PART III

I

The warm tears for Father Pan were still flowing down his cheeks, when Johannes lifted up his eyes with the consciousness of being awake. That which met his gaze was exactly what he had last seen--the comforting face of his exalted Brother enveloped by a dun swirl of smoke. But now it looked different, or else it was perceived through another sense--like the same story told in another tongue--like the same music played upon an instrument of different timbre: neither finer nor more effective, but simpler and more sober.

He found himself sitting on the slope of a mountain, and saw Markus bending over him. The sun had set, and the valley lay in twilight, yet in the dusk one could see the glow of fiery furnaces--could see tall factory-chimneys out of whose huge throats there rolled great billows of murky smoke, like dirty wool. The whole valley and everything that grew on the mountain-side was smirched with black. A constant humming and buzzing, pounding and resounding, rose up from that city of bare, blackened buildings. At intervals there flared up from the furnace bluish yellow and violet flames, like glowing, streaming pennants. The land looked gloomy and desolate, as if laid waste by lava; yet now and then, as a rotary oven belched out a flood of brilliant sparks, the grey air was lighted up for miles beyond.

"Markus," said Johannes, his heart still heavy with sorrow, "Pan is dead!"

"Pan is dead!" said Markus in return. "But your Brother lives."

"Thank God for that. What brought you here?"

"I am among the miners, Johannes, and the factory operatives. They need me."

"Oh, my Brother! I too need you. I do not know where in the world to go ... and Pan is dead!"

Johannes embraced the right arm of Markus, and rested his head against his Brother's shoulder. Thus sitting, he was a long time silent.

He gazed at the clouded valley with its colossal mine-wheel, the black chimneys and ovens, the black, yellow, and blue-white wreaths of vapor, the great iron sheds, and the many-windowed buildings devoid of ornament and color.

All about him he could see the sides of the mountains severed as by great, gaping wounds; the trees prostrate; all nature, with its beautiful verdure, burned to cinders; and the rocks cleft and crushed. Upon the top of the mountain, at the very edge of the chasm--an excavation resembling the hole made by fruit-devouring wasps--several pine-trees were still standing. But these last children of the forest were also soon to fall. And in the distance the echo of explosions reverberated through the mountains, followed by the loud sounds of falling stones, as the rocks were shattered with dynamite.

"Pan is dead!" His beautiful wonderland was being destroyed; and in the new life which was to be founded upon the ruins of the old one, Johannes knew not where to go. He was frightened and bewildered.

But had he not found his Brother again, and for the second time beheld him in a glorified form, clothed in shining raiment? And was he not, even now, in his warm, comforting presence?

The thought of this composed and strengthened Johannes.

"My Brother," he asked, "who killed Pan?"

"No one. His time had come."

"But why, then, was he so sad when I asked him about you?"

"The flower must perish if the fruit is to ripen. A child cries when night comes and it is time to sleep, because he wants to play longer and does not know that rest is better for him. All people who continue to be like children cry about death, which is only a birth and full of joyful anticipations."

"Have Pan and Windekind known you, Brother?"

"No, but they have feared me, as the lesser fears the greater."

"Will your kingdom, then, be more beautiful than theirs?"

"As much more beautiful as the sun is brighter than the moon. But the weak, the frail and timid ones who live in the night-time, will not perceive this, and will fear the glorious sun."

For a long time Johannes thought this over. In the far, smoky valley with its mines and factories, a clock struck--farther away another--in the distance still another. Thereupon followed the shrill screaming of steam-whistles, and the loud clanging of bells, and people could be seen pouring out of the workshops.

"How gloomy!" exclaimed Johannes.

Markus smiled. "The black seed also, in the dark ground, is gloomy, yet it grows to be a glad sunflower."

"Brother," said Johannes, imploringly, "advise me what to do now. The beautiful is of the Father, is it not?"

"Yes, Johannes."

"Then must I not follow after that which is the most beautiful of all I have found in this human world? Do tell me!"

"I only tell you to follow the Father's voice where it seems to call you most clearly."

"And what if I am in doubt?"

"Then you must question, fervently, and, still as a flower, listen with all your heart."

"But if I must act?"

"Then do not for an instant hesitate, but venture in the name of the Father, trusting in your own and His love, which is one and the same."

"Then suppose I make a mistake?"

"You might do that; but if the error is for His sake, He will open your understanding. Only when you fear for your own sake, and forget Him, can you be lost."

"Show me then, Brother, what _your_ way is!"

"Very well, Johannes. Come with me."

* * * * *

Together they descended to the valley. The ground was everywhere black--black with coal and slag and ashes, and the puddles of water were like ink.

From all sides came the sound of heavy footfalls. It seemed as if the black town would empty itself of all its people. Hundreds of men ran hither and thither, all of them with heavy, weary, yet hurried steps. Apparently, they were all running over one another--each one in the others' way--but yet there was no disorder, for each seemed to know where he wished to go.

Most of them looked black--completely begrimed with coal and smoke. Their hats and blouses were shiny with blackish water. Usually they were silent; but now and then they called to one another roughly and to the point, as men do who have spent all their strength, and have none left for talking or jesting.

Several were already leaving the wash-houses, cleansed and in their customary sober garments. Their freshly washed faces looked conspicuously pale in the twilight, amid those of their unwashed comrades; but their eyes bore dark rims that could not be cleaned.

Johannes and Markus went past the mines, the coal pits, and the smelting works, until they came to long rows of little houses where the families of the laborers lived. Thitherward also the people were now streaming. Behind the small windows where wives were waiting with supper, little lights began to twinkle everywhere.

Markus and Johannes entered a large, dreary hall having a low wooden ceiling. In the front part of it two lighted gas-jets were flickering. The rest of the place was in semi-darkness. There were a good many benches, but no one had yet arrived. The walls were bare and besmirched, and upon them were several mottoes and placards.

For a half-hour the two sat there without speaking. A dismal impression of the gloom and ugliness of this abode took possession of Johannes. It was worse than the tedium of the schoolhouse. It seemed more frightful to have to live here than in the wildest and most desolate spot in Pan's dominion. There it was always beautiful and grandiose, though often also terrible. Here all was cramped, uninteresting, bare, and ugly--the horrors of a nightmare, the most frightful Johannes had ever known.

This lasted an hour, and then the great hall gradually filled with laborers. They came sauntering in, somewhat embarrassed, pipes in their mouths, hat or cap on head. At first they remained in the dark background; then, seating themselves here and there upon the benches, they glanced to right and left and backward, occasionally expectorating upon the floor. Their faces looked dull and tired, and the hands of most of them--rough and broad, with black-rimmed nails--hung down open. They talked in an undertone, at times laughing a little. Women also came in with children in their arms. Some were still fresh and young, with a bit of color about their apparel; some, delicate little mothers in a decline, with deformed bodies, sharp noses, pale cheeks, and hollow eyes. Others were coarse vixens, with hard, selfish looks and ways.

The hall filled, and the rows of faces peered through the tobacco smoke, watching and waiting for what was to take place.

A laborer--a large, robust red-bearded man--came forward under the gaslight, and began to speak. He stammered at first, and pushed his right arm through the air as if he were pumping out the words. But gradually he grew more fluent; and the hundreds of faces in the hall followed his attitudes and gestures with breathless interest, until one could see his anger and his laughter reflected as if in a mirror. And when he broke off a sentence with a sharp, explosive inquiry, then the feet began to shuffle and stamp with a noise which sometimes swelled to thunder, in the midst of which could be heard cries of "Yes! Yes!" while laughing faces, and looks full of meaning, were turned hither and thither as if searching for, and evincing, approval.

Johannes did not very well understand what was said. He had, indeed, learned German; but that did not avail him much here, on account of the volubility of the speaker and his use of popular idioms. His attention, too, was given as much to the listeners as to the speaker.

Nevertheless, the great cause which was being agitated grew more and more clear to him.

The speaker's enthusiasm was communicated to his audience, becoming intensified a hundred-fold, until a great wave of emotion swept over all present, Johannes included.

He saw faces grow paler, and observed signs of heightened interest. Eyes began to glisten more and more brightly, and lips were moving involuntarily. Now and then a child began to whimper. But it disturbed no one. On the contrary, the orator appeared to utilize the occurrence for his own purposes. Two tears rolling down the ruddy moustache riveted Johannes' attention, and he heard a quiver in the rough voice as the speaker pointed with both hands toward the wailing infant, in such a way as to remove from the incident all that was comic or annoying.

It was apparent to Johannes that these people suffered an injustice; that they were about to resist; and that this resistance was perilous--yes, very perilous--to the point of involving their lives and their subsistence, and also that of their wives and children.

He could see the evidences of long-suffered injustice, in their passionate looks and eager gestures. He saw breathless fear at the thought of the danger which menaced them and their dear ones if they should offer resistance. He saw the proud glitter in their eyes, and the high-spirited lifting of their heads as the inner struggle was decided, and heroism triumphed over fear. They would fight--they knew it now. The great rising wave of courage and ardor left no irresolute one unmoved. Johannes looked the faces over very carefully, but there was not one upon which he could still read the traces of anxiety and hesitation. One kindled soul illuminated them all, like a mighty fire.

Then Johannes' soul grew ardent, and he too waxed strong at heart; for there began to touch him the first rays of the beauty which lay slumbering beneath that sombre veil of ugliness.

After this speaker there were others, who rose in their places without coming forward. Not one of them hazarded the quenching of the sacred fire. They all spoke of the coming struggle as of an inevitable event. But Johannes, with a sensation that made him clench his fists as if the enemy's hand were already at his throat, now saw a heavy, burly fellow stop, stammering, in the middle of his speech, and begin to sob; not from fear--no!--but from keen anger, on account of suffered scorn and humiliation, and because of the insupportable suspicion that he had been disloyal to his comrades. Johannes guessed the details of that story, even although he did not understand the words. The man had been deceived; and, in a time of deep misery, when his wife was ill, he had been seduced, by promises, from joining his comrades in this struggle.

Johannes was glad to see actions, fine in themselves, proceed from a burst of pure emotion, when the whole earnest assemblage, in one unanimous spirit of generosity, forgave the seeming traitor, and reinstated him in their regard.

And as the workmen were about to take their leave, with the stern yet cheerful earnestness of those who are committed to a righteous struggle, Johannes saw, with great pleasure, that Markus was going to speak. They knew him, and instantly there was absolute silence. There was something in the pleased readiness with which these German miners took their places again to listen--a childlike trust, and a good-natured seriousness--that Johannes had never seen among the Fair-people; no, nor anywhere in his own country.

As Markus spoke German with the careful slowness and the purity of one who did not belong to the land, Johannes understood it all.

"My friends," said Markus, "you have been taught in your schools and churches of a Spirit of Truth, which was to come as the Comforter of mankind.

"Well, then, this which has now taken possession of you, and which has strengthened all your hearts and brightened all your eyes--even this is the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, the Holy Ghost.

"For Truth and Righteousness are _one_, and proceed from One. From your cheerful and courageous eyes I see that you know surely, with a full conscience, that it is the truth which has stirred you, and that you are to risk your lives in the cause of justice.

"And that this spirit is a Comforter you will find by experience; that is, if you are loyal.

"But this I now say to you, because you do not know as I know, that truth is like a mountain-path between, two abysses, and that it is more difficult to maintain than the tone of a violin.

"You have suffered injustice; but you have also committed injustice. For the act of oppression is injustice, and it is also injustice to permit oppression.

"You have been taught otherwise, and have been told it is written that injustice will be permitted. But even if this were written, the Spirit of Truth would cause it to be erased. I say to you that whoever practices injustice is an evil-doer, and whoever permits injustice is his accomplice.

"There is a pride which in God's eyes is an honor to a man, and there is also an arrogance which will cause him to stumble and to be crushed.

"The Spirit of Truth says this: 'Acquaint yourselves with your own value, and endure no slight which is hostile to the truth.' But he who overestimates himself will have a fall, and God will not lift him up."

After these powerful and penetrating words, which sounded like a threatening admonition, Markus sat down, resting his head upon his hand. After waiting awhile in silence, the whispering crowd dispersed with shuffling footsteps, without having made a sign of approval or acquiescence.

"May I stay with you, Markus?" asked Johannes, softly, afraid of disturbing his guide. Markus looked up kindly.

"How about your little comrade?" he asked. "Would she not grow uneasy? Come with me. I will show you the way back again."

Together they found the way in the night through the woods to the little resort and the lodging-house. But excepting an exchange of "Good-nights" not another word was spoken. In his great awe of him, Johannes dared not ask Markus how he knew all about his adventures.

II

The next morning, in the dirty little breakfast-room of the lodging-house, there mingled with the usual smell of fresh coffee and stale tobacco smoke the fragrance of wood-violets and of musk; for a pale lavender note, written with blue ink, was awaiting Johannes.

He opened it, and read the following:

Dearly beloved Soul-Brother:

Come to me to-day as soon as you can, upon the wings of our poet-friendship. Countess Dolores went yesterday, with her little daughters, and her servants; but she left something for you which will make you happy, and which I myself will place in your hand.

The following is the first delicate and downy fruit of our union of souls:

HYMEN MYSTICUM

To Little Johannes

In solemn state swim our two souls, Like night-black, mystic swans. O'er passion-seas profoundly deep-- Of briny, melancholy tears.

Oh! Thou supremely bitter ocean! All wingless, bear we with us, thro' the sky's dark courses, Thy ceaseless, lily-sorrow-- And the fell weight of this sad world's woe.

Entwine with mine thy slender throat, my brother, That, swooning, we may farther swim, And with our song the dazzled race amaze.

Let us, in sensuous tenderness, Like faded lilies intertwine, With a death-sob of supremest ecstasy.

Would not your friend be able to compose music for this? And I hope soon to know her better.

Your soul's kinsman, Walter v. L. T. D. _Kurhotel_,8th Sept. (Van Lieverlee tot Endegeest).

Just here, I wish I could say that Johannes immediately let Marjon read both the letter and the verses, and that, with her, he made merry over them. But that, alas! the truth will not permit. And now, for the sake of my small hero, I confess I should be heartily ashamed if I thought that none of you, in reading the above, would be as ingenuous as he was, in regarding the poem with the utmost seriousness--even hesitating, like himself, to doubt its quality, concluding that it must indeed be fine though a little too high for understanding, and, for that very reason, not at first sight so very striking and intelligible.

Are you certain that none of you would have been so stupid as to be deceived by it? Quite certain? Well, then, please do not forget how youthful Johannes still was; and consider, also, the wonderful progress of the age, due, no doubt, to the zealous and untiring efforts of our numerous literary critics.

Johannes did not mention the letter; but when he saw Marjon, he said:

"I saw somebody, yesterday. Can you think who it was?"

Marjon's pale, dull face lighted up suddenly, and she stared at Johannes with fixed, bright eyes.

"Markus!" said she. Johannes nodded assent, and she continued:

"Thank God! I felt it. I heard that the laborers about here were soon to go on a strike, and then I supposed-well--Now everything will be all right again!"

Then she was silent, eating her bread contentedly. A little later, she asked:

"Where are you going? Is it far? What have you agreed to do?"

"I have settled nothing," said Johannes. "But I will go to him with you before long. It is not far." Then, affecting to make light of it, he said: "I have had an invitation to the hotel."

"Gracious!" said Marjon, under her breath. "The deuce is to pay again."

* * * * *

In the park Johannes met Mijnheer van Lieverlee. He stood on the grass in front of a thicket of withered shrubs, gazing at the mountains; and was clad in cream-white flannel, with a bright-purple silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. One hand rested upon his ebony walking-stick; with the other--thumb and forefinger pressed together, and little finger extended--he was making rhythmical movements in the air.

