On the snow-white mats a cloth
Heedfully he spreads;
Stealthily his dirk he drew;
Then—when all their heads
Nodded, at the "hour of the Moth
Deep he drives it in his thigh.
From the smarting wound
Spirts the blood: when slumber tempts
Twists he that blade round.
Others doze, but Itô shuts no eye!
Soon he sees the Witch appear—
Oh, a dream of death!
Wolf-shaped! Wickedly its mouth
Sucks O Haru's breath.
Itô leaps upon it, free of fear,
Grasps it: flings it: goes to kill!
Struggling shrieks that Shape:
"If you slay me she must die,
Grant me hence escape
And I tell what thing might make her well."
