3

The old nun's carriage was brought up, amid chatter about the stub-bornness of her affliction.

“And how is the other?” asked the bishop when the excitement had somewhat subsided.

“She seems to have lost her very last ounce of strength—sometimes we wonder if she is still breathing—and she has not said a word. Some-thing has robbed her of her faculties.”

“What is this?” asked the younger nun, the bishop's sister.

“Not in my upwards of six decades have I seen anything so odd.” And the bishop described it.

“I had a dream at Hatsuse.” The nun was in tears. “What is she like? Do let me see her.”

“Yes, by all means. You will find her over beyond the east door.”

The nun hurried off. No one was with the girl, who was young and pretty and indefinably elegant. The white damask over her scarlet trousers gave off a subtle perfume.

“My child, my child. I wept for you, and you have come back to me.”

She had some women carry the girl to an inner room. Not having witnessed the earlier events, they performed the task equably.

The girl looked up through half-closed eyes.

She did not seem to understand. The nun forced medicine upon her, but she seemed on the point of fading away.

They must not let her die after she had been through so much. The nun called for the monk who had shown himself to be the most capable in such matters. “I am afraid that she is not far from death. Let her have all your best spells and prayers.”

“I was right in the first place,” he grumbled. “He should have let well enough alone.” But he commenced reading the sutra for propitiating the local gods.

“How is she?” The bishop looked in. “Find out what it is that has been at her. Drive it away, drive it away.”

“She will not live, sir, I am sure of it. And when she dies we'll be in for a retreat we could perfectly well have avoided. She seems to be of good rank, and we can't just run away from the corpse. A bother, that is what I call it.”

“You do talk a great deal,” said the nun. “But you are not to tell anyone. If you do you can expect an even worse bother.” She had almost forgotten her mother in the struggle to save the girl. Yes, she was a stranger, nothing to them, if they would have it so; but she was a very pretty stranger. Everyone who saw her joined in prayers that she be spared. Occasionally she would open her eyes, and there would be tears in them.

“What am I to do? The Blessed One has brought you in place of the child I have wept for, I am sure of it, and if you go too, I shall have to weep again. Something from another life has brought us together. I know that too. Speak to me. Please. Say something, anything.”

“I have been thrown out. I have nowhere to go.” The girl barely managed a whisper. “Don't let anyone see me. Take me out when it gets dark and throw me back in the river.”

“She has spoken to me! But what a terrible thing to say. Why must you say such things? And why were you out there all by yourself?”

The girl did not answer. The nun examined her for wounds, but found none. Such a pretty little thing—but there was a certain apprehension mingled with the pity and sorrow. Might a strange apparition have been dispatched to tempt her, to challenge her calm?