When he saw Johannes, he greeted him with a nod and a wink, as if there were a secret understanding between them.

"Superb! Is it not? Superb!"

Johannes did not exactly know what he meant--the verses he had received, the mountains opposite, or the fine, September morning. He selected the most obvious, and said:

"Yes, sir! Glorious weather!"

Van Lieverlee gave him a keen look, as if uncertain whether or not he was being made sport of, and then leisurely remarked:

"You do not appear to be impressed by the combination of white, mauve, and golden brown."

Johannes thought himself very sensitive to the effect of color; so he felt ashamed of not having noticed the color-composition. He saw it now, fully--the white flannel, the purple pocket-handkerchief, and the faded, yellow-brown shrub. That Van Lieverlee should thus include himself in this symphony of color seemed to him in the highest degree pertinent.

"I was engaged in making a 'pantoem' in harmony with that color-scheme," said Van Lieverlee; and then, seeing the blank look on Johannes' face, he added, "Do you know what a 'pantoem' is?"

"I do not, sir."

"Oh, boy! boy! and you call yourself a poet! What did you receive this morning? Do you know what _that_ is?"

"A sonnet," said Johannes, eagerly.

"Is that so? Did you think it a fine one?"

That was a disquieting question. Johannes was quite at a loss about it; but it seemed that poets were wont to ask such questions, so he overcame what he considered his childishness, and said:

"I think it is splendid!"

"You think so! Well, I _know_ it. There is no need to make a secret of it. I call what is good, _good_, whether it was I who made it, or somebody else."

That seemed both just and true to Johannes. Now that he was again with Van Lieverlee, and heard him talk in such a grand style, with that easy, fluent enunciation, and those elegant gestures, he found him, on the whole, not bad, but, on the contrary, attractive and admirable. He knew that Marjon would think otherwise; but his confidence in her judgment declined as his confidence in Van Lieverlee augmented.

"Now, Johannes, I have something for you which ought to make you very happy," said Van Lieverlee, at the same time taking from a pretty, red portfolio, that smelled delightfully like Russia leather, a note embellished with a crown and sealed with blue wax. "This was written by Countess Dolores with her own hand, and I know what it contains. Treat it with respect."

Before handing it over to him, Van Lieverlee, with a sweeping flourish, pressed it to his own lips. Johannes felt himself to be a dolt; for he knew it would be an impossibility for him to imitate that.

The note contained a very brief, though cordial, invitation to stay at her home sometime, when she should be with her children, at her country-seat in England. There was, too, within the note, a pretty bit of paper. Johannes had never seen its like. It meant money.

"How kind of her!" he exclaimed rapturously. He felt greatly honored. Immediately, however, his thoughts turned toward Markus--toward Marjon and Keesje. How about them? Something must be done about it; to decline was impossible.

"Well?" said Van Lieverlee. "You do not appear to be half pleased about it. Or do not you believe it yet? It really is not a joke!"

"Oh, no!" said Johannes. "I know it is not ... but...."

"Your friend may go with you, you know; or does she not care to?"

"I have not asked her yet," said Johannes, "for, you see, we have ... we have finally found him."

"What do you mean? w hat are you talking about? Speak out plainly, boy. You need never keep secrets from me.

"It is no secret, sir," said Johannes, greatly embarrassed.

"Then why are you stuttering so? And why do you say 'sir'? Did I not write you my name? Or do you reject my offer of brotherhood?"

"I will accept it, gladly, but I have still another brother that I think a great deal of. It is he whom we are seeking--my comrade and I. And now we have found him."

"A real, ordinary brother?"

"Oh, no!" said Johannes. And then, after a moment of hesitation, softly, but with emphasis, "It is ... Markus.... Do you know whom I mean?"

"Markus? Who is Markus?" asked Van Lieverlee, with some impatience, as if completely mystified.

"I do not know who he is," replied Johannes, in a baffled manner. "I hoped that you might know because you are so clever, and have seen so much."

Then he related what had happened to him after he had fallen in with the dark figure, on the way to the city where mankind was--with its sorrows.

Van Lieverlee listened, staring into space at first, with a rather incredulous and impatient countenance, now and then giving Johannes a scrutinizing look. At last he smiled.

Then, slowly and decisively, he said, "It is very clear who he is."

"Who is he?" asked Johannes in breathless expectancy.

"Well, a Mahatma, of course--a member of the sacred brotherhood from Thibet. We will surely introduce him, also, to the Pleiades. He will feel quite at home there."

That sounded very pleasing and reassuring. Was the great enigma about to be solved now, and every trouble smoothed away?

"But," said Johannes, hesitating, "Markus feels really at home only when he is among poor and neglected people--Kermis-folk, and working men. He looks like a laborer, too--almost like a tramp--he is so very poor. I never look at him without wanting to cry. He is very different from you--utterly unlike!"

"That is nothing. That does not signify," said Van Lieverlee, with an impatient toss of his head. "He dissembles."

"Then you, also, think...." said Johannes, hesitating, and resuming with an effort, "You think, Walter, that the poor are downtrodden, and that there is injustice in wealth?"

Van Lieverlee threw back his head, and made a sweeping gesture with his right arm.

"My dear boy, there is no need for you to enlighten me upon that subject. I was a socialist before you began to think. It is very natural for any kind-hearted man to begin with such childish fancies. The poor are imposed upon, and the rich are at fault. Every newsboy, nowadays, knows that. But when one grows somewhat older, and gets to be-hold things from an esoteric standpoint, the matter is not so simple."

"There you are," thought Johannes. "As Markus told it, it was much too simple to be true."

"Do not forget," resumed Van Lieverlee, "that we all come into the world with an individual Karma. Nothing can alter it. Each one must bring with him his past, and either expiate or else enjoy it. We all receive an appointed task which we are obliged to perform. The poor and downtrodden must attribute their sad fate to the inevitable outcome of former deeds; and the trials they endure are the best medium for their purification and absolution. There are others, on the contrary, who behold their course in life more clear and smooth because their hardest struggles lie behind them. I really sympathize deeply with the unhappy proletarian; but I do not on that account venture to lower myself to his pitiful condition. The Powers hold him there, and me here--each at his post. He still needs material misery to make him wiser. I need it no longer, because I have learned enough in former incarnations. My task, instead, is the elevation, refinement, and preservation of the beautiful. Therefore I am assigned to a more privileged position. I am a watch-man in the high domain of Art. This must be kept pure and undefiled in the great, miry medley of coarse, rude, and apathetic people who compose the greater part of mankind. This cultivation of the beautiful is my sacred duty. To it I must devote myself in all possible ways, and for all time. The beautiful! The beautiful! in its highest refinement--sleeping or waking--in voice, in movement, in food, and in clothing! That is my existence, and to it I must subordinate everything else."

This oration Van Lieverlee delivered with great emphasis while slowly moving forward over the short, smooth grass, accompanying the cadences of the well-chosen sentences with wide time-beats of the ebony walking-stick.

Johannes was convinced--to such a degree that he perceived in it naught else than the complement and completion of that which Markus, up to the present, had taught him.

Yes, he might go to his children now. He was sure of it. Markus would approve.

"I wish that Marjon might hear you--just once," said he.

"Marjon? Is that your comrade? Then why does he not come? Bless me! It was a girl, though, truly! What _are_ you to each other?"

Van Lieverlee stopped, and, stroking his small, flaxen beard gave Johannes another keen look.

"Do you not really think, Johannes," he proceeded, with significant glances, and in a judicial tone, "do you not think ... h'm ... to put it mildly, that you are rather free and easy?"

"What do you mean?" asked Johannes, looking straight at him, unsuspiciously.

"You are a sly little customer, and you know remarkably well how to conduct yourself; but there is not a bit of need for your troubling yourself about me. I am not one of the narrow-minded, every-day sort of people. Such things are nothing to me--no more than a dry leaf. I only wish you to bear in mind the difficulties. We must not expose our esoteric position. There are too many who understand nothing about it, and would get us into all kinds of difficulties. Countess Dolores, for example, is still very backward in _that_ respect."

Johannes understood next to nothing of this harangue, but he was afraid of being taken for a fool if he let it be evident. So he ventured the remark:

"I will do my best."

Van Lieverlee burst out laughing, and Johannes laughed with him, pleased that he appeared to have said something smart. Thereupon he took his leave, and went to look up Marjon, that they might go to the city of the miners.

III

The walls of the little house were much thicker than those of the houses of Dutch laborers. The small sashes, curtained with white muslin, lay deep in the window-openings, and upon each broad sill stood a flowering plant and a begonia.

When Johannes and Marjon looked in through the window, Markus was sitting at the table. The housewife stood beside him, sleeves tucked up, carrying on her left arm a half-sleeping child, while with her right hand she was putting food upon his plate. A somewhat older child stood by his knee watching the steaming: food.

The mother's cheeks were pale and sunken, from sorrow, and her eyes were still full of tears.

"Nothing will come of it, after all," she said with a sigh. "If only he had been wiser! Those miserable roysterers have talked him into it. That's what comes of those meetings. If only he had stayed at home! The husband belongs at home.

"Do not be afraid, mother," said Markus. "He did what he sincerely thought was right. Who does that can always be at peace."

"Although he should starve?" asked the wife, bitterly.

"Yes, although he should starve. It is better to starve with a good conscience, than to live in comfort by fraud."

This silenced the woman for a time. Then she said, "If it were not for the children...." and the tears flowed faster.

"It is exactly on account of the children, mother. If the children are good, they will thank the father who is struggling for their sakes, even though he struggle in vain. And there is something for them still, else you would not have been able to give to me--the stranger."

Markus looked at her smilingly, and she smiled in return.

"You--you should have our last mouthful!" said she, heartily. Then, glancing toward the window, she added: "Who are those young scamps looking in? And a _monkey_ with them!"

Then Markus turned around. As soon as the two standing outside recognized his face, they shouted "Hurrah!" and rushed in without knocking.

Marjon flew to Markus, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him. Johannes, rather more shy, clung to his hand. Keesje, being distrustful of the children, peered around the place with careful scrutiny.

Then there followed in Dutch a brisk, confused interchange of information. All the adventures had to be narrated, and Marjon was very happy and communicative. The mother kept still, looking on with a discontented air, full of her own troubles. The noise awakened the half-slumbering child, and it began to cry.

Then the husband came home, morose and irritable.

"What confounded business is this?" he cried; and the two were silent, slowly comprehending that they were in a dwelling full of care. Johannes looked earnestly at the weary, care-seamed face of the man, and the pale, anxious features of the mother, wondering if there was any news.

"Hollanders?" asked the miner, seating himself at the table, and holding up a plate.

"Yes, friends of Markus," replied the wife. Then, in assumed calmness, she asked: "Is there any news?"

"We have the best of it!" said the husband, with forced cheerfulness. "We win--we surely win. It can't be otherwise. What have you to say about it, Markus?"

But Markus was silent, and gazing out-of-doors. Swearing because the food was not to his taste, the man then began to eat. Marjon's merriment subsided. The wife shook her head sadly, and kissed her child.

"You need to look out, you young rascals," said the man, all at once. "They are searching for you. Have you been pilfering? Which of you is the girl in disguise?"

"_I_ am!" said Marjon. "What do they want of me? Now what if I have no other duds?"

"Are you a girl?" asked the wife. "Shame on you!"

"Has not Vrouw Huber a spare garment for her?" asked Markus. "She has so many daughters!"

"We may need to pawn them all," replied the wife. But Johannes, with a manly bearing, cried: "We can pay for them. I have some money!"

"O-o-oh!" said the others doubtfully, while Markus simply smiled. Thus Marjon was soon back again in her girl's apparel--an ugly red-checked little frock. Keesje alone was satisfied with the change.

"Have you been singing much?" asked Markus.

"Yes, we sing every day," said Marjon, "and Johannes has made some nice new songs."

"That is good," said Markus. Then, turning to husband and wife: "May they sing here a little?"

"Sing! A pretty time for singing!" said the wife, scornfully.

"Why not?" asked the husband. "A nice song is never out of place."

"You are right," said Markus. "It is not well to hear nothing but sighs."

Marjon softly tuned her guitar; and while the husband sat beside the brick stove, smoking his pipe, and the wife laid her little one in bed, the two children began to sing a song--the last of those they had made together. It was a melancholy little song, as were all those they had sung during the last weeks. These were the words:

"If I should say what makes me sad, My effort would be all in vain; But nightingales and roses glad They whisper it in sweet refrain.

"The evening zephyr softly sighs In strains one clearly understands; I see it traced high o'er the skies In writing made by mystic hands.

"I know a land where every grief Is changed into a mellow song; Where roses heal with blushing lips All wounds and every aching wrong.

"That land, though not so far away, I may not, cannot enter there; It is not here where now I stay And no one saves me from despair."

"Is that Dutch, now?" asked the miner. "I can't understand a bit of it? Can you, wife?"

Weeping, the wife shook her head.

"Then what are you snivelling for, if you don't understand?"

"I don't understand it at all; but it makes me cry, and that does me good," said the wife.

"All right, then! If it does you good we'll have it once more." And the children sang it over again.

* * * * *

When they went away, they left the family in a more peaceful mood.

Markus took his place in the middle, between the two children, Keesje sitting upon his shoulder, with one little hand resting confidingly on his cap, attentively studying the thick, dark hair at his temples.

"Markus!" said Johannes. "I do not understand it. Really, what has my grief to do with theirs? And yet, it did seem as if they were crying over my verses. But my little griefs are of so little account, while they are anxious about things so much more important."

"I understand, perfectly," said Marjon. "Awhile ago, they might beat me as hard as they pleased, and I wouldn't utter a sound. But once, when they had given me a hard whipping, I saw a forlorn little kitten that looked quite as unhappy as I was, and then I began to cry with all my might, and it made me feel better."

"Then you think, children, that all sorrow suffered is one single sorrow? But so is all happiness one happiness. The Father suffers with everything, and whoever comforts a poor little kitten, comforts the Father."

These sayings made things more plain to Johannes, and gave him much to ponder over. He forgot everything else, until they were again in their lodgings--two little rooms in an old, unoccupied mill. Here they were given some bed-clothes, by a girl from a near-by lodging-house. Marjon now slept apart, while Johannes and Markus stayed together, in one room.

The next morning, while they were drinking coffee in the dark little bar-room of the lodging-house, Johannes felt he must speak of what lay on his heart. He brought out the fragrant, violet-colored note, also the one adorned with the crown and the blue sealing-wax; but in his diffidence even his hope of an understanding with Markus drooped again.

"I smell it already!" cried Marjon. "That's the hair-dresser scent of that fop, with his tufted top-piece."

That angered Johannes. "Don't you wish you could make such poems as that 'fop' can?"

And, nettled by this disrespect of his new friend, he sprang to his feet, and began excitedly repeating the verses. He had his trouble for his pains. Markus listened with unmoved countenance, and Marjon, somewhat taken aback, looked at Markus. But the latter said not a word.

"I'll tell you what," she exclaimed at last, "I don't believe a bit of it! Not a darn bit."

"Then I'll tell you," retorted Johannes, sharply, "that you are too rude and coarse to understand things that are elevated."

"Maybe I am," said Marjon in her coolest, most indifferent manner.

Then Johannes spoke to Markus alone, hoping for an understanding from him. What he said came out passionately, as if it had long been repressed, and his voice trembled with ready tears.

