the train halted for the night. He wrote them in the early dawn before the cortège had awakened. And he delivered them at all hours, whenever he could obtain opportunity.
Though the Lady Wistaria by this time must have acquired a goodly quantity of useless literature, she took no measure to relieve herself of the burdensome baggage. Nevertheless the lover began to despair. A few hours before they reached her uncle’s province he delivered his last missive. It was really a very desperate letter. At the risk of his life—so he wrote—he would follow her not only to her uncle’s province but into the very grounds surrounding his palace—into the palace itself if necessary. He besought her that she would send him one small word of favor.
He waited in impatient excitement for a response to this last fervid appeal. He felt sure she must at least deign to express her wish in the matter. But when they reached the province he saw her carried across the borders without having given him one sign or token.
In his despair he dismounted, and was divided between returning to Yedo or continuing his hopeless quest.
As he remained plunged in his gloomy reflections and uncertainty of purpose, an enormous samurai touched him sharply upon the arm. In his irritation he was about to resent the fellow’s familiarity, when he perceived a little roll of rice-paper protruding from his sleeve. Stealthily the samurai reached out his arm to the lover. The latter seized the scroll eagerly.
