"Oh, what is it?" cried Iriya, herself on edge, and looking about in terror.
Again came the song, soft and clear. The singer stood, evidently, just beyond the bamboos. Yuki's lips writhed together. Her fingers tore and twitched, one hand in the other.
"Yuki! My Yuki!" came a voice. "Is it too late?"
Suddenly wrenching herself from Iriya's arms, the girl sprang down the two stone steps and plunged into the shadows of the garden. As one fiend-driven, she sped over paths, shrubs, rocks, and prim garden-stakes, until, at the hedge, she hurled herself upon it, beating at it with frantic hands, and sobbing.
"Oh, go! Go, beloved! Never again come here! Never sing that song again, or—I cannot live at all! I have promised—promised—a new pledge—stronger than the other! It's of my free will I give myself to him! Go home to your native land! Go! go!"
"What sound is that? What do I hear?" cried Tetsujo, from the guest-room balcony.
"It is our Yuki, walking in the garden," came Iriya's placid voice. "Disturb not your honorable spirit, Master! I am with the child."
Tetsujo returned, to be met by a chiding, half-contemptuous remark from his deity. A moment later, Iriya's ashen face was in the kitchen. "Suzumè! Maru! For the love of Kwannon, come quickly! Miss Yuki is in a dead faint, against the thorn hedge! Her hands are bleeding!—Make no noise! The master and Prince Haganè must not know!"