"I have thought for a long, long time, Markus, that there was no use in trying. I cannot bear anything rude and rough, and everything I have yet seen in people _is_ rude and rough--neither good nor beautiful. It cannot be that the Father meant it to be so. And now that I have found something fine, and exquisite, and noble, ought I not to follow it? I had not thought that there were anywhere such beautiful human beings. Markus, they are the most beautiful of all I have ever seen. Their hair is like gold, Markus. Not even the elves have more beautiful hair. And their little feet are so slim, and their throats so slender! I cannot help thinking of them all the time--of the pretty, proud way they raise their heads, of their sensitive lips, of the beautiful, upturned curves at the corners of their mouths, and of the music in their voices when they ask me anything. They danced together to the music, hand in hand, and then their nice smooth stockings peeped out, together, from under their little velvet dresses. It made me dizzy. One of them has blue eyes, and fuller, redder lips. She is the gentler and more innocent. The other has greyer, more mischievous eyes, and a smaller mouth. She is more knowing and roguish. She is the fairer, and she has little fine freckles just under her eyes. And you ought to see them when they run up to their mother, one on each side, when all their hair tumbles down over her, in two shades of gold--brown gold and light gold--that ripples together like a flowing river! And I saw the diamonds in their mother's neck, sparkling through it all! You ought to hear them speak English--so smoothly and purely. But they speak Dutch, too, and I would much rather hear that. One of them--the innocent one--lisps a little. She has the darkest hair, with the most beautiful waves in it. But I could talk more easily with the other one. She is more intelligent. And the mother, also, is so attractive in every way. Everything she says is fine and noble, and every movement is charming. You have a feeling that she stands far, far above you, and yet she acts in everything as if she were the least of all. Isn't that lovely, Markus? Is it not the way it should be?"

Markus made no reply, but looked straight at him, very seriously, and with a puzzling expression. It was kind, but wholly incomprehensible to Johannes.

In his excitement Johannes kept on: "I have just come into a consciousness now of something in the world of people, of which I knew nothing whatever before. My friend Walter, the one who made that poem, lives in that world. She--" pointing to Marjon--"has no idea of it. That is not her fault. I had no idea of it before. But I am not surly, like her; I do not scoff at it just because I do not belong there yet. It is a world of beauty and refinement--a sublime world of poetry and art. Walter wishes to lead me into it, and I think it silly in her now to jeer about it. Do you not think it silly, Markus?"

Markus' eyes remained as serious and puzzling as ever, and his mouth uttered not a word. Johannes looked first at one, then at the other, for an answer to his question.

At last Markus said: "What does Marjon say?"

Marjon, who had been leaning forward as she sat, lifted up her head. She no longer looked indifferent. Her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes, with their dry, red rims, seemed to be afire. She stared with the fixed, glittering look of one in a fever, and said:

"What do I say? I have nothing to say. He thinks me too rude and rough. Possibly I am. I swear sometimes, and Keesje smells. I can't endure those people, and they don't want anything to do with me--certainly not with Kees. As Jo has need of finer companionship now, he must choose for himself."

"No, Marjon, you do not understand me; or do you not wish to understand?" said Johannes, sadly. "It is not because I have need of it, but because it is good. It is good to enter a finer life--into a more elevated world. Is it not so, Markus? You understand me, do you not?"

"I understand," said Markus.

"Tell her, then, that she must come too--that it would be better so."

"I don't think it would be better," said Marjon, "and I'm certainly not going with you."

"Tell us, then, Markus, while we have you with us--tell us what we ought to do. We will do as you say."

"I don't know yet whether I will or not," said Marjon.

Then Markus smiled, and nodding toward Marjon, he said: "Look! She knows already we must not promise obedience to any one. Let him who promises obedience promise it to the Father."

"But you are so much wiser than we are, Markus."

"Is it enough that I am wiser, Johannes? Do you not wish to become wiser yourself? Because I can run better, ought you to let me carry you? How will you ever learn to run, yourself?"

Marjon stared at him fixedly, with her flashing, flaming eyes, while two red spots burned upon her pale cheeks. She stepped up to Markus and pressed her hand upon his mouth, exclaiming passionately:

"Do not say it! I know what you are going to say. Don't say it; for then he will do it, and he must not! he _must_ not!"

Then she hid her face on Markus' arm. Markus laid his hand upon her head and spoke to her tenderly:

"Are you not willing, then, to grant him what you yourself demand--that he should be doing what he himself, not some one else, thinks right?"

Marjon looked up. Her eyes were tearless. Johannes listened quietly, and Markus continued:

"There are frightful events, children, but most of them are not so bad as they seem to be. The fear of them, only, is bad. But the only events that you should dread come through not doing what you yourself think right--_yourself,_ children--yourself alone, with the Father. The Father speaks to us also through men, and through their wise words. But they are indirect vehicles; we have Him within ourselves--directly--just as you, Marjon, are now resting upon my bosom. He wills it to be so, and there we must seek him--more and more.

"Now there is a great deal of self-deception. Self is a long while blind and deaf, and we often mistake the Devil's voice for the voice of God, and take the Enemy to be the Father. But whoever is too fearful of straying never leaves his place, and fails to find the right way. A swimmer who dares not release his hold upon another--will drown when in peril. Dare then, children, to release your hold upon others--all--all --to follow the Father's voice as it speaks within yourselves. Let all who will, call evil what seems to yourselves good. Do this, and the Father will not be ashamed of you."

"But understand me well; close your ears to no one, for the truth comes from all sides, and God speaks everywhere. Ask the opinion of others, but ask no one else to judge for you."

They were all silent for awhile. At last Marjon stood up, slowly, with averted face, and flinging back her short, ash-blonde hair from her forehead, she stepped up to Keesje, who, fastened to a chain, sat shelling nuts. She loosened his chain, and said gently and affectionately: "Coming with me, Kees? I know very well what is going to happen now." Then she had him leap to her shoulder, and, without once looking round, she went out into the street.

"Do you also know, Johannes?" asked Markus.

"Yes!" said Johannes, resolutely, "I am going!"

IV

And so Little Johannes took leave again of his Guide and of his friend, and went forth to seek a finer and a nobler sphere of life.

He did not do this now in a heedless way, as when first he left his father, and, afterward, Windekind; nor partly by compulsion, as when he chose Vrede-best rather than the gypsy-wagon.

He was acting now quite voluntarily, according to his own ideas--not recklessly, but in harmony with his convictions. Ought we not to admit that he was making good progress? Indeed, he thought so himself.

How well he recollected his first talk with Markus, during the storm, about remembering and forgetting! What he was now doing, however, did not seem to him disloyal. True, he was turning away from friends, but he was following that which he took to be the mind of his dearest friend, even as Markus had taught him.

He was resolved to combat the sorrows of humanity. But first of all, he most become a good man himself, and he agreed with Van Lieverlee that it was the proper thing for a good man to be also a clever one, and to live a fine life.

Hitherto, there had been too little of that which was beautiful around him. With regard to his face, he had a vague idea that it was plain. But that he could not very well help. All the more, it behooved him to have a care for his clothes. Every flower and every bird presented a more comely appearance than did he. His cap and jacket were formless, ragged, and rain-spotted. His shoes were worn and out of shape. And while so attired, the thought of becoming the guest of a countess, and of appearing beside Van Lieverlee, was not a little distressing.

Happily, he now possessed a little money--not much, to be sure, for he had his traveling expenses to meet, but yet he could spare a little for a few purchases. And that was a serious question for Johannes, involving much thought--how he could array himself the most finely, at the least cost.

He first bought a white, starched "dicky," and with it a ready-made tie--black--not venturing, when he thought of Van Lieverlee's gorgeous cravats, to select a colored one. Then for his dicky he selected studs with little green stones in them. They looked like emeralds, but they were only green glass. The studs were not a necessity, for the dicky fastened at the back. But their modest twinkling simply attested his toleration of outward adornment. He bought also a stiff, round hat, a cloak, and a pair of new shoes. That the shoes pinched and pained him was a small matter. He was pleased at the odor of new leather which they spread around, and liked their loud squeaking still better.

They did not squeak at first, to his distinct disappointment; but after an hour or two--there it was! They began to creak and squeak, as if proclaiming to everybody that from this day forward he became part of the higher life, and one of the finer sort of human beings.

Finally--a pair of kid gloves! But these he dared not put on after he had them. As little did he dare leave them off, for they had cost a good deal, and the money must not be thrown away. So he settled the question by wearing one and carrying the other. He seemed, indeed, to remember that this was the mode.

And a traveling-bag now seemed to him the ideal--the acme--of dignity. But he had nothing to put into it. To buy more for the mere sake of filling it was not to be thought of, and to carry it for the mere sake of appearances ran counter to his ideas of sincerity and honesty. Aunt Seréna's old satchel he left behind with Marjon.

The leave-taking was not hard for him. No, indeed! He was too full of the new life which awaited him. Never had he felt more fully convinced that he was taking the right path--that he was going to do the right thing.

Markus had said that we must seek for happiness and prosperity, as well as for goodness. Johannes felt happier than he ever had felt since leaving Windekind. Did not that prove that he was in the right way?

And what was the Father's voice of which Markus had spoken, if not this inner joy? It was not, however, the audible, usual voice, sounding in Dutch, or some other tongue. The Bible, indeed, said so; but that was not now the way. Surely, then, it must be this feeling of joy and of glad anticipation that he now experienced.

Does it not seem to you that Johannes had advanced? I do not believe that you would have reasoned better than he did. And if you were not taken in as he was, it would have been more from good luck than from wisdom.

At first Van Lieverlee had promised to accompany him; but at the last moment, without giving a reason, he wrote to recall his promise, and let Johannes go alone.

In the corner of a third-class railway coach, among a strange people, he sped through a foreign country. He was at rest and contented, because he was going to the two children. It was as great a pleasure to him as if he had been traveling to the home of his parents. Where those dear, beautiful little beings were, there was his home. He looked at the foreigners with interest. They seemed less coarse and clownish, less ugly and unmannerly, than his own people. They were much more merry and agreeable, also more obliging to one another. Johannes was on the alert for an occasion to do the polite thing. However, as he did not speak the language very fluently, he sat in his corner wrapped in his cloak, listening quietly, and in a friendly mood, to the scraps of conversation that came to him. This was carried on in the rattling, jolting car, with loud laughter and vehement gesticulations.

At night he slept once more on the leather-covered benches of a boat. This time it was not on the smooth Rhine, but on the mighty, swelling ocean. All around him were people to whom he had nothing to say. Only, his neighbor on the leather bench requested him not to kick his head. Then he made himself as small as possible, and lay farther away, and quite still.

About midnight he took a peep around the cabin, hardly knowing whether or not he had been asleep.

The people lay at rest. Most of them appeared to be asleep--some making queer noises. The light was dim, and, in the semi-darkness, the lamps swung mysteriously to and fro, and the plants that stood upon the table were all of them quivering. One could hear, above the soft jingling and creaking everywhere, the quaking and dull throbbing of the engines. Outside, the water was hissing and rushing, and dashing along the sides of the vessel.

Beside the table sat a lone passenger--a tall, dark figure. He was motionless, his head resting upon his hand.

Johannes gave him a good look. He seemed to have on an amazingly big, spacious cloak, full of folds; on his head was a broad-brimmed hat. The one hand which Johannes could distinguish looked very thin and white.

How familiar the man looked, though! Johannes expected immediately to hear the sound of a well-known voice. He thought of Markus, then of his father....

Suddenly, the emaciated hand was removed, and the face turned slowly round toward Johannes. Only the white beard came into view. The rest remained in the shadow of the hat. Then Johannes recognized him.

"Friend Hein!" said he. And he was much more at his ease than the first time he had seen him--in fact, not at all afraid.

"How do you do?" said Death, nodding. How very kind he looked, and how much more human! Not a bundle of bones with a scythe! He looked instead more like a kind, old--very, _very_ old, uncle.

"What are you doing here?" asked Johannes.

"Things!" replied Death, drily.

"Are we going to be shipwrecked?"

Johannes had come to this conclusion without any special alarm. It even seemed to him just now that a shipwreck would be a rather interesting incident.

"No, no!" said Death. "Would you really like that?"

"I would not want it, but neither would I be afraid of it."

"The last time we met, Johannes, you asked me to take you with me."

"I would not ask you that now," said Johannes; "life is too pleasant now."

"Then you are not afraid of me this time, Johannes?"

"No; for now you look so much more friendly."

"And I am friendly, Johannes. The more you try your best to live a fine life, the more friendly I become."

"But what do you mean, friend Hein? I should think the finer life became, the harder it would be to leave it."

"It must be the right sort of fineness, Johannes--the right sort."

"Then it must certainly be that I am seeking the right kind now, or you would not look so much more friendly."

"You are indeed seeking it, Johannes; but look well to it that you also find it. Take care! Take care! I should like when I come again to look most friendly, dear Johannes, and you must be careful to have it so."

"What shall I do, friend Hein? How can I be certain of the right way to live? How can I make you look friendly when you come again?"

But Death turned away his pale face, gave a slight shake of the head, and continued to sit immovable and silent. Once again Johannes asked him a question, but it was of no avail. Then his head grew heavy, his eyelids drooped, and everything vanished under the veil of slumber, while his resting-place quivered and shivered above the heaving waters.

* * * * *

When on deck, the next morning, the world looked again most bright and cheerful. The sun was shining warmly, the fresh, blue sea was sparkling in the light, and there, in front of him--there lay the foreign land--a long line of grey-white coast, basking in the October sunshine. On the hills Johannes saw little houses standing out in full sight; and he thought of the pettiness of life in those houses--of dressing, of bread and butter, and of little children going to school;--everything so trite and trivial, in what for him was so strange and great.

They coursed up a large river, much broader than the Rhine. The sea-gulls circled over the yellow water, and rested on the sand-banks and the muddy shores. The fishing-boats tacked in zig-zags all about, and throngs of ships and steamboats came to meet them. At last there loomed in the distance, enshrouded with a grey fog, a giant city--a dark maze of masts and chimneys and towers. It was sombre, awful, incomprehensible.

If Johannes had not been so absorbed in thinking of the two children, he would have paid more attention to the city. As it was, he only accepted it for a fact--the unforeseen shadow of a mysterious substance--an ominous premonition, like the rumbling of the ground preceding an earthquake: an instant later all fear is over, and one thinks no further about it.

So it was with Johannes; the great city, the miners--everything was forgotten, when he heard the loved voices of the two little girls.

* * * * *

They lived in a country-seat which to Johannes seemed a small palace. It was built of red brick and grey limestone, and stood on the summit of a hill, close by the shore. In the garden were dark cedar-trees and holm-oaks, and large plots of rhododendrons. The grass was short and even--quite like green velvet; and through it led neat, trim paths of yellow gravel.

The day was far from being so pleasant as Johannes had expected. In fact, it was very unpleasant. To be waited upon by a lackey, as one conies without a trunk, from a third-class carriage, is far from funny. Johannes had not heretofore had such a trying experience.

Indoors, it was very still and stately. The children were at their lessons, and for the first hour were invisible. Johannes received an unfavorable impression of fashionable life. He wished that he had not come. His hopefulness and confidence suddenly took flight. He tripped over a rug of white bearskin, and ran against a glass door, thinking it was open--just as if he were a bumblebee behind a window-pane. He wondered which was the quickest way out, and wished he were with Markus again, in the small tavern. He was not very far from crying.

On a couch in the quiet reception-room, beside a softly crackling coal fire, sat the countess. Johannes strode up to her, and made an awkward bow. A number of dogs, as many as seven, snapped and yapped about his shin-bones. He thought of his dicky and the green glass studs, and felt that they could be making next to no impression. The countess looked as if she did not quite remember who he was, nor what could have been his object in coming.

