begin to consider it.’ ‘That is just what I think,’ said the priest.
Genji saw to his regret that he had made no progress whatever. In answer to the nun’s message he sent a small boy who belonged to the priest’s household with the following poem: ‘Last night indeed, though in the greyness of twilight only, I saw the lovely flower. But to-day a hateful mist has hidden it utterly from my sight.’ The nun replied: ‘That I may know whether indeed it pains you so deeply to leave this flower, I shall watch intently the motions of this hazy sky.’ It was written in a noteworthy and very aristocratic hand, but quite without the graces of deliberate artistry. While his carriage was being got ready, a great company of young lords arrived from the Great Hall, saying that they had been hard put to it to discover what had become of him and now desired to give him their escort. Among them were Tō no Chūjō, Sachū Ben, and other lesser lords, who had come out of affection for the Prince. ‘We like nothing better than waiting upon you,’ they said, rather aggrieved, ‘it was not kind of you to leave us behind.’ ‘But having come so far,’ said another, ‘it would be a pity to go away without resting for a while under the shadow of these flowering trees’; whereupon they all sat down in a row upon the moss under a tall rock and passed a rough earthenware wine-jar from hand to hand. Close by them the stream leaped over the rocks in a magnificent cascade. Tō no Chūjō pulled out a flute from the folds of his dress and played a few trills upon it. Sachū Ben, tapping idly with his fan, began to sing ‘The Temple of Toyora.’ The young lords who had come to fetch him were all persons of great distinction; but so striking was Genji’s appearance as he sat leaning disconsolately against the rock that no eye was likely to be turned in any other direction. One of his attendants now performed upon the
