One of his pictures he had given to Zorka in sign of grat.i.tude. It represented the lost Luck of the wandering tribe. She stood on a lonely plain, her hands joined behind her back, her eyes looking straight before her, her head slightly raised as if listening for the coming of a being she could not see.

A marvellous picture of unearthly beauty before which the old fortune-teller daily said her curious prayers, prayers to a G.o.d who had no form, but who lived in every breath of the wind, and who filled her weary old soul with the hope of coming peace.

They wandered slowly from land to land, amidst scenes of beauty, and often also through countries bleak and joyless; but the heart of the painter was always yearning for a far-off desolate plain where he had planted his shining sword over the face of his love.

When at night he closed his lids over his eyes heavy with unshed tears, that wilderness always rose before him, cold and lonely, filling him with a haunting dread that the sword might be slowly descending to pierce her innocent heart. That vision would suddenly awake him out of his sleep, and horror would stand at the foot of his wretched bed, till he could bear it no more and would rush wildly out into the night.

Zorka knew all his suffering, and bowed her head always lower to the ground.

When spring was covering the earth with a new smile of youth, Zorka felt that the moment she dreaded had come, and that the loved wanderer would soon leave her to go his way.

She had heard him speak of a wonderful picture he was one day to finish in the palace of a mighty king. With her seer's certainty she knew that the time was close at hand--had he not found the face of love,--and slowly the desire must strengthen within him to terminate the work he had begun.

She accepted the coming of this final suffering as one who knows that her days are surely numbered.

One morning Eric Gundian, the last joy of her eyes, stood tall and slim before her dimmed sight.

"Mother Zorka, I feel I must go. I thank thee for all thy bounteous kindness, and I want thy blessing as once the dear master gave me his!"

He knelt down as a little child might have done, and laid the frosted gold of his locks amongst the folds of her earth-coloured rags. She placed her trembling hands upon his head and raised her quavering voice:

"Go in peace, my loved one, take up thy burden and finish thy great work; it is thy duty to return to the kingly master who loved thee so well, and when thy pain seems too heavy to bear, remember these words of old Zorka the witch.

"Those who die of happiness are blessed, but thrice blessed is the man who carries without complaint the burden of his broken heart. Thou hast known the sublimest fulfilment of joy. Be for ever grateful for that hour of bliss, and remember that she died at the moment of attainment, which is given to so few; therefore do not mourn as if her lot had been cruel. There are others who fall before winning the race; thou hast known what it is to reach thy goal; so, thou must not weep. Go, and carry joy with thee wherever thou treadest, because thou art a Chosen of G.o.d. It is I, the old seer, who thus does speak."

She bent low over him and pressed her quivering lips to the silver threads in his hair; then he rose, and stood with his head thrown back, his arms reaching up towards the vault of blue, as one who longs to be received within the far-off clouds.

"But, Mother Zorka, I can sing no more; G.o.d has drowned my voice in a sea of tears!"

"My son, thou hast thy wonderful art. Go and live amongst those who believe in thee. Thou hast a great work to complete, and the face of thy love shall shine for ever upon the generations to come. This thou canst still do for her memory's sake, and that power is given to few.

"There was a time when I believed I ought to guard our beautiful Stella from all touch of mortal love; but now I know that thus it is best. Each human being must fulfil his destiny, and Stella's destiny was to be the realization of thy dream.

"The days of each man's life are counted, and not any of our poor knowledge can add an hour to the length of time Fate has decreed we should live.

"Thou didst not kill her with thy kiss; she lived as a flower from some unknown land, yielding her sweet perfume to but one single being; then G.o.d took her for His own, and thus her life was to end. Cry not out against what had to be. Go thy way, and one day perhaps thou wilt know the meaning which now our mortal mind cannot fathom. My blessing is with thee. Go in peace."

And that day Eric Gundian left the dark wandering people and old Zorka the witch.

When he had reached the crest of a hill he turned round and waved to the trembling old woman who had been so faithful a friend.

Over his head his inseparable companion fluttered like a snow-white sail caught by the wind.

Zorka stood leaning on her crooked staff, her hand raised to protect her eyes, that were blinded with tears, against the glare of the rising sun.

She stood watching the departing youth she had so dearly loved, and it seemed to her that he walked away from her straight into the glittering sky.

XXIX

Spring in all its beauty was covering the world with blossoms pink and white. Within the tender sprouting gra.s.s pale anemones were raising their delicate faces to peep at the radiant sun. Humble sweet-smelling violets covered the lawns with a carpet of richest hue. Everywhere the birds were singing hymns of praise to the sweet resurrection of life and joy. The larks were for ever mounting into the sky in eternal adoration of the shining sun.