"Sit down," she said, in English, with a formal smile, and a weary tone of voice; "I hope you have had a pleasant journey."

Johannes took a seat and, as he did so, observed that some one else was in the room. He tried again to bow, but his attempt was unnoticed.

That other indeed was a most impressive personage. She lay back in an armchair, so enswathed in white lace, swan's down, gauze, and tulle as to look still larger than she really was. Upon her head was a huge hat, bearing natural-sized plums and peaches, artificial blue flowers--forget-me-nots and corn-flowers--besides a blue gauze veil. Her face was amazingly big, and highly colored by nature, but toned down with powder to a rosy flush. It was somewhat pimply, and more or less moustached. Her fat, red, shiny hands were rigid with jeweled rings; and, although it was not at all warm, she waved incessantly a large fan of white ostrich-feathers, in the midst of which glittered purple and green precious stones. Most wonderful bangles of gold and silver--little pigs, crosses, hearts, and coins--hung in a great bunch upon her bosom, from a long, many-stranded necklace. A slender crutch with a gold handle stood beside her chair, and on the table at hand, a small green parrot was eating grapes. The seven little dogs--all of them white, with pale-blue ribbons around their necks--probably belonged to her. They sat in a threatening circle, as if awaiting the word, and sharply eyed Johannes' ankles.

"What does that boy want?" she asked, in a deep, heavy voice, without even looking at Johannes. And before and answer could come, she called, "Alice!"

Instantly, there appeared from behind a curtain, just as in a comedy, a trim, spruce lady's-maid. She was dressed in black, with cap and cuffs of dazzling whiteness. With quiet little steps and mincing manners, she glided up to the large lady, and offered a smelling-bottle, at which that person began to sniff industriously.

Johannes sat there in extreme embarrassment. He felt that the costly cut-glass smelling-bottle concerned himself. It cried out, in the keen language of its hundreds of cut facets, "You smell of the third class!"

He sat like one rooted to the spot, and all unnerved, looking at the smelling-bottle as if he wished it was a dynamite bomb which would promptly send himself, the fine house, and all his beautiful illusions, flying into space.

Then Countess Dolores came to his rescue.

"Dear Lady Crimmetart," said she, in a coaxing voice, "this is a very interesting youth--really, very interesting. He is a young poet who sings his own compositions. Is it not so, Johannes? They are so charmingly melancholy--really, charmingly so! Indeed, you must hear them, dear friend. I am sure they will please you."

"Really?" said the deep voice; and the blue goggle-eyes in the frightfully big face glared at Johannes.

"Oh, yes, Lady Crimmetart," continued the countess; "but that is not all. Johannes is also a medium--a sensitive--who can see all kinds of elementals--sometimes even in broad daylight. Is it not so, Johannes?"

Johannes was too much distressed and confounded to do more than give a nod of stupefied acquiescence.

"Really?" said Lady Crimmetart, in a voice like that of a ship's commander in heavy weather. "Then he must come to my party next Saturday evening."

"Do you hear, Johannes? That is a great honor," said Countess Dolores. "Lady Crimmetart is one of the cleverest women in the world, and the elect of intellectual England attend her parties."

"Young man," said Lady Crimmetart, "I will let you talk with Ranji-Banji-Singh, of the University of Benares, the great Theosophist, and with Professor von Pennewitz, from Moscow."

One can well fancy what a fine prospect that opened out for poor little Johannes! But Lady Crimmetart did not request; she commanded. It did not seem possible to decline.

Then came another housemaid--just as trim and still and swift as the first one--to offer tea, little slices of bread and butter, and hot cake. Johannes watched nervously, to see how the others partook of them, and then tried to do as they did. But, under the cool, keen regard of the trig maid, of course he upset the milk.

"The bishop is coming, too! The angel!" burst forth Lady Crimmetart.

Johannes had before his mind's eye the mitre and crozier at the evening party. It made him think of Santa Claus. Thereupon the ladies began chatting about church affairs, the altar and the Lord's Supper, elections, and corn-laws, until he could follow them no further. At last Alice was again summoned, the carriage ordered, the smelling-bottle stored away in a big reticule, the seven small dogs were arranged upon a long, blue-silk cord--like a string of beads; and thus, with the parrot upon the hand of the lady's maid, the procession passed out. At the door, the great lady, who limped a little with gout, turned round once again, while still fanning herself, and thundered: "Come on time, mind! And do not forget your instrument!"

* * * * *

"A woman in a million," said Countess Dolores after she had gone. "Is she not a wonderful woman, Johannes? So good! So clever!"

"Yes!" replied Johannes, meekly, his thoughts occupied anxiously with that instrument he was expected to take to the party.

At last he heard the chattering of high-pitched little voices, and the pattering of light little feet through the quiet house.

His heart began to thump. Then the door opened, and in two seconds the dear, soft little hands put him into a tumultuous state, and the lively, high little voices quite overwhelmed him.

He was consoled; and when they led him away, out-of-doors, and he walked with them, one on each side, over the green cliffs, beside the broad ocean--then he felt something of the new happiness for which he had hoped.

But at night he could not sleep, and when it grew light he still lay in a state of excitement, gazing at the handsome ceiling of dark-brown wood whereon he could see little gilt stars.

He--Little Johannes--was being entertained by a countess, ushered into a sphere of refinement, and living with the dearest little creatures to be found among human beings. He was with his child friends now, but yet he was not happy. He was much too poor and too dull, and would be pitifully mortified here. When he thought of that glittering smelling-bottle, and of the upset milk-pitcher, he buried his face, in shame and bitterness, deep in the pillows.

Toward morning, when he fell asleep for a little while, he dreamed of a big shop where swimming trousers only were for sale in a hundred varieties of color and material, and bordered with fur, cloth, leather, ermine, and velvet, and decked with bows and monograms. And when Johannes went in to select a pair for the party, an immense man, with a long beard and a high fur cap, stood up behind the counter. It was Professor von Pennewitz, and he gave Johannes an examination; but Johannes knew nothing--absolutely nothing. He failed. Then he was given a stringless violin, and forced to play upon it. The professor was not pleased with the performance; and taking off his fur cap, he completely extinguished Johannes. Suffocated with the heat and closeness, the boy found himself awake, and clammy with distress, having been aroused by a vigorous tap, tap, tap!

V

Even before his "ya" (instead of the "yes" he had firmly intended to say, but was surprised out of saying), the door flew open, and the chambermaid came in bearing a big, silver tea-tray. She looked still more trig and trim than the day before, as if all this time she had been standing under a bell-glass. Without the least embarrassment, she went up to Johannes and presented the tea.

Oh, woe! That was a distressing situation! Nothing of the kind had befallen him since the whooping-cough period while his mother was still living, and when she had brought him, abed, tea and toast. Daatje had, indeed, come just once to call him, and it had made him angry because it seemed as if he were still a child. In Daatje's case, too, it was quite different. She looked more like a nurse-maid.

But this utterly strange and stylish little lady, with arranged hair, and a cap with snow-white strings, who surprised him in his nightgown, sound and well, in bed, while his dicky was still hanging by itself over the back of a chair, and the green glass studs were looking in a frightened way at the rest of the shabby clothes lying scattered over the table--_this_ housemaid put him out of countenance. Blushing deeply, he declined the tea. As each of his poor garments came under the eye or hand of this pert chambermaid, he could feel her scornful, unuttered thoughts, and he lay dead still while his room was being put in order. He shrank under the sheets up to his nose, and grew wet with perspiration. When the door closed behind her, he took breath again, and regarded, in astonishment, the pitcher of hot water and the snowy towels that she had left him, uncertain exactly what it was he was expected to do with them all.

Really, it was no trifling matter for Johannes--that entrance into a higher and finer station.

Things went rather better during the forenoon, for he stayed with the two children and their German governess. With this kind, every-day sort of person, Johannes felt more at his ease; and he ventured to consult her about his clothes, and what he might, and might not, do in such a grand house.

The countess herself he did not see until afternoon. Then, through the medium of a housemaid, he received an invitation to go to her. She wished to talk with him.

She was again resting on the sofa, and beckoned him to a seat beside her. Johannes thought that she wished to ask him about something. But no! She simply wanted a little conversation--he must know what about. Then, very naturally, Johannes could not think at all; and after a painful quarter of an hour, during which he uttered scarcely anything more than "Yes, Mevrouw!" or "No, Mevrouw!" he was dismissed, still more unhappy than before.

The principal meal, at half-past eight in the evening, was no less distressingly formal, and full of trials. It was as quiet as a funeral, voices were low and whispering, and the servants moved noiselessly to and fro. The governess had told Johannes that he must "dress" for dinner. But alas! poor fellow! What had he to do it with?

As he stood behind his chair, in his shabby jacket and dicky, while the rose-shaded candles lighted up the flowers and the glittering table-furnishings, and the countess came into the great dim dining-room in her rustling, silk attire--then again he felt really wretched. Besides, it was very awkward trying to talk English here, and Dutch seemed not to be in favor. He was conscious during each course of doing something wrong or clumsy; and the lackeys, as they bent over him in offering the dishes, breathed slightingly on his neck.

The second night, being tired from lack of sleep, he soon lost consciousness. But during the small hours he had a thrilling and stirring time. Surely I do not need to tell you what rude occurrences there may be in one's dreams. Raging bulls tore after him as he tried to escape, meeting him again and again at the turning of a lane. There were lonely rooms whose doors flew open of their own accord--a footstep, and a shadow around the corner--of _it_! There were railway tracks with an oncoming train, and, suddenly--paralysis! Then loud hangings at the door, and a call of "Johannes! Johannes!" and, waking up, a deathly stillness. After that he noticed some very queer and most astonishing things in the room--a pair of pantaloons that walked away of itself, and in the corner a blood-curdling phantom. And then he was conscious of not being awake, and of making a desperate effort to shake off sleep. Such was the frightful time which befell Johannes that night.

At last, when he actually woke himself up with a scream that he heard resounding in the stillness, and while he lay listening to the beating of his heart, he also heard, like a soft echo of his cry, a fearful, smothered moaning and lamenting that lingered in the silent hallways of the darkened house When all was still, he thought it had been a part of his dreams. But even while he was lying wide awake, it began again, and it was such a dismal sound he could feel the goose-flesh forming. Then silence. "It must have been a dog," he thought. But there it was! A dog does not groan like that! It was a human voice. Could Olga or Frieda be ill?

The next time it came, he knew it was not the voice either of Olga or of Frieda. It was that of a much older person--not an invalid, but some one in mortal anguish--some one being menaced, who was imploring pity. He heard something like "Oh! Oh!--O God, have mercy!" But he could not understand the words, for the sounds came faintly.

He thought a murder was being committed, and he recalled that Death had been his fellow traveler. He sprang out of bed and stepped into the dark hall. Everything was quiet there. The sound came from upstairs, and now he heard, replying to the groans, a calm, soothing, hushing voice--sometimes commanding, sometimes coaxing. A door opened, and a faint light shone out. Another door was opened and then closed. All this seemed to prove that Johannes' intervention was not at all necessary, and that he would perhaps cut a ridiculous figure by attempting to step in as a rescuer. Then, unnerved and miserable, he went to sleep again.

In the morning, both little girls and the governess partook of their breakfast of tea, malted milk, toasted bread, and ham and eggs, just as if nothing had happened. The mother was to be away again until afternoon. Frieda and Olga sat peacefully and quietly eating, like well bred little girls.

At last Johannes could keep silence no longer, and said to the governess:

"Did anything bad happen in the night?"

"No," said the young German lady, looking at her plate. "There is an invalid in the house."

"Did you hear Heléne?" asked Olga, looking at Johannes earnestly. "I never hear her now. At first I used to very plainly, but now I sleep through it. Poor Heléne!"

"Poor Heléne!" lisped Frieda dutifully after her, resuming her busy spooning of the malted milk.

* * * * *

At noon Johannes was again summoned to the drawing-room. He had had a long walk, alone, beside the sea, and felt more at his ease. He had resolved to ask if he might not go away, since he was out of place here, and felt unhappy. And the party the next evening, at Lady Crimmetart's, where he was expected with an instrument--that was too much for him. He must get away before that.

But ere he had a chance to speak about it, his hostess began thus:

"Were you alarmed in the night, Johannes? Did you hear anything?"

Johannes nodded.

"Well, now that I trust you, fully, I will confide to you my sorrowful secret. Listen."

And the estimable and attractive woman beckoned him, with her loveliest smile, to sit beside the sofa, on a low stool.

It made Johannes feel as if he had been brought, nearly benumbed, into a warm room. Pleasant tinglings coursed down his back, and a fine feeling of contentment and security came over him. The countess rested her soft, delicate hand upon his own, and looked into his eyes, kindly. How beautiful she was! And what a sweet, caressing voice she had! All the distress of those recent days was more than amended.

"I am going to speak to you, my dear Johannes, as if you were much older than you are. You really do seem to me older and wiser than your years would lead one to expect."

Johannes was charmed.

"You must know, then, that my life has been full of suffering. Sorrow has been, so to speak, my constant companion, from earliest youth."

Johannes' heart was aglow with compassion. In well-chosen words, and in the flowing English that Johannes more admired than comprehended, the lady continued:

"My marriage was very unhappy. Constrained by my parents I married a rich man whom I did not love. He is dead now. I will not speak any evil of him."

Johannes that instant made up his mind to a certainty that the man had been a wretch.

"Neither will I trouble you with the story of all our misery. It suffices to say that we did not belong to each other, and each embittered the other's life. After six years of torture--it was nothing else--something happened ... what usually happens in such cases.... Do you understand?"

Johannes, greatly to his vexation, did not understand, and he felt himself to be very stupid.

"I became fond of another.... Do you think less of me for that?"

"No! No!" said Johannes' head, as he shook it emphatically.

"Fortunately, my dear boy, I can say that I have nothing to reproach myself with, and can look into the faces of my children without shame. The man for whom I cared was unhappily married--just as I was. We have never seen each other again--not even...."

There was a pause in which the voice of the beautiful speaker broke, while her eyes were veiled in the tears that she was making an effort to repress. Johannes' heart was melting with sympathy.

"Not even," she resumed, "when I was free. My husband made this the opportunity for taking away from me my two children. For years I lived separated from them, even in poverty and privation, with only one old servant who, notwithstanding his low wages, would not desert me.

"During that time, my boy,--you may be surprised to know it,--I longed not only for my children, but even for him who had caused me so much suffering. The mutual parentage of dearly loved children is a wonderful bond that is never completely severed. I would have forgiven him all if he had only called me back."

A silence, in which Johannes' heart, already so inclined to admiration, surrendered itself wholly. The lady continued:

"I was recalled, but alas! too late. They telegraphed me that he was ill, and wished to speak with me. When I arrived, he lay raving, and never recovered his reason. For three days and nights I sat beside him, almost without sleep, to catch anything he might have to say to me. But he raved and raved, incessantly, uttering nothing but nonsense and inarticulate sounds. He certainly knew me; but just the same, he remained hard and cold--sometimes taunting, sometimes angry and abusive. Never shall I forget that night...."

"With my own two children I found an older girl whom I had never seen. They told me she was a child of a former union. I had never even heard of her. Where the mother was, no one could say. It was thought she was not living. The girl was then about fifteen years of age, beautiful, with a brilliant color, a fine profile, and flowing black hair."

"More beautiful than Frieda or Olga?" asked Johannes.

The countess smiled.

