'So you want to see the Book of Books? I am surprised that your father, whom I know for a pious man, should not have put it into your hands before now.'

'You do not know my father; he is far, far away.'

'Indeed! Well, it is the same thing. Look here, my little friend! Read this diligently; it shall show you the way of life----'

But Johannes had already recognised the Book. This was not what he wanted. No, something very different. He shook his head.

'No, no! that is not what I mean. I know this Book. This is not it.'

He heard exclamations of surprise, and felt the looks which were fixed on him from all sides.

'What? What do you mean, little man?'

'I know this book. It is the book men believe in. But there is not enough in it--if there were, there would be peace and goodwill among men. And there is none. I mean something different--something which no one can doubt who sees it; in which it is written, precisely and clearly, why everything is as it is.'

'How is that possible? Where can the boy have picked up such a notion?'

'Who taught you that, my little friend?'

'I am afraid that you have read some wicked books, child, and are talking like them.'

Thus spoke the various voices. Johannes felt his cheeks burning--his eyes were dim and dazzled--the room turned round, and the huge flowers on the carpet swayed up and down. Where was the little mouse who had so faithfully helped him that day in the school-room? He wanted her badly.

'I am not talking like any book, and he who taught me what I know is worth more than all of you together. I know the language of flowers and animals, and am friends with them all. And I know too what men are, and how they live. I know all the fairies' secrets and the wood-sprites'; for they all love me--more than men do.'

Oh Mousey, Mousey!

Johannes heard sounds of disapprobation and laughter behind him, and all sides. There was a singing and roaring in his ears.

'He seems to have read Hans Andersen's tales.'

'He is not quite right in his head.'

The man opposite to him said: 'If you know Andersen, my little man, you ought to have more of his reverence for G.o.d and His Word.'

'For G.o.d!' He knew that word, and he remembered Windekind's teaching.

'I have no reverence for G.o.d. G.o.d is a great Petroleum-lamp which leads thousands to misery and misfortune.'

There was no laughter now, but a terrible silence, in which horror and amazement might be felt on all sides. Johannes was conscious of piercing looks, even at his back. It was like his dream of the night before. The man in black stood up and took him by the arm. This hurt him and almost crushed his courage.

'Listen to me, youngster: I do not know whether you are utterly ignorant or utterly depraved, but I suffer no unG.o.dly talk here. Go away, and never come in my sight again, I advise you. I will keep an eye on what becomes of you, but you never more set foot in this house. Do you understand?'

Every face was cold and hostile as he had seen them in his dream.

Johannes looked about him in anguish.

'Robinetta--where is Robinetta?'

'Ay indeed! You would contaminate my child! Beware if you ever dare to come here again!' And the cruel grip led him down the echoing pa.s.sage--the gla.s.s door slammed--and Johannes found himself outside, under the black driving clouds.

He did not turn round, but stared straight before him as he slowly walked away. The sad furrows above his eyes were deeper, and did not smooth out again.

The Redbreast sat in a lime hedge looking after him. He stopped and gazed back, but did not speak; but there was no longer any confidence in the bird's timid sharp little eyes, and when Johannes took a step nearer, the quick little creature shot away in hasty flight.

'Away, away! Here is a man!' piped the sparrows who were sitting in a row on the garden path, and they fluttered away in all directions. Even the open blossoms laughed no more, but looked grave and indifferent, as they do to all strangers. Still Johannes did not heed these signs, but only thought how cruelly he had been hurt by those men; it was as though a cold hard hand had been laid on his inmost secret soul. 'They shall believe me yet!' thought he. 'I will fetch my little key and show it to them.'

'Johannes, Johannes!' called a tiny voice. There was a bird's nest in a holly bush and Wistik's big eyes peeped out over the edge of it. 'Where are you off to?'

'It is all your fault!' said Johannes. 'Leave me in peace.'

'What took you to talk with men? Men can never understand you. Why do you tell men such things? It is most foolish.'

'They laughed at me, and hurt me. They are detestable creatures! I hate them.'

'No, Johannes; you love them.'

'No, no!'

'If you did not, it would not vex you so much to find yourself different from them; it could not matter to you what they say. You must learn to care less.'

'I want my key. I want to show it to them.'

'You must not do that; and they would not even then believe you. Of what use would it be?'

'I want my little key from under the rose-bush. Do you know where to find it?'

'Yes, certainly; by the pool you mean? Yes, I know it.'

'Then take me there, Wistik.'

Wistik clambered up on Johannes's shoulder and showed him the way. They went on and on, all the day; the wind blew, and heavy rain fell from time to time, but towards evening the clouds ceased driving, and packed into long grey and gold bars. When they reached the sand-hills which Johannes knew so well, his heart was sad within him, and he whispered again and again, 'Windekind, Windekind!'

There was the rabbit-hole, and the sand-hill where he had fallen asleep.

The grey reindeer-moss was soft and damp, and did not crack under his feet. The roses were all over, and the yellow evening-primroses with their faint oppressive scent opened their cups by hundreds. Higher yet grew the tall mulleins with their thick woolly leaves. Johannes looked carefully to espy the small russet leaves of the wild rose.

'Where is it, Wistik? I do not see it.'

'I know nothing of it,' said Wistik. 'You buried the key, not I.'

Where the rose-tree had stood there was a plot covered with yellow Oenotheras staring heedlessly at the sky. Johannes questioned them, and the mullein too; but they were much too proud, for their tall stems rose far above his head; so he asked the little three-coloured pansies on the sandy ground. However, no one knew anything of the wild rose. They were all new-comers this summer, even the mullein, arrogant and tall as it was.

'Oh! where is it? where is it?'

'Have you too deceived me?' cried Wistik. 'I expected it; it is always so with men.'

And he let himself slip down from Johannes's shoulder, and ran away among the broom. Johannes looked about him in despair--there stood a tiny wild rose-bush.

'Where is the big rose-bush?' asked Johannes; 'the big one which used to stand here?'