A haze of green was beginning to spread over the awakening woods, and innumerable flowers were pushing out their tiny heads from beneath the thick carpet of fallen leaves. Over all lay a sweet hush of promise, timid yet spreading far and wide.

King Wanda sat upon his marble terrace basking in the first warmth of the season. Close beside him was Oona in a new dress of gold, a marvellous book upon her knees containing pictures in glowing colours, relating of fairies, both good and bad. She piped away with sweet clear voice, explaining all the wonders she saw; but King Wanda sat with a frown on his brow; nothing seemed to bring a smile to his lips; he had become morose and silent, and vainly his courtiers had tried to replace the favourite who had so suddenly left him long ago.

[Ill.u.s.tration: King Wanda sat upon his marble terrace basking in the first warmth of the season.]

King Wanda could find no joy since that day when Eric Gundian, the mad painter, had gone from his palace in search of his dream. He had given up all hope of seeing him again, although many a night he lay tossing upon his kingly couch, harking if he could not discern some sound of the step that once he had loved.

Other painters had proposed to finish the frieze in the beautiful hall, but sternly the King had repressed their zeal. He himself kept the keys of that now silent chamber, and none save himself had entry through those ma.s.sive doors. He raised his head as some one came towards him over the sunlit terrace. It was a page, and this was the news he brought. Outside the palace doors a stranger was standing in the garb of a beggar, demanding admittance, saying he had come to do King Wanda's bidding, and entreating to be allowed to speak to the master himself.

"He is all travel-stained," said the page, "and upon his back he carries a load wrapped in a cloth. His feet are bare, his head uncovered, his clothes all torn and soiled; within his hands he bears a staff wrought with unknown designs. The hair on his head is long and covered with dust, and his eyes are horribly sad; most strange of all, upon the beggar's shoulder a curious bird is quietly seated. In truth the man seems to have come from the end of the earth."

"I will have word with him," said the King, "as it is his desire to talk with me. Am I not here for all those who call at my door? None, it shall be said, go unconsoled or are sent away without receiving their heart's desire."

Now the tattered traveller was standing upon the terrace before the presence of the King. His load had been laid upon the marble floor. The white bird sat motionless upon his shoulder, like a ghost in a dream.

The rays of the sun shone upon his bent head, and as they lit on the long locks of the stranger's hair, making them sparkle and flash in the light, King Wanda gave a sudden cry, clutching at his heart. Then he sprang forward, and all the courtiers were witness of an astounding sight: a beggar lying against the heart of their King, who was sobbing as if his heart would break!

And then Eric was on his knees, his head hidden in the hands of the good old King he had left to wander so far away. He was telling the crowned man that he had come back to finish the picture he had once begun, because now he knew what was the face of the woman who sat on the golden throne.

"Give me leave, O most royal master, to complete the work of my hands; but let me tell thee that Eric Gundian, thy singing-bird, died one early morn under an alien sky at the break of day--it is only his spirit that has come to thee, because the Dreamer of Dreams has a last great wish to paint the face of love upon thy gilded walls!"

So the King himself led the weary wanderer into his gorgeous hall, unlocking the heavy door with the key that hung from his waist.

Like a soft white cloud the falcon glided into the room before them, settling upon the tall stone fire-place, whence it watched the strangely a.s.sorted couple.

When alone together, for the first time Eric of the golden locks raised his haggard face and looked straight into the eyes of the King.

The old man felt as though a dagger were piercing his heart when he met that hopeless gaze. Certainly those were the features of the boy he had loved, but oh, what was it he had gone through to be so cruelly changed?

His cheeks were hollow, the sunken orbs stared with a far-away look too sad for the language of men, and his golden hair was covered with a fine web of silver that lay like an early frost over a ripe field of corn.

Long did King Wanda stand mute, not finding a word; he felt that he stood in presence of a grief so deep that he dared not come too near. It was Eric who spoke:

"May I remain within thy palace, O King, to complete the work that once I began? I feel that now I can verily put the finishing touches to a picture that in ages past was the pride of my painter's art.

"And above all, I crave thy pardon for having left thee on that summer's morn so long ago. It must have seemed as if I were void of both grat.i.tude and love, but it was not thus.

"I have wandered far, and have returned from the regions of dreams to fulfil the task that thou didst once demand of me, so that thy belief in Eric Gundian should not have been in vain! I see by thy look, O most royal master, that still thou dost trust in me."

"May the completing of thy work bring peace to thy heart!" was the King's reply; and once more he drew the dusty wayfarer within his fatherly arms. Within a few days Eric was again established in his old place, working with all his soul.

King Wanda had given orders that he should be left entirely undisturbed; and there he painted from early morn as long as the daylight lasted.

Even King Wanda dared not trouble his peace--he had a feeling that this work was being done with a love that no stranger's eye should watch.