"Quite another kind of beauty. Much more gloomy and melancholy. When I went to her, she sat crying, and would pay no attention to me. 'Every one dislikes me,' she kept saying. And she repeated this all day long. She did nothing but walk back and forth, crying and lamenting. Only with the greatest trouble could she be induced to rise in the morning, and be dressed, and in the evening, to go to sleep. Her mind was diseased, and little by little it has grown worse. My husband died, and I remained with the three daughters, caring for them as well as I could."

Countess Dolores studied for a while her beautiful, gem-adorned hands, and then went on, with frequent pauses.

"Heléne knew very little concerning her mother; but she steadfastly maintained that she was living, and would return, and also ... that her father and mother had been married...."

Another prolonged silence, the countess regarding Johannes with her lightly half-closed eyes, to see if he understood. Apparently he did not understand; for he sat, in unsuspecting patience, waiting for whatever else was to be said.

"Can you fancy, Johannes, what that would signify to me to my children ... if it were true?"

Johannes fancied only that he was looking at the speaker in a somewhat confounded and sheepish manner.

"Bigamy, Johannes, is a terrible crime!"

Wait!--A light broke in upon him, albeit a feeble one. His dearly loved children, then, were not legal--were illegitimate--natural, or whatever it was called. Yes, indeed! That was terrible, even though no one, to look at them, would ever think it. But the countess enlightened him still further.

"The idea of living upon the property of another, Johannes, is, to a woman of honor, insufferable!"

What more? The property of another? Then all this sumptuousness, belonged, perhaps, to poor, crazed Heléne; and his dear, pretty children and their beautiful mother were only illegal intruders--usurpers of another's possessions!

Johannes faithfully tried his best to feel as the speaker did about all these curious and confusing things. But he did not succeed. Then, in his desire to comfort her, he gallantly uttered in broken English whatever came into his head.

"No, Mevrouw; you must not think that. You are beautiful and your children are beautiful, and therefore everything that is beautiful belongs to you. I do not believe you have cause to be ashamed, for I have seen no sign of it. If there were any disgrace, I should have detected it. And how is any one to suppose that such evidence exists either on paper or in some secret closet or other--who knows where? Are you and Frieda and Olga any less beautiful, less lovely, less good? I do not care a bit about it. Absolutely nothing."

The countess laughed so heartily, and pressed his hand so warmly, that Johannes was embarrassed.

"Oh, you lovely boy!" she laughingly cried. "Oh, you queer, funny, darling of a boy! How you cheer me up! I have not been so light-hearted in a long time."

Johannes was very glad, and proud of his success. Countess Dolores dried her tears of laughter upon her lace handkerchief, and resumed:

"But now we must be in earnest. It will be clearer to you now why I am so interested in all that pertains to spiritualism and theosophy--why I listen so eagerly to the wisdom of Mijnheer van Lieverlee, and of Lady Crimmetart--why I attend the circle of the Pleiades, at the Hague--and, too, why it made me so happy to meet you, when I heard that you also were a medium, and could see the _elementals_, in full daylight."

"But why, Mevrouw?" asked Johannes, in some distress.

"How can you ask that, my dear boy! Nothing can ever bring back my peace of mind, except _one_ word from him, from the other side of the grave!"

Ah! but that was a hard blow for Johannes. He was not so troubled at having been invited as a guest, for a side purpose--he was not so overweening as that--but because he was surely going to be a disappointment to his beloved countess. With a sigh he looked down at the carpet.

"Shall we not make a call upon the invalid?" asked the lady, rising.

Johannes nodded, and followed her.

* * * * *

The door of the sick-room was barely open, when a pitiable scream rang out from the corner. The poor girl sat on the floor, huddled up in her nightgown, her long black hair disheveled, and hanging down over face and back. Her beautiful dark eyes were widely distended, and her features wore an expression of mortal anguish.

"Oh, God!--It is coming!" she shrieked, trembling. "Now it will happen! Oh, God! It surely will! I know it will! There it comes! Did I not say so? Now it comes!--Oh! Oh! Oh!"

The nurse hushed and commanded, but the poor, tormented creature trembled and wept, and seemed so desperately afraid, that Johannes, greatly moved, begged leave to go away again. It seemed as if she were afraid of him.

"No, my boy!" said the countess. "It is not on account of you. She does that way whoever comes in. She is afraid of everybody and everything she sees or hears."

* * * * *

That whole day, and a good deal of the night, Johannes mused over this one query: "Why--_why_ is that poor girl so afraid?"

VI

Johannes did not leave, and at last came the day of the dreaded party. Having grown more confident, he had spoken of his needs. The carriage put in an appearance, and in the neighboring town, he was soon provided with suitable clothing.

Still, his mind was not quite at rest.

"Will you also say, dear lady," said Johannes that afternoon, when with the children and their mother, "that I truly cannot play upon any instrument? Please don't ask me to do anything!"

"But, Johannes," urged the countess, "that would really be very disagreeable in me. After what I have said, something will be expected of you."

"I cannot do anything!" said Johannes, in distress.

"He is joking, Mama," said Olga; "he can play the castanets and can imitate animals."

"Oh, yes! all kinds of animals! Awfully nice!" cried Frieda.

"Is that so, Johannes? Well, then?"

* * * * *

It was true that Johannes had amused his two little friends while they were taking walks together--mimicking all sorts of animal sounds, like those of the horse, donkey, cow, dog, cat, pig, sheep, and goat. He had whistled like the birds so cleverly that the two little girls had been enraptured. And one single instrument he did indeed play admirably--the genuine boys' castanets that every schoolboy and street urchin in Holland carries in his pocket certain months of the year. Many an autumn day, sauntering home from school, he had shortened the way for himself with the sharp, clear, uninterrupted "a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty _tick_!--a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty _tick_!--a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty _tick_!--tack! tack!"

The little girls now begged him to let their mama hear. So he took out his castanets, which he himself had made while there, and clicked away with them lustily.

"Delightful!" cried the countess. "Now you must sing and dance at the same time, like the Spaniards."

Johannes shied at the dancing. But indeed he would sing. And he sang all kinds of street ditties, such as "Oh, Mother, the Sailor!" and "Sara, you're losing your Petticoat," to the merry music of the castanets. The children thought it splendid.

Their enthusiasm excited him, and he began improvising all sorts of nonsense. The little girls clapped their hands, and the longer he played the more merry they grew. Johannes struck an attitude, and announced his selections just as if he were before an audience. The countess and her daughters went and sat in a row--the little girls wild with delight.

"Sketches from Animal Life," announced Johannes, beginning, to the time-keeping accompaniment of the castanets, the well-known air from _The Carnival of Venice_,

"A hen that came from Japan Assured a crippled toad She'd never have him for her man. That was a sorry load."

The little girls shouted and stamped, with glee.

"More, Jo!--More, more, Johannes! Do!"

"Splendid!" cried the countess, speaking in Dutch, now, herself.

"A rhinoceros said to a louse, 'I'll stamp you flat on the ground!' The louse made tracks for his house, And there he is now to be found.

"A grasshopper sat in the grass, And said to a chimpanz_ee_: 'Your coat I will thank you to pass, That I may attend a part_ie_.'

"A snoop who stood on the stoop Asked of his fellow boarder If hairs he found in the soup. The _hostess_?--'Twas malice toward her!

"A crab who enjoyed a joke, Gave his mama a kick. And when she dropped at his poke, He laughed till the tears fell thick."

"Hey, there!" the little girls shouted boisterously. "Jolly! More, more! Jo!"

"A stock-fish, deaf-and-dumb born, Once said to a billy-goat: 'Of my head I see I am shorn-- 'Twas you did it, silly goat!'"

"There, there, Johannes! That will do. Now you are getting foolish," said the mother.

"Oh, no, Mama! Only funny!" cried Frieda and Olga. "He _is_ so funny! Go on, Jo!"

But Johannes was quite disconcerted by the mother's comment, and there was no further exposition of "Sketches from Animal Life."

* * * * *

In the evening Johannes drove with the countess in the state-coach to Lady Crimmetart's. Milady dwelt in a very handsome house--a castle in a large park. From a distance, Johannes could see the brightly lighted windows, and also the vehicles in front of the pillars, at the entrance.

Overhead, an awning was spread, and a long strip of heavy, bright-red carpeting laid down, so that the guests might be protected in passing from their carriages to the magnificent vestibule. The way was lined with lackeys--full twenty on each side. They looked very impressive, all of them tall and heavy, wearing knee-breeches of yellow plush, and red lace-trimmed coats. Johannes was puzzled because they all seemed to be such old men. Their hair was white as snow. That was powder, however, and it added to their dignity. How small and shabby Johannes felt while running the gauntlet of those liveried lackeys!

Indoors, Johannes was completely blinded by the dazzling light. He ascended a vaulted staircase, the broad steps of which were of many-colored marble. He saw vaguely, flowers, electric lamps, variegated carpets, broad, conspicuously white expanses of shirt-linen bordered with black coat, and bare necks adorned with gems and white lace. He heard a subdued murmur of soft voices, the rustling of silk clothing, the announcement of names.

In the background, at the top of the stairs, the swollen visage of Lady Crimmetart was glowing like a railway danger-signal. All the guests went up to her, and their names being spoken, each one received a bow and a handshake.

"What name, sir?" asked a colossal lackey, as he bent obliquely over Johannes. Johannes stammered out something, but the countess repeated it, changed.

"Professor Johannes, of Holland!" he heard called out. He bowed, received a handshake, and saw the powdered face smiling--or grinning--with affected sweetness. Lady Crimmetart's neck and arms were so fat and bare that Johannes was nearly terrified by them, and did not dare look straight. They were loaded with precious stones--big, flat, square, uniformly cut diamonds, alternating with pear-shaped pearls. Three white ostrich feathers bobbed in her head-dress. There were no animals at her side, but of course she had her fan and her gold-headed crutch.

"How do you do?" inquired the deep voice. But before Johannes could reply that he was pretty well, she addressed herself, with a grinning smile, to the next comer. Beside her stood a short, heavily built man. He had a shiny, bald head, a red face with deeply cut lines, and a large, bony nose. It was precisely such a head as one sees carved upon knobs of walking-sticks and parasols. It was Lord Crimmetart who stood there, and he gave Johannes' hand a firm clasp.

For an hour or so Johannes wandered about in the midst of the crowd. He felt dispirited and lonesome to begin with; and the babel of voices, the sheen and rustle of silken garments, the glitter of lights and of precious stones, the uniforms, bare necks, and white shirt-fronts, and the heavy scent of perfumery and of flowers,--all this oppressed him until he became deeply dejected. There was such a press of people that at times he could not stir, and the ladies and gentlemen talked straight into his face. How he longed for a quiet corner and an every-day companion! Everybody except himself had something to say. There was no one among those passing by so forlorn as he. He did not understand what they all could be saying to one another. The scraps of conversation that did reach him were about the stir in the room and the magnificence of the party. But the saying of that was not the reason for their having come together.

Johannes felt that the feast of the elves in the dunes had been far more pleasant.

Then, strains of music reached him from a stringed orchestra hidden behind green laurel. That awakened longings almost painful, and he drew closer, to sit down, unobserved, and let the people stream by. There he sat, with moistened eyes, looking dreamily out before him, while his thoughts dwelt upon quiet dunes and sounding seas on a moonlit night.

"Professor Johannes, let me introduce you to Professor von Pennewitz," rang suddenly in his ears. He rose to his feet startled. There stood Lady Crimmetart beside a diminutive man, whose scanty grey locks hung down to his coat-collar. The vision was little like Johannes' dream.

"This is a youthful prodigy, Professor von Pennewitz--a young poet who recites his own compositions. At the same time he is a famous medium. You certainly will have interesting things to say to each other."

Thereupon, Lady Crimmetart disappeared again among the other guests, leaving the two bowing to each other--Johannes abashed and perplexed, von Pennewitz bowing and rubbing his hands together, teetering up and down on his toes, and smiling.

"Now for the examination!" thought Johannes, waiting in mute patience--a victim to whatever wise questions the great man was to pillory him with.

"Have you--ah--known the family here for long?" asked von Pennewitz--opening and closing his thin lips with a sipping sound, while with fingers affectedly spread, he adjusted his eyeglasses, peering over the tops of them at Johannes.

"No, I do not know them at all!" replied Johannes, shaking his head.

"No?" said von Pennewitz, rubbing and wringing his hands, most cheerfully. And then he continued, in broken English:

"Well, well! That pleases me. Neither do I. Curious people! Do you not think so, young man?"

Johannes, somewhat encouraged by this affability, gave a hesitating assent.

"Have you such types in Holland, also? Surely upon a more modest scale? Ha! ha! ha!--These people are astonishingly rich! Have you tried their champagne?--No? Then you must just come with me to the buffet. It is worth the trouble, I can assure you."

Happy, now, to be at least walking with some one, Johannes followed the little man, who piloted him through the packed mass of people.

Arrived at the buffet they drank of the sparkling wine.

"But, sir," said Johannes, "I have heard that Lady Crimmetart is so very clever."

"Have you, indeed?" said the Professor, looking again at Johannes over the top of his glasses, and nodding his head. "I have nothing to say about that. Much traveled--papa a hoarding-house keeper--a smattering of almost everything. Nowadays one can get a good deal out of the newspapers. Do you read the papers, young man?"

"Not much, sir," said Johannes.

"Good! Be cautious about it. Let me give you some extra-good advice. Read few newspapers, and eat few oysters. Especially in Rome eat no oysters. I have just come from a fatal case of poisoning--a Roman student."

Johannes mentally resolved, on the spot, to eat anything in Rome rather than oysters.

"Is Lord Crimmetart also so clever, Professor?" asked Johannes.

"He is bright enough. In order to become a Lord and an arch-millionaire by means of patent pills alone, one needs to be a bright rascal. Just try it! Ha! ha! ha!"

The professor laughed heartily, snorted and sniffed, clicked his false teeth, and finished off his glass. Then he said:

"But take care, young man, that you do not marry before you have made your pile. That was a stupid move of his. He would be able to do very much better now. If he chose, he might win Countess Dolores."

The blood rushed to Johannes' head, and he flushed deeply,

"I am staying there, sir!" said he, considerably touched.

"Is that so? Is that so?" replied the professor, in a propitiatory tone. "But I said nothing about her, you know. A most charming woman. A perfect beauty. So she is your hostess? Well, well, well!"

* * * * *

"There is His Grace, the bishop!" cried the heavy voice of Lady Crimmetart, as she passed by, hurrying toward the entrance.

Johannes was on the _qui vive_ for the white mitre and the gilded crozier, but he could see only a tall, ordinary gentleman in a black suit, and wearing gaiters. He had a smooth, good-looking face, that bore an affected smile; and in his hand he held a curious, flat hat, the brim of which was held up with cords, as if otherwise it might droop down over his nose. Lady Crimmetart received him quite as warmly as Aunt Seréna received the dominie. How Johannes wished he was still at his Aunt Seréna's!

"Sir!" said some one at his ear, "Milady wishes to know if you have brought your instrument, and if you will not begin now."

Johannes looked round, in a fright. He saw a portly personage with an upstroked moustache, in black satin short-clothes, and a red coat--evidently a master of ceremonies.

"I have no instrument," stammered Johannes. But he did have his castanets in his pocket. "I cannot do anything," he repeated--most miserable.

The pompous one glanced right and left, as if he had made some mistake. Then he stepped away a moment, to return soon, accompanied by Countess Dolores.

"What is it, my dear Johannes?" said the countess. "You must not disappoint us."

"But, Mevrouw, I really cannot."

