YOICHIBEI. Please, just wait, sir. There is no help for it. Yes, this is money. But I have an only daughter; and she has a husband who is more dear to her than life itself. That husband is in want of money. He is, for certain reasons, a _ronin_ at present. It was through her, says my daughter, that he became a _ronin_, and she has asked me and my wife to help him to return to his former samurai’s position. But as we are poor, we could do nothing. At last, after long consultation with my wife, we hit upon a plan; we made our daughter agree to it and have kept it absolutely secret from our son-in-law. And this is the money we got after we three, father, mother, and daughter, had truly wept tears of blood. And if you take it away, what will become of my daughter? See, I clasp my hands to you; please, let me go. You, too, appear to have been a samurai; and the samurai should help each other. Without this money, my daughter and her husband cannot hold up their heads in the world. He is my only daughter’s husband; and you will guess how I pity and love him. Have compassion on me, sir, and let me go. You are still young and I suppose you are childless; but when the time comes and a child is born to you, you will know how natural are the words I have spoken to you. So, please, let me leave this place in safety. Only a _ri_[1] from here is my home. You may kill me when I have handed the money to my son-in-law. Please, sir, I should like to die after I have seen my daughter’s face light up with joy. Please, please, sir. Oh, help, help! RECITATIVE. But his cries only resound with piteous echoes in the hills around. SADAKURO. Oh, that is indeed sad. Cry on. Hear me, old dotard. If I rise in the world with that money of yours, the blessing of this act of charity will raise your son too. For charity never makes an evil return to the donor. Poor fellow! RECITATIVE. He thrusts his sword; and as Yoichibei writhes with pain, he kicks him round with his foot. SADAKURO. Oh, how pitiful! Though, no doubt, it hurts you, do not bear me spite for it. I kill you because you have money; for if you had no money, what should I do to you? Your money is your enemy, old man. Oh, save us, Amida Buddha!* Oh, save us, Wondrous Doctrine of the Lotus Sutra![2] Go wherever you please. RECITATIVE. Without drawing out his sword, he turns it round and round. The grass is dyed crimson with blood; and the old man, in the excess of his pain, breathes his last. Sadakuro, now that he is dead, takes the pouch and in the darkness counts the money in it. SADAKURO. Ha, fifty _ryo_. ’Tis long since we last met, gentlemen; and I thank you for your coming.