congratulate him upon his recovery, among them a messenger from the Palace. The priest from the hut below brought a present of strange-looking roots for which he had gone deep into the ravine. He begged to be excused from accompanying Genji on his way. ‘Till the end of the year,’ he said, ‘I am bound by a vow which must deprive me of what would have been a great pleasure,’ and he handed Genji the stirrup-cup. ‘Were I but able to follow my own desires,’ said Genji taking the cup, ‘I would not leave these hills and streams. But I hear that my father the Emperor is making anxious enquiry after me. I will come back before the blossom is over.’ And he recited the verse ‘I will go back to the men of the City and tell them to come quickly, lest the wild wind outstripping them should toss these blossoms from the cherry bough.’ The old priest, flattered by Genji’s politeness and captivated by the charm of his voice, answered with the poem: ‘Like one who finds the aloe-tree in bloom, to the flower of the mountain-cherry I no longer turn my gaze.’ ‘I am not after all quite so great a rarity as the aloe-flower,’ said Genji smiling.
Next the hermit handed him a parting-cup, with the poem ‘Though seldom I open the pine-tree door of my mountain-cell, yet have I now seen face to face the flower few live