The pompous one stood by, looking on in a cool, impassive way, as if quite accustomed to the sight of freaks who were considered youthful prodigies. Johannes' forehead was wet with perspiration.

"Indeed you can, Johannes! You are sure to do well."

"What shall I announce?" asked the pompous one. Johannes did not understand the question, but the countess replied, in his stead.

In a twinkling he was standing beside a piano encircled by guests, and he saw hundreds of eyes, with and without eyeglasses, fastened upon him. Straight in front--next Lady Crimmetart--sat the bishop, looking at him severely and critically, out of hard, cold, light-blue eyes.

The master of ceremonies called out, loudly and clearly:

"National Hymns of Holland." And then poor Little Johannes had to clap and sing--whatever he could. To keep up courage, he threw just a glance at the beautiful face of the countess, with its near-sighted eyes--and tried to think it was for her alone that he sang. He did his best, and sang in _tremolo_ from "Oh, Mother, the Mariner!" and "We are going to America," to "The Hen from Japan," and "The Tiger of Timbuctoo"--his entire repertory.

They listened, and looked at him as if they thought him a queer specimen; but no one laughed. Neither the goggle-eyes of the hostess, nor the stern regard of the bishop, nor one of the hundreds of other pairs of eyes pertaining to these richly dressed and excellent ladies and gentlemen, evinced the slightest token of emotion, happy or otherwise. That was scarcely to be wondered at, since they did not understand the words; but it was not encouraging. Without loss of time, most of them turned away their attention, and began anew their laughing and chattering.

When he stopped, there sounded, to his astonishment, a lone hand-clapping, and Countess Dolores came up to him, gave her hand, and congratulated him upon his success. Lady Crimmetart, also, thundered out that it was "awfully interesting." A tall, thin young lady, in white satin, whose prominent collar bones were but slightly concealed by a ten-fold necklace of pearls, came, smiling sweetly, to press his hand. She was so happy, she said, to have heard the _Carnival of Venice_ in the original, by a veritable resident of the city. "How peculiarly interesting! But it must be so nice, Professor ... ah! I have lost your name!... so nice to live in a city lying wholly under water, and where everybody wears wooden shoes!"

"Was that entirely your own composition, Professor Johannes?" inquired a plain, good-natured little lady, in a simple black gown. And several other women, of riper years, sought to introduce themselves. He really brightened up a little at these tokens of approval, although he rather mistrusted their sincerity. When, however, he found himself beside a group of tall, broad-shouldered Britishers, with high collars, florid, smooth-shaven cheeks, and trim, closely-cropped, wavy, blonde hair, who, one hand in the trousers' pocket, stood drinking champagne, he heard such expressions as "beastly," "rot," and "humbug," and he very well knew that the words were applied to himself.

Shortly after this it became clear to him what constitutes genuine success. A robust young lady, with very artfully arranged hair, and pretty white teeth, sang, accompanied by the piano, a German song. With her head swaying from side to side and occasionally tossed backward, and with her mouth open very wide, she threw out trills and runs, like a veritable music-box. The sound of it all pierced through to Johannes' very marrow. What her song was intended to say, it was hard to tell, for she spoke a remarkable kind of German. Apparently, she was exciting herself over a faithless lover, or mistress, and dying--out of sheer affection.

When she had ended, and made a sweet, smiling bow, a vigorous round of applause followed, with cries of "bis," and "encore." Johannes had not himself received such acclaim, nor would he now take part therein.

In his dejection, he went to find Countess Dolores. She was the only one there to whom he could turn for comfort. He asked if he might not take his leave, since he was tired, and did not feel at home where he was.

The countess herself appeared not to be very well satisfied; she had won no honors through him, nevertheless she said:

"Come, my boy, do not be discouraged! You have still other gifts. Have you spoken with Ranji-Banji-Singh?"

A little earlier, Johannes had seen the tall East-Indian, with head erect, and a courtly carriage, striding through the motley crowd. He had wide nostrils, large, handsome eyes with somewhat drooping lids, a light-brown complexion, splendid blue-black hair, and a sparse beard. He wore his white turban, and yellow silk clothing, with solemn ceremoniousness. When any one spoke to him, he smiled most condescendingly, and, closing his eyes, he laid his slender hand, with its pale nails and upturned finger-tips, upon his bosom, and made a profound and graceful bow.

Johannes had noticed him especially, as one to whom he felt more attracted than to any other; and he had visions of deep, blue skies, majestic elephants, rustling palms, and palace facades of pale marble, on the banks of the Sacred River. However, he had not dared to address him.

But now the countess and Johannes went to find him, and find him they did, beside Lady Crimmetart, in a circle of ladies to whom he appeared to be speaking in rotation, with a courtly smile.

"Mr. Ranji-Banji-Singh," said Countess Dolores, "have you made the acquaintance of Professor Johannes, of Holland? He is a great medium, and you certainly will find him sympathetic."

The East-Indian showed his white teeth again, in a winning smile, and gave his hand to Johannes. The boy felt, however, that it was not given from the heart.

"But are you not also a medium, Mr. Singh?" asked one of the ladies, "such a great theosophist as you!"

Ranji-Banji-Singh threw back his head, made with his clasped hands a gesture as if warding off something, and smiling disdainfully, said, in broken English:

"Theosophists not mediums. Mediums is organ-grinders--theosophist, composer. Medium-tricks stand low;--street-jugglery for gold. Theosophist and Yogi can everything, all the same--can much more, but not show. That is meanness, unworthiness!"

The slender brown hand was shaken in Johannes' face, in an endeavor to express its owner's contempt, while the dark face of the East-Indian took on an expression of one compelled to drink something bitter.

That was too much for Johannes. Feeling himself misunderstood by the only one upon whom he cared to make a good impression, he said, angrily:

"I never perform tricks, sir. I exhibit nothing. I am not a medium."

"Not by profession--not a professional medium," said Countess Dolores, to save the situation.

"Then you do not practise table-tilting, nor slate-writing, nor flower-showering?" asked the East-Indian, while his face cleared.

"No, sir! Nothing whatever!" said Johannes, emphatically.

"If I had known that!" exclaimed Lady Crimmetart, while her eyes seemed almost rolling out of her head. "But, Mr. Singh, can you not, just for this one time, show us something? Let us see something wonderful? A spinning tambourine, or a violin that plays of itself? Do, now! When we ask you so pleadingly, and when I look at you so fondly! Come!"

And she cast sheep's eyes at Mr. Ranji-Banji-Singh in a manner which did not in the least arouse Johannes' envy.

The theosophist bowed again, smiling with closed eyes, but at the same time contracting his brows as if struggling with his aversion.

Then they went to a boudoir having glass walls and exotic plants--a kind of small conservatory, in a soft twilight. There they seated themselves at a table, with the East-Indian in the circle. Johannes was promptly excluded with the words: "Antipathetic! Bad influence!"

"That's Keesje, yet--surely!" thought Johannes.

Then there was writing upon slates held by Mr. Singh in one hand, under the table. The scratching of the pencil could be heard, and soon the slate reappeared--covered with writing in various languages--English, Latin, and Sanscrit. These sentences were translated by the East-Indian, and appeared to contain very wise and elevating lessons.

But Johannes had the misfortune to notice that the slate which should have been written upon was quickly exchanged by the theosophist the instant that he succeeded in diverting the attention of all the on-lookers. And Johannes added to his inauspicious observation the imprudent exclamation--loud and triumphant--"I see it all! He is exchanging slates!"

A regular riot ensued. Yet Ranji-Banji-Singh, with the utmost calmness, brought the exchanged slate to light again, and, with a triumphant smile, showed that it was without writing. Johannes looked baffled, yet he knew to a certainty that he had seen the deception, and he cried: "I saw it, nevertheless!"

"For shame!" thundered Lady Crimmetart. And all the other ladies cried indignantly, "Disgraceful!"

Ranji-Banji-Singh, with a taunting smile said: "I have compassion. Yogi know not hate, but pity evil-doer. Bad Karma. Unhappy person, this!"

That did not agree with what Herr van Lieverlee had said. He had commended Johannes' Karma. But Countess Dolores, now realizing that she was to have no further satisfaction out of her protégé, at once withdrew, and quite good-naturedly, so that he might not feel at all reproached. Indeed, she comforted him, with her friendly jests.

* * * * *

Johannes saw some daily papers lying in the hall of Countess Dolores' house. Against the advice of Professor von Pennewitz, he began running them through. His eyes remained glued to the page, for he saw there a communication from Germany, to the effect that the miners' strike had ended. The laborers had lost the battle.

The sleepless night that ensued seemed very long to him. Poor Heléne, also, was restless, and wailed and wailed without pause.

VII

Be brave now, for my story is going to be truly sombre and shuddery. Truth can sometimes appear very black; but if we only dare to look her straight in the eye, she smiles, in the end, brightly and blithely.

Only those who are afraid of her, and turn halfway back, will be caught and held fast in the meshes of gloom and misery.

* * * * *

You have, doubtless, known all along that there was something utterly amiss in Johannes' fine, new life--that he had made a pitiful mistake, and was all at sea. He, also, knew it now, although he would not admit it to himself. Those joyful expectations had not been prompted by the Father's voice, and he knew now that one could be misled by positive impressions.

However, he was not yet out of the scrape. To acknowledge again that he had made a mistake--to leave this life and return to Markus and Marjon, was a hard thing to do. Here were far greater attractions than Aunt Seréna's raspberries and fresh rolls. When he thought of the garden at Vrede-best, ah, how eagerly he longed to be there again! But that which held him here had a much stronger hold upon him, for he would not admit to himself that it would be better to leave it. That he should be an intimate little friend of this beautiful, distinguished woman--_that_, above all things--preoccupied him day and night.

Did you ever, late at night, when you ought to have been in bed, read a very captivating book? You knew then, did you not, that it was not good for you--that you would be sorry for it? Perhaps you even found the book to be dull or base. And yet you could not break off, but read on and on, just one more chapter, to see how it ended.

That was the way with Johannes, in the pretty villa of Countess Dolores.

He stayed on, week after week, month after month, writing nothing to Holland, nor to Aunt Seréna--nothing to his Brother, nor to Marjon, either because of he knew not what, or because he was ashamed.

One thought alone prevailed over all others; what would she say when he should have another talk with Countess Dolores, and what should he reply? Would she stroke his hair, or even press a kiss upon it, as once she had done--the same as with her two little daughters?

Perhaps you have never yet been in love. If you never have, you cannot know what all this means. But it is not a slight matter, and there is nothing in it to rail about.

Johannes himself did not quite know what had happened. He only felt that never yet in his life had anything so perplexing and distressing come to him.

It was so wonderful, too. It gave him pain--sharp pain--and yet it was sweet to him, and he welcomed it. It caused him anguish and anxiety, and yet he would not run away from it. It was so contradictory--so confounding!

One sultry, stormy evening he took a lonely walk over the cliffs, and followed a narrow path lying close to the grey steeps at the foot of which the breakers were pounding.

He saw the sun go down behind great masses of clouds, just as he had formerly done. But now how different it was! How cold and strange it seemed! He felt left out. Life--cruel, human life--with its passions and entanglements, now had him in its grasp.

It seemed agonizing and frightful, as if a great monster had pursued him to the shore of the sea, and were still close behind. And now Nature had become strange and inhospitable.

He stretched out his hand, and cried to the clouds:

"Oh, help me, clouds with the silver lining!" But the clouds rolled on as if wholly unconscious of the wonderful shapes they assumed at every turn--ever changing, and adorned anew with glittering gold and gleaming silver. And all the while the sea was roaring just as if it had no memory whatever of Johannes.

And when he had cried "Help me, clouds with the silver lining!" the words clung to his mind, and, like shining angels, they beckoned other, sister words, still lingering in the depths of his soul, to come and join them. And so they came--one after another, in twinkling file, and fell into line. Their faces seemed more serious than did ever those of his own words.

"Help, oh, help me, ye silver-lined clouds! Oh, save me, sun and stormy sea! To thee I fly from stifling haunts of men. _Life_, with its frightful, crimson-flaming hands, Has laid its hold on me. Once I was thy friend and confidant-- At home in thy mysterious loneliness. I explored without fear thy boundless space And celestial mansions builded I there With the mere light of stars, and the waves of wind. Peace I found in thy grandeur stern, And rest in thy bright expanse. Now, life sweeps me on with its current swift, And a seething volcano I find where erst Was an ocean serene of exalted delights. Alas! thou doest rest in thy splendor immersed-- As cool as a lion licking his paws. All slowly the cloud is transformed, Letting the light stream through, And the tossing main with sparks is clad, As if with a golden coat of mail. Ah, beautiful world! Untrue and unreal Thou glidest away 'neath my anguished eyes. The ocean roars ever, and silent are sun and clouds. Sadly, I see the strange daylight fail. It leaves me alone with still stranger night. Oh! may I yet find there my Father's spirit, That dwells beyond sun and sea and clouds? Must I join with the hapless, hopeless throng And bind my sorrowful fate to theirs, Until the Great Leveler bring surcease?"

What Johannes meant by the "Great Leveler" he did not himself know at first. Neither did he at all realize that he had composed something better than formerly. But in the night he understood that it was Death he had meant. And he knew, also, that something within him had opened to the light, like an unfolding flower.

He felt that the verses might be sung like a song, but he could not hear the melody--or but faintly--like wind-wafted tones from the farthest distance. At night, he heard in his dreams the full strain, but in the morning he had entirely forgotten it. And Marjon was not there to help him.

You must remember that Little Johannes was no longer so _very_ little. Nearly four years had passed since that morning when he had waked up in the dunes, with the little gold key.

He could not refrain from reading the poem to the countess on the following day. The making of it--the writing and rewriting--had calmed the unrest out of which it had come. He was curious, now, to learn what others would say of it--above all, the one who was ever in his thoughts.

"Ah, yes!" said she, after he had read it aloud, "life is fearful! And that 'surcease' is all that I long for. I fully agree with you."

This remark, however kind the intention of the speaker, gave Johannes, to his own astonishment, small pleasure. He would have preferred to hear something different.

"Do you think it good?" he asked, with a vague feeling that he really ought not to ask the question, because he had been so very much in earnest over the verses. And when one is deeply in earnest about anything one does not ask if it is good; no more than he would ask if he had wept beautifully. But yet he would have liked, so well, to know what she thought.

"I do not know, Johannes. You must not hope for a criticism from me. I think the idea very sympathetic, and the form seems to me also quite poetic. But whether or not it is good poetry, you must ask of Mijnheer van Lieverlee. He is a poet."

"Is Mijnheer van Lieverlee coming soon?"

"Yes; I expect him shortly."

One fine day Van Lieverlee put in an appearance. With him arrived a host of merrily creaking, yellow trunks, smelling delightfully like russia leather--ditto high-hat box, and a brisk, smooth-shaven, traveling-servant.

Van Lieverlee wore in his button-hole a dark-red rose, and pointed pale-green carnation leaves.

He was very much at his ease--contented and gay--and when he saw Johannes he did not appear to have a very clear remembrance of him.

That evening Johannes read to him the poem. Van Lieverlee listened, with an absent-minded expression of face, while he drummed on the arm of the low, easy-chair in which he lay indolently outstretched. It looked very much as if the verses bored him.

When it was over, and Johannes was waiting in painful suspense, he shook his head emphatically.

