As the hair came out, fear faded from his heart, and his hatred toward the old woman mounted. It grew beyond hatred, becoming a consuming antipathy against all evil.At this instant if anyone had brought up the the question of whether he would starve to death or become a thief—the question which had occurred to him a little while ago—he would not have hesitated to choose death.His hatred toward evil flared up like the piece of pine wood which the old woman had stuck in the floor.
He did not know why she pulled out the hair of the dead. Accordingly, he did not know whether her case was to be put down as good or bad.But in his eyes, pulling out the hair of the dead in the Rashomon on this stormy night was an unpardonable crime.Of course it never entered his mind that a little while ago he had thought of becoming a thief.
Then, summoning strength into his legs, he rose from the stairs and strode, hand on sword, right in front of the old creature. The hag turned, terror in her eyes, and sprang up from the floor, trembling.For a small moment she paused, poised there, then lunged for the stairs with a shriek.
"Wretch!Where are you going?" he shouted, barring the way of the trembling hag who tried to scurry past him. Still she attempted to claw her way by.He pushed her back to prevent her… they struggled, fell among the corpses, and grappled there.The issue was never in doubt.In a moment he had her by the arm, twisted it, and forced her down to the floor.Her arms were all skin and bones, and there was no more flesh on them than on the shanks of a chicken.No sooner was she on the floor than he drew his sword and thrust the silver-white blade before her very nose. She was silent.She trembled as if in a fit, and her eyes were open so wide that they were almost out of their sockets, and her breath come in hoarse gasps.The life of this wretch was his now.This thought cooled his boiling anger and brought a calm pride and satisfaction.He looked down at her, and said in a somewhat calmer voice: