mouth tight closed.

His tale ended, the recluse and his small sister leave the robbers'
den, and steal hand in hand through the dusk, the forest's silence
being broken only by the shrill cries of bands of monkeys. They are
just about to emerge from this dark ravine, when the robber who
managed to escape suddenly pounces upon the priest, determined to slay
him so as to avenge his dead comrades. Another terrible fight ensues,
which so frightens poor little White Aster that she runs off, losing
her way in the darkness, and is not able to return to her brother's
side in spite of all her efforts.

The third canto tells how, after wandering around all night, White
Aster finally emerges at dawn on the top of a cliff, at whose base
nestles a tiny village, with one of the wonted shrines. Making her way
down to this place, White Aster kneels in prayer, but her attitude is
so weary that an old peasant, passing by, takes pity upon her and
invites her to join his daughter in their little cottage. White Aster
thus becomes an inmate of this rustic home, where she spends the next
few years, her beauty increasing every day, until her fame spreads all
over the land. Hearing of her unparalleled loveliness, the governor
finally decides to marry her, although she is far beneath him in rank,
and sends a matrimonial agent to bargain for her hand. The old rustic,
awed by the prospect of so brilliant an alliance, consents without
consulting White Aster, and he and the agent pick out in the calendar
a propitious day for the wedding.

When the agent has departed, the old man informs his guest how he has
promised her hand in marriage, adding that she has no choice and must
consent. But White Aster exclaims that her mother, on her way to the
temple one day, heard a strange sound in the churchyard. There she
discovered, amongst the flowers, a tiny abandoned girl, whom she
adopted, giving her the name of the blossoms around her.

"Once," she said,
"Ere morn had scarce begun to dawn, I went
To worship at the temple: as I passed
Through the churchyard 'twixt rows of gravestones hoar,
And blooming white chrysanthemums, I heard
The piteous wailing of a little child.
Which following, I found, amidst the flowers,
A fair young child with crimson-mouthing lips
And fresh soft cheek--a veritable gem.
I took it as a gift that Buddha sent
As guerdon of my faith, and brought it up
As my own child, to be my husban