"All rhetoric, my worthy friend--mere bombast! 'Oh! Alas!' and 'Ah!' All those are impotent cryings which show that the business is beyond you. If you had full control of expression, you would not utter such cries--you would form, shape, knead, create, model--_model_! Plasticity, Johannes! That is the thing--vision, color, imagery! I see nothing in that poem. I want something to see and taste. Just think of that sonnet of mine! Every line full of form, of imagery, of real, actual things! With you, there is nothing but vague terms--weak swaggering--all about the spirit of your Father, and such things--none of them to be seen. And, to produce effect, you call upon the other words: 'Ah!' and 'Alas!' and 'Oh!' as if that helped, at all. Any cad could do that if he fell into the water. That is not poetry."

Johannes was completely routed. And although his hostess tried to console him with assurances that if he did his best things would go better with him by and by, when he was a little older, it was of no avail. Johannes already knew that it was quite in vain for him to attempt his best, so long as the inspiration he so much needed was withheld.

His night was a sad one; for the serious words of the poem were continually before him, and to think that they had been disdained was indeed torture. They would not be driven away, but remained to vindicate their worth. And then he wished that others, as well as he, should value them. But his powerlessness and his own mistrust, were a grievous vexation.

In the small hours, he had just fallen asleep--probably for only a few minutes--when he awoke again with the feeling that his room was full, but with what kind of company--human beings or other creatures--he could not tell. He did not see them; for just in the place where he was looking there was no one, and where he wanted to look, he could not. He seemed to be prevented from doing so by a strange power.

He heard a laugh, and the sound was very familiar to him. It was a dismal, old-time memory. It was Pluizer's laugh.

Could Pluizer be in the room?

Johannes tried his best to look at the spot whence the sound came. Exerting himself, he saw something at last--not an entire figure, but hands only--two, four, six little hands, busily doing something. Higher up, to what was above the hands, he could not look--but that they were the hands of Pluizer he was quite positive.

There was something in those hands--a white band--and the little hands were very busy tying all kinds of knots in it. And all the while there was continuous laughing and snickering, as if it was great fun.

What could that mean? Johannes felt that something menaced. The play of those little hands portended danger. Most plainly of all he saw the white band--a common, white tape.

Then the hands went out of the room, and Johannes was forced to follow them. In another room--that of Heléne's nurse--there they were, as busy as ever, this time with a pair of scissors. The scissors had fallen upon the floor close to a toilet-table. One point having stuck through the carpet into the floor, there they stood--erect. The invisible one was laughing again--giggling and snickering--and all six little hands were pointing at the scissors.

A light was burning in Heléne's room, but the poor, sick girl was not now complaining. All was quiet there. The door opened, and the nurse came out, leaving it open behind her. The nurse went to her own room to look for something. She was a long time searching, but could not find it. Surely it was the scissors.

All this time they were sticking by one point, in the carpet behind the toilet-table, and the six little hands were pointing at them. But the seeker apparently neither saw the hands nor heard the laughter.

Johannes could not help her. He had to follow the hands. He still heard giggling and snickering, and saw the little hands go away--downstairs, through the hall, outside.

Save for the shining of the stars--sharp and clear in the black sky--it was still very dark out-of-doors.

On the terrace, there was visible to Johannes, a tall, dark figure. He could look at it better than at the sneering ones. He recognized it, instantly. It was He with whom he had traveled by sea.

The dark figure now took the lead with slow, firm strides. Pluizer went next, but in between these two there was a third.

It was quite impossible for Johannes to look at that third one. When he tried to look, he felt an indescribable agony.

That third one! Yes, he certainly knew it well. It was _it_! Do you understand? The _It_ which lies in wait around the corner, outside the door, while you dream of being alone in a dark room, vainly trying to call for help.

_It_, the most frightful object!--so frightful that no one can either look at or describe it.

These three now passed down the dark avenue of the park until they came to the black pool lying deathly still and calmly expectant--shining beneath the starlight.

There the three sat down and waited.

It was still as still could be. Not a leaf rustled.

The star-tips on the water were as sharply defined as points of light upon fathomless darkness.

"Prettily planned; don't you think so?" said Pluizer.

_It_ grumbled, sneeringly.

Thereupon good Death, in a soft, restful voice, said: "Yet all is for the best!"

Then again they sat very still. Johannes waited with them for he could not do otherwise.

The sound of a door was heard in the still night air, and a white figure drew near, with light, swift steps. By the faint starlight Johannes saw the slender girl in a white night-dress, her black hair flowing loose.

For an instant she stood still at the edge of the pool. Johannes could see her eyes shining with both terror and joy, like those of one pursued who sees escape. He tried to call or to move, but could do neither.

Then the girl waded into the water with her arms extended as if to embrace it. She went cautiously, so that the water neither plashed nor spattered; only, the star-points were broken up and became long stripes, and serpentine lines of light. These, after the white garment could be seen no more, still continued--dancing up and down with the ripples.

"We have her!" sneered Pluizer.

"That remains to be seen," said good Death.

* * * * *

At once, Johannes found himself awake, in his own bed. He had been wakened by noises, cries of anguished voices, hasty runnings hither and thither through the hallways of the house, and by the opening and shutting of doors.

"Heléne! Heléne!" rang through the halls, in the garden, in the park. "Heléne! Heléne!"

Johannes dressed himself, not overhastily, for he knew it was too late.

The members of the household were already gathered in the large vestibule. The poor nurse, with a startled face of deathly pallor, came in from the garden.

"I cannot find her anywhere," she cried. "It is my fault--my fault!"

She sat down and began to sob.

"Come, dear," said the countess, in her tranquil voice, "do not reproach yourself. She may be back again in no time; or perhaps the servants will find her in the town."

"No, no," shrieked the poor nurse. "She has long wanted to do it, and I knew it. I never left her door unfastened. But this time I only thought to be gone two seconds. She had knotted a tape into a tangle, and I wanted to get my scissors. But I could not find them ... and then.... O God! How could I be so stupid! I can never forgive myself. Oh, my God, my God!"

Could not Johannes have run quickly to the pool, and told what he knew? No, for he also knew, quite as surely, that it was too late. And before he could have done it, the men came to say she had been found. He saw her borne into the house, wrapped in a checked bed-cover.

And when he saw them making vain endeavors to resuscitate her he remarked that he feared it would do no good. And he added, "Indeed, I don't fear--but I hope so."

"For her sake," said the countess.

"Surely for her sake," repeated Johannes, in some surprise.

Van Lieverlee had not appeared. But when the corpse of the beautiful girl had been placed upon her death-bed, her slender hands crossed upon her breast, her hair--still moist--laid in heavy braids about the delicate, sallow little face, the dark lashes nearly closed over the sightless eyes, white lilies and snowdrops all around, then Van Lieverlee came to see.

"Look," said he to Johannes, "this is very pretty. I would not have cared to see her taken from the water. A drowned person is nearly always an ugly spectacle. Even the most beautiful girl becomes repulsive and clownlike when being dragged out of the water by leg or arm, with face and hair all duck-weed and mud. But _this_ is worth while. Mind, Johannes, genuine artists are always lucky. They come across the beautiful, everywhere. Such an event as this is, for a poet, a rare bit of good luck."

* * * * *

The next day he was deep in the making of poetry. But Johannes was in a restless, introverted mood, and could find no words for what distressed him.

VIII

A few days later, the two guests were sitting with their hostess at the afternoon-tea table.

"Is it not a frightful thought," said Countess Dolores, "that the poor girl cannot yet have rest, but must do penance for her sinful deed?"

"I cannot believe it," said Johannes.

"But yet it was a sin."

"I would certainly forgive her."

"By which we perceive, Dolores," broke in Van Lieverlee, "that Johannes is much more kind-hearted than his beloved Lord."

"But why, Johannes, can you not assure us about that of which I have so often asked?" said the countess again. "Can you not put yourself into communication with her?"

"No, Mevrouw," replied Johannes.

"But your Mahatma, Johannes!" said Van Lieverlee. "He can do it all right. It is child's play for him."

"Of whom are you speaking?" asked the hostess, looking with quickened interest at Van Lieverlee.

"Of his Mahatma. Has he never told you about his Mahatma?"

"Not a word," said the countess, a little pettishly, while Johannes maintained a mortified silence.

"Well, Johannes knows a sage--a Yogi--a great Magician. He saw him come ashore from over the North Sea--which phenomenon might be termed levitation--and this Magician traveled with him in disguise."

"But, Johannes, why have you never told me that? It was not kind of you. You knew how much I have longed for the advice of such a person."

Johannes knew very little to tell. That question exactly concerned what was most perplexing and distressing to him in this situation.

Something there was that always restrained him from speaking of Markus--yes, even the thought of him was baffling. And yet how much he longed for him! But he felt that that longing was opposed to the other longings which held him where he was.

"I believe," he said at last, timidly, "that he does not like it when I talk about him."

"Of course," said Van Lieverlee, "but only in the case of the uninitiated--the common herd."

"Do you count me in with them?" asked his hostess in her most engaging manner.

"No, oo!" protested Johannes, with great earnestness. "But neither do I know where he is."

"He well knows, however, where _we_ are," said Van Lieverlee, "and if we desire to see him, he will come to us."

"He surely will not come here," said Johannes.

"Why not?"

Johannes could not explain why, but the countess said:

"Then we will go to Holland and have him come to our club."

That gave Johannes a thrill of joy. But ah! he realized at the same time how cold and unresponsive he had become to the _beautiful_ which had brought him thither. The two children were indeed just as captivating, but they did not give him the same happiness as before. And he began gradually to dislike Van Lieverlee.

* * * * *

In Holland, Countess Dolores dwelt in a villa between a large town and the ocean. And when Johannes was there again, and, though knowing better, was expecting to re-see his beloved dunes, then, for the first time, he felt convinced that Pan was indeed dead, and Windekind's kingdom at an end.

Civilization had conquered the dunes. Long, straight, barren streets led out to them, and house after house, all exactly alike--as tedious as they were ugly--lined the comfortless way. Sand drifted through the dreary, brick-paved streets, and shavings, bits of tin, and great pieces of tattered wall-paper were strewn about the intervening spaces. Buildings were being put up everywhere. Of the beauty and mystery of the dunes there was nothing left--only dismal, dust-littered heaps of sand.

The ocean also was spoiled for Johannes, for here there were great crowds of people, come for the sake of society, or else for the music. And even when they were gone there still remained the ugly buildings they had erected.

Countess Dolores seemed indeed to share Johannes' aversion and disappointment. Not so Van Lieverlee. Here he was in his element--dressing himself most gorgeously, making visits, and attending the principal clubs, restaurants, and concerts.

"Romance is dead, my friend," said he. "You must have _life_--Life with a capital letter. Life is Passion. Art is Passion. Life is Art--rude, real life--one day gloriously luxurious, the next day coarse and loathsome. You must not dream of the past, Johannes, but live in the present. And you must experience everything, take a part in and enjoy everything, and despise everything. You must lead life by the nose--seize it by the throat and force it to do your bidding. Get tipsy with life--spew it out of your mouth--strike it flat to earth--sling it at the clouds--play upon it as upon a violin--stick it in your buttonhole, like a gardenia--roll with it in the gutter, and consort with it in orgies of supremest passion. Study it in its hideous nakedness and vileness, and subjugate it to your dearest dreams of blood and gold."

This oration was delivered in the evening after Van Lieverlee had dined with his friends. Later, Johannes observed that Van Lieverlee liked best to study the hideous phases of life from a safe distance, and to choose for himself the easy and pleasant ones.

Visitors from very respectable circles came to Dolores' villa; and already, at the receptions preceding the seances of the Pleiades, Johannes had met the members of that "ideal community of ideals in common."

There were, of course, besides the countess and Van Lieverlee, only five others; and when Johannes hesitated to add to this number of seven, he was assured that the Constellation was composed of eight visible stars, besides a great many others not visible to the naked eye.

The leader was a General with a gold-embroidered collar and a grey, closely-cut beard. He had a powerful, commanding voice, and spoke with great respect of the present dynasty. Johannes wondered that he could think of anything other than cannon and battles; but it appeared that he had a very gentle heart, and was extraordinarily curious concerning the immaterial and the life on the other side of the grave.

He even seemed to be conscious that his blood-thirsty trade did not tally with his philosophical researches, and therefore preferred that no one should know he belonged to this ideal community--a weakness common to all the members of the Pleiades.

Then there were a senator and his wife--both of them very courtly and fashionable persons. The husband had exquisitely cut grey hair, and a handsome white beard, small hands, and thin legs. The wife, who was an invalid, had a languishing voice, a discontented face, and a manner that became earnest and excited as soon as things were mentioned of highest import to the society.

Then there was Professor Bommeldoos--an impressive man, who certainly would have been chosen as leader had it not been known that at heart he scorned and condemned such researches. He took part only at the urgent request of the countess, to whose beauty he was not insensible, for as a representative of pure science she desired him to be present. Professor Bommeldoos was awfully learned--his Greek was as fluent as water, and he had, so to speak, every conceivable system of philosophy under his thumb. He was so much taken up with himself that he paid no attention to any reply he might have received to his discourse. He thought only of his own words, and if he did not receive instant assent, or if some one, with a bow, wished to differ from him, he turned himself about, and declared the hearer to be an ignoramus.

These bad manners, however, were the exception among the well-bred Pleiades; but they were endured as being a necessary attribute of his great erudition.

The seventh, and last, was an Honorable Lady, no longer young. She was of noble birth, fat, unattractive, and as ignorant as Professor Bommeldoos was learned. Every one of her observations was crushed by him, with cold disdain, under some obscure quotation or other. Whereupon the Honorable Lady, smiling insipidly, became silent, but with a face which seemed to say that she was by no means convinced.

Johannes waited in great suspense for the first seance, above all because of the possibility that Markus would perceive his longings, and, as Van Lieverlee surmised, suddenly appear.

The members of the society gathered just as if they had no other thought than to make a casual evening visit. The Privy Counselor, who bore a threefold name, and whom therefore I shall call simply the Privy Counselor, chatted with the fat Honorable Lady about the climate on the Riviera, along which he had been traveling with his wife, for her health's sake, and whence he had brought her back home more ill than when she left. The General chatted on about the early shell-peas, while Van Lieverlee talked softly in French to the countess, to the silent distraction of Johannes. No one appeared to care to know the object of their meeting.

But this dissimulation was rudely shaken by Professor Bommeldoos, who, having scarcely entered, burst out in his frightful voice:

"Come, followers of Allan Kardec! Where is the keeper of the door--he who shall unlock for us that portal through which we may step from the kingdom of the three dimensions into that of the fourth dimension?"

Thereupon he looked searchingly into the faces of those present. They smiled in a rather embarrassed way, and glanced at the General. After a good, thorough clearing of his throat, the General said:

"If you refer to our medium, Professor, there is none yet; but we should--ah ... can--ah ... begin to form the circle, in order to prepare ourselves, in some degree, for...."

During oppressive silence, a round, marble-topped table was drawn by the gentlemen into the middle of the room. The assistance of the servants was not desired.

"Look! See what a crack was made in it the other time," whispered the Honorable Lady, "when it rose completely up into the air, you know. We could not possibly hold it down."

"Ought not the light to be put out?" asked the Professor, who had not yet attended a seance.

"No, no," said the General. "A little lower--just a little lower."

"Very well! H'm--h'm!" muttered Bommeldoos.

"The Professor must not counteract with his irony," said the countess, pleasantly.

"Mevrouw," declaimed the Professor, solemnly, "in the researches of a philosopher nothing is trifling, nothing is ridiculous. He stands for all phenomena like an unbroken mirror. Darwin had the contrabass played to an audience of sprouting garden-beans, in order to observe the effect of music on vegetation. And if you have read my book about Plotinus...."

"Pardon, Professor, I have not."

"What! Then the one about the material basis of ideas?"

"Nor that."

