m how to arrange all."

"And what has become of Ukon?" asked Genji. "How does she bear it?"

"That is, indeed, a question. She was really deeply affected, and she
foolishly said, 'I will die with my mistress.' She was actually going
to throw herself headlong from the cliff; but I warned, I advised, I
consoled her, and she became more pacified."

"The state of her feelings may be easily conceived. I am myself not
less deeply wounded than she. I do not even know what might become of
myself."

"Why do you grieve so uselessly? Every uncertainty is the result of a
certainty. There is nothing in this world really to be lamented. If
you do not wish the public to know anything of this matter, I,
Koremitz, will manage it."

"I, also, am aware that everything is fated. Still, I am deeply sorry
to have brought this misfortune on this poor girl by my own
inconsiderate rashness. The only thing I have now to ask you, is to
keep these events in the dark. Do not mention them to any one--nay,
not even to your mother."

"Even from the priests to whom it must necessarily be known, I will
conceal the reality," replied Koremitz.

"Do manage all this most skilfully!"

"Why, of course I shall manage it as secretly as possible," cried
Koremitz; and he was about to take his departure, but Genji stopped
him.

"I must see her once more," said Genji, sorrowfully. "I will go with
you to behold her, before she is lost to my sight forever." And he
insisted on accompanying him.

Koremitz, however, did not at all approve of this project; but his
resistance gave way to the earnest desire of Genji, and he said, "If
you think so much about it, I cannot help it."

"Let us hasten, then, and return before the night be far advanced."

"You shall have my horse to ride."

Genji rose, and dressed himself in the ordinary plain style he usually
adopted for his private expeditions, and started away with one
confidential servant, besides Koremitz.

They crossed the river Kamo, the torches carried before them burning
dimly. They passed the gloomy cemetery of Toribeno, and at last
reached the convent.

It was a rude wooden building, and adjoining was a small Buddha Hall,
through whose walls votive tapers mysteriously twinkled. Within,
nothing but the faint sound of a female's voice repeating prayers was
to be heard. Outside, and around, the evening services in the
surrounding temples were all finished, and all Nature was in silent
repose. In the d