Everything was now silent, not even a leaf stirring. The sun blazed in the west, and the deep shadows told of its setting. The dancers grew animated, the players composed, and Michizane reverent, and there arose in the listeners mingled feelings of sorrow and delight. Their hearts beat, and the grey poet bowed low, and the dance began. The soft strains of music inspired them, and the lesson unfolded before them repeated the story of life for ever and evermore. One by one the maidens laid bare their part in the great drama that unfolds from the cradle to the grave, and no man there looked without a deeper sense of responsibility and a happier inspiration for the day. No vulgar thought disturbed them, for theirs was a purer and a nobler reality. Base desires arose from another source; the choosing, the sin. As the last dancer disrobed the strains lowered, and when the final shred was doffed the music ceased and the sun set: the drama was over and the world in darkness. There was no need for covering, no desire to live. Thus those two passed the time, when it was agreeable for them to meet. At Koyo-odori (maple dance for girls) Takara gave a party on the lawn, to which all of her younger girl friends in the neighbourhood were invited. Tetsutaisho was there in his uniform, with full regalia, and of course was the idol of the fair young maidens, who looked upon him as being little less than a god. In mid-winter the Mukojima (snow-seeing trip) afforded an opportunity to get into the country, where they lingered and enjoyed themselves at will. The mountain Tsukuba, just back of Tokyo, was their favourite place for this event, whither the white-enrobed earth stretched away to the ocean in front. Whether winter or summer they were always happy when together and lonely when not. Finally on a bright morning in March--it was March third, the day of Hinanosaku, festival for young girls--the sun rose and cast its red among the tall trees and the furrowed housetops of the castle ground. Maido struck his pipe against the brazier and then arose and slowly left his room. Presently he climbed the short lacquered stairs and entered a deserted room with panelled sash through which the sunlight streamed and warmed the cheerless place. The squared ceiling revealed a rich setting of wood and grain, and the floor was spread over with soft, clean matting. A large vase of beautiful blue, in which grew a dwarfed orange, fragrant with bloom, stood upon a raised recess in the wall. Over this hung a long kakemono,[11] done by an old master, and in a corner stood a screen of rare embroidery. There was nothing more, and the room seemed bare and desolate. Takara was gone. The daimyo's heart throbbed heavily, and he knelt behind the screen, and with his face turned away begged Kimon to give him freedom. As he sat there an aged man, bent and sorrowful, stole in and across the room to the sacred recess in the wall, where he bowed, and said: "Alas! It is well!"