Now the red dawn had tipped the mountain-tops,
  And birds, awaking, peered from out their nests,
  To greet the day with strains of matin joy;
  The while, the moon’s pale sickle, silver white,
  Fading away, sunk in the western sky. 
  Clear was the air and cloudless, save the mists
  That rolled in waves upon the mountain-tops. 
  Or crept along the gullies.

Skirting the trunks of mighty trees, stealing beneath whispering pines, White Aster threads different parts of the solitude, where she encounters deer and other timid game, seeking some trace of her father.  She is so intent on this quest that she does not mark two dark forms which gradually creep nearer to her.  These are robbers, who finally pounce upon White Aster and drag her into their rocky den, little heeding her tears or prayers; and, although the maiden cries for help, echo alone reiterates her desperate calls.

The brigands’ lair is beneath an overhanging cliff, where they have erected a miserable booth, whose broken thatch has to be supplemented by the dense foliage of the ginkgo tree overshadowing it.  In front of this hut runs a brawling stream, while the rocks all around are hung with heavy curtains of ivy, which add to the gloom and dampness of the place.

            Here the sun
  Ne’er visits with his parting rays at eve,
  But all is gloom and silence save the cry
  Of some belated bird that wakes the night.

Having brought their prisoner safely into this den, the robbers proceed to eat and drink, dispensing with chopsticks, so wolfish is their hunger.  Meantime they roughly jeer at their captive, who sits helpless before them, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.  Having satisfied their first imperious craving for food and drink, the brigands proceed to taunt their prisoner, until the captain, producing a koto or harp, bids her with savage threats make music, as they like to be merry.

               “Sit you down,
  And let us hear your skill; for I do swear
  That, if you hesitate, then with this sword
  I’ll cut you into bits and give your flesh
  To yonder noisy crows.  Mark well my words.”

So proficient is our little maiden on this instrument, that her slender fingers draw from the cords such wonderful sounds that all living creatures are spellbound.  Even the robbers remain quiet while it lasts, and are so entranced that they fail to hear the steps of a stranger, stealing near the hut armed with sword and spear.  Seeing White Aster in the brigands’ power, this stranger bursts open the door and pounces upon the robbers, several of whom he slays after a desperate conflict.  One of their number, however, manages to escape, and it is only when the fight is over that White Aster—­who has covered her face with her hands—­discovers that her rescuer is the kind-hearted recluse.  He now informs her that, deeming it unsafe for her to thread the wilderness