"Then you certainly must read my book upon Magic. Do not forget it, or I will not come the next time. Plotinus says...."

Here followed a quotation in Greek that I will spare you, but which was listened to with respect. Then the Honorable Lady chimed in with:

"Shall we not sing something? It puts one in such a good frame of mind."

They all agreed with her, but no one wanted to begin. The General seated himself mettlesomely at the table, and spread out his hands on the top of it.

With simulated unconcern, one after another followed him. At last, Johannes also was invited to take part.

"Is the young gentleman a novice in psychical fields?" asked the Privy Counselor, condescendingly.

"My friend Johannes ought to have strong mediumistic powers. I hope that those present will not object...." said the countess.

"Not at all, not at all," said the General. "In this research we are all as ignorant as children."

"I do not in the least agree with you, there, General," blustered Bommeldoos. "Have you read all the writings of Phillipus Aureolus Paracelsus Theophrastus Bombastus ab Hohenheim, born in 1493, died in 1541?"

"I have not, Professor," replied the warrior, meekly.

"Well, I have, and it was not child's work. Magic is a subdivision--and only a small subdivision--of philosophy. In my library I have a hundred and seventy-five volumes, all that subdivision--all of them on magical subjects, from Apollonius Tyannæus to Swedenborg, Hellenbach, and Du Prell. Do you call that childish ignorance?"

"'Suffer the little children to come unto me,'" said the fat Honorable Lady, improving the opportunity to make a quotation, also.

"I am not going to drive them away," said Bommeldoos, "if only they do not imagine they know as much as I do."

Johannes did not at all imagine that, and, hands upon the marble top of the table, he waited very patiently for the manifestations. They sat a considerable time, however, without anything unusual having happened. Van Lieverlee said to the countess, softly yet quite distinctly: "Neither are those magical powers of Johannes very unusual."

Then came the medium--a demure young woman of the middle class, who made deep courtesies to right and left, and appeared not to feel quite at home in this dignified society.

She had scarcely seated herself at the table, before the wife of the Privy Counselor cried out in a shrill voice: "I feel it already. There it goes!"

"Yes, a genuine shock," declared the Honorable Lady, in an excited tone.

"Be calm," commanded the General.

The table began turning and tilting, and now the questions were plied. The first spirit to put in an appearance gave general advice about reading the Bible, and about faithful attendance at church. This advice seemed to make a deep impression on the circle. Asked his name, the spirit replied, "Moses." This gave Professor Bommeldoos the opportunity to inquire if Moses himself had written the Pentateuch. "Yes": was the reply. But when the Professor queried him in Hebrew, Moses said that the medium needed a brief rest; and after that rest he left it to some one else to make reply. In succession followed Homer and Cicero, who both lamented that they had not known the true faith; and after them Napoleon, who evinced great sorrow for the amount of blood he had caused to be shed. One could see that this gave the General food for reflection.

But, save that all these people urged, in the main, the practice of purity and piety, it was unanimously demonstrated that Johannes and the countess were the ones from whose co-operation the greatest results were to be expected. They would have to study up these matters, and apply themselves to automatic writing.

Then Johannes had to sit beside the countess and hold her hand, and thus, together, write down the communications of the spirits. This was a bitter-sweet experience for Johannes. Would Markus come now?

But Markus did not come, nor any news of poor Heléne, nor of her father.

Yet a spirit disclosed itself who treated this ideal society in a very impolite, bearish manner. He called himself Thomas, and would not reply when Bommeldoos asked him if he was Thomas the Apostle, or Thomas Aquinas, or Thomas à Kempis, or Thomas Morus.

"Do you know us?" asked the Privy Counselor.

"Yes, you are heathen and malefactors."

"Will you help us?"

"Confess, pray, and do penance," said Thomas.

"Will you tell us something of the hereafter?" asked Countess Dolores, paling somewhat.

"Hell, if you go on this way," said Thomas.

"Then what must I do?" asked Dolores, almost trembling.

"Be converted," was the reply.

"That is all well and good," said Bommeldoos, "but I know at least twelve religions, and twice as many systems of philosophy. To which of them must we be converted?"

"Be still, you heretic," was the parting shot.

Such treatment as that was a bit too much for the learned Professor, and he declared he had had enough of it, and could better employ his time.

The society was of one mind--that the manifestations this evening had not been propitious. The medium ascribed this to her own indisposition. She had suffered the entire day with a headache, and, moreover, there were--she was certain of it--unfavorable influences present. Saying this, she cast a reproachful glance at the Professor.

"Oh, it was much more lively the last time," said the Honorable Lady. "Was it not truly extraordinary, General?"

"Phenomena cannot be forced," replied the General. "One has to practise patience. We would better stop, for the present."

So the session ended, and after the medium, with many obsequious airs, had taken her leave, they partook of a delicious supper.

Johannes retained his place beside the hostess, and the remembrance of the soft, warm hand that he had been able to hold in his own for so long a time made him very happy. He was not disappointed. Oh, no, he was elated--his excellent friend was so nice, so good, and so kind to him.

A new Dutch waitress in black and wearing a snow-white cap with long strings was in attendance. Johannes paid no attention to her, but noticed that Van Lieverlee looked at her repeatedly.

"Did you not think it a remarkable evening?" asked the countess, after the guests were gone and they were alone together.

"I thought it splendid," replied Johannes, with sincerity.

"They called it a failure," said the countess, "but it impressed me quite otherwise. I feel greatly moved."

"I too," said Johannes.

"Do you? That makes me happy. So you, also, feel that we need to be converted?"

"I do not think that," said Johannes, "but you have been so good to me."

Countess Dolores made no reply, but she smiled and pressed his hand kindly. Johannes retained her hand, while he looked into her eyes with passionate devotion.

The waitress had been standing at the buffet, placing silver in the drawer. At this moment she turned round, and when Johannes in some confusion looked at her to see if she had paid any attention to his all-too-tender airs and words, he suddenly found himself gazing into a pair of well-known, light-grey eyes.

They were Marjon's eyes, and they wore a look of unutterable anguish and sorrow.

It seemed to Johannes as if his heart had stopped beating. He sat like one paralyzed, until his friend's hand slipped from his clasp. He appeared to wish to rise--to say something....

But Marjon put her finger to her lips, and went quietly on with her work.

IX

Among the visitors at Villa Dolores was a Roman prelate--a friend of Dolores' deceased husband. He was heavy of build and always cheerful, and never talked on religious subjects. Sometimes he came sociably, as a table guest, and besides a fund of anecdotes he also had much to say that was instructive, to which Johannes listened eagerly.

He was a far more amiable person than Dominie Kraalboom, and Johannes liked him much better. He understood all about flowers and animals, about poetry, paintings, and music; and of special interest were his observations on beautiful Italy and holy Rome, where he had traveled and studied.

Of course he did not belong to the Pleiades; and if by rare exception the circle was referred to in his presence, he, being both cautious and courteous, remained silent.

Yet, after that first meeting of which I have told you in the preceding chapter, Johannes observed that he came oftener than before, and also at unconventional hours; and when Johannes came into the room he noticed that the conversation between the countess and the priest was suddenly broken off. He saw, also, that his hostess had more color in her cheeks, as if she had been speaking of weighty matters.

"Your Mahatma does not come," said Dolores once, when, after such a time as this, the priest had just taken his leave. "He has turned his back upon us."

"Yes, Mevrouw," Johannes was forced to admit.

"I think myself very fortunate in having found a wise man who can help me."

"Do you mean Father Canisius?"

"Yes. Do you know what he says? That we are on a dangerous road in the pursuit of our object. It is all the work of the devil, he declares. And everything he says agrees with what we heard that evening. Would you not like to have a chat with him?"

But Johannes hesitated. He had not yet spoken to Marjon, and was hoping to hear from her something concerning his brother.

Marjon evaded him, and he had not found an opportunity to meet her alone. Every morning he went to his room with a beating heart, hoping to find her there busied in putting it to rights; but generally it was already in order, and he found merely the traces of her care: his clothing brushed and folded, his linen looked over and nicely placed in the linen-press, and fresh flowers in the little vase on his table. He observed everything, and was deeply touched by it.

But she seemed careful to be always in company with the other servants, and to bear herself as stiffly and coldly as the most pert, demure, and well-trained chambermaid possibly could. Not a word nor a look nor a sign betrayed her acquaintance with Johannes; and he often heard the countess declare to her visitors that she had never before found so quickly a good Dutch servant.

Neither had Van Lieverlee recognized her, but was simply struck with her peculiar, somewhat alien manner, which led him to ask the lady of the house if she knew the origin of the girl.

"No," said the countess; "she was recommended to me by an old friend, and apparently she deserves all that was said of her."

* * * * *

But Johannes' yearning for Markus grew stronger every day. He both dreaded and longed for his coming, and he wished that in some way he might be delivered from his uncertainty.

Therefore he was ever on the alert to seize an opportunity for speaking with Marjon alone. One evening he detained her in the hall under the pretense of inquiring about his shoes.

"Where did you leave Keesje?" he asked in a low voice.

"You know very well," replied Marjon, curtly, and in the same low tone.

Johannes did indeed know, and for that very reason he had asked the question.

"Yes, but where is he who has Keesje?"

"I do not know; and even if I did, I would not tell you. He knows his time."

At that moment Countess Dolores passed by.

"Johannes," said she, "I am having a talk with Father Canisius. If you wish you may come, too."

Johannes questioned Marjon with a look; but there fell before her eyes that impenetrable veil which always completely hid her inmost self from every stranger.

Father Canisius was in the parlor, seated in a low chair. His black soutane fitted tightly over his robust body, and his heavy feet in their buckled shoes were planted wide apart. He was polishing his spectacles with a handkerchief, and as Johannes entered the room he put them quickly in place, and turned his large eyes, full of interest, toward the door.

When Johannes came forward he took his hand in a kindly way and drew him nearer. Johannes looked into the broad, smooth-shaven face with its flat nose and sagacious eyes.

"Have you never had good guidance, my boy? Without it life is difficult and dangerous."

"I have indeed had good guidance, Mijnheer," said Johannes, "but I have more than once preferred to go my own way; and then I disregarded my guidance."

"But was it _good_ guidance?" asked the priest.

"I had a good father; later, I found a dear, good friend. But I left them both."

"Why did you do that? Were you not satisfied with what they taught you? What was it that took you from them?"

Johannes hesitated.

"Were they too strict?"

Johannes shook his head.

"Then what was lacking that you found elsewhere but not with them?"

"I do not know, Mijnheer, what to call it. It is not pleasure, for I am willing to endure much suffering. And yet again it is the most glorious thing I know. I think it is what is meant by 'the beautiful.'"

On saying this, he bethought himself that it was not merely "the beautiful" for which he had left his father, and that the emotion which had led him away from Markus, and which he had felt for the two little girls, might indeed be called love.

"Perhaps it is also called love," said he.

Father Canisius considered a moment, and throwing a glance at the countess, he said:

"Then did you not find the love of that good father and the good friend enough for you?"

"Oh, yes, yes," said Johannes, with spirit. "But it was from them I had learned that I ought to follow what seemed to me, in all sincerity, the most beautiful, and to do what I truly thought best."

The priest dropped Johannes' hand, and pressed his own fleshy palms together, while he slowly and sorrowfully shook his great head, gave a deep sigh, and continued to look at Countess Dolores with a very serious face.

"Poor boy!" said he then. "Poor, poor boy!"

Then, lifting his head and looking Johannes straight in the eyes, he said: "No, Johannes, they were not good guides. I do not know them, and I shall not judge them, but I assure you positively that with such teaching, such guidance, you are bound to be lost unless granted extraordinary grace."

A long silence ensued. Johannes was touched, and even startled.

"What do you mean?" he finally stammered with trembling lips.

"Listen, Johannes," said Countess Dolores. "Father Canisius is very wise--a man of large experience in life."

"Do you believe in God, Johannes?" asked the priest.

"I know that I have a Father who understands me," said Johannes, slowly.

"Do you mean a heavenly Father? Very well; so far, so good. But you must have observed also that there is an evil one--Satan--who goes about deceiving us."

"Yes," said Johannes, promptly, thinking of his many disappointments. "That is so. I have observed it."

"Well, then, Satan is always lying in wait for us, like a wolf lurking near the sheep. One who trusts only in his own powers and his own opinion is like a sheep that strays from the fold. The wolf surely waits his opportunity, and, unless God perform a miracle, that sheep is lost."

Johannes felt the fear strike to his heart, and he could not speak.

"We first notice the approach of this wolf by a terrible sensation. That is God's warning to us. That feeling is doubt. Have you ever known what it was to doubt, Johannes?"

Johannes, with clenched fists and compressed lips, nodded in quick and utter dismay. Yes, yes, _yes_! He had known what it was to doubt.

"I thought so," said Father Canisius, calmly. "It is a fearful feeling, is it not?" Raising his voice, he proceeded: "It is like the sound of howling wolves in the distance--to the wandering sheep. Let it not be in vain that you are warned, Johannes."

After a pause he continued:

"Doubt itself is a sin. He who doubts is on an inclined plane that slopes toward a fall. Have you ever heard of the hideous octopus, Johannes--that soft sea-monster with the huge eyes, and eight long arms full of suckers which, one by one, he winds around the limbs of a swimmer, before dragging him down to the deeps? You have? Well, Satan is such an octopus. Unnoticed, he reaches out his long arms, and twines them about your limbs--holding them fast with his suckers until he can stab his sharp beak into your heart. Doubt is not only a warning but positive proof that Satan has already gripped you. It is the beginning of his power. The end is everlasting pain and damnation."

Johannes raised his head and looked at the priest, who was watching the effect of his words.

In spite of his distress there was suddenly aroused in Johannes a feeling of resistance. He felt that an effort was being made to frighten him; and even if he was but a stripling he would not allow that.

"My Father does not condemn those who err in good faith," said he.

Father Canisius observed that by bearing on too hard he had awakened a rebellious spirit. He therefore became more cautious, and resumed gently:

"Certainly, Johannes. God is infinitely good and merciful. But have you not remarked that there is a justice from which you cannot escape? And do you believe that one who has been led astray can plead, 'I am not guilty, for I was deceived'? No, Johannes, you take this matter too lightly. Punishment attends sin. That is God's inexorable law. And only if He had failed to warn us--only if He had not accurately revealed to us His will, could you call that cruel and unjust. But we _are_ warned--_are_ instructed--and may follow good guidance. If then we continue to stray, it is our own fault and we must not complain."

"You mean the Bible, do you not, Mijnheer?"

"The Bible and the Church," said the Father, not pleased at the tone of this question. "I very well comprehend, my boy, that you, with your poetic temperament and your craving for the beautiful, have not found peace in the cold, barren, and barbarous creed of Protestantism. But the Church gives you everything--beauty, warmth, love, and exalted poetry. In the Church alone can you find peace and perfect security. You know, however, do you not, that the flock has need of a Shepherd? And you know also who that Shepherd is?"

"Do you mean the Pope?"

"I mean Christ, Johannes--our Redeemer, of whom the Pope is merely a human representative. Do you know this Shepherd? Do you not know Jesus Christ?"

"No, Mijnheer," replied Johannes, in all simplicity, "I do not know him at all."

"I thought as much; and that is why I said to you, 'Poor boy.' But if you wish to learn to know him, I will gladly help you. Do you wish me to?"

"Why not, Mijnheer?" said Johannes.

"Very well. Begin, then, by accompanying the countess to the church she has promised me to attend--Have you, indeed, arranged to go?"

"Yes, Father," replied the countess. "Oh, I am so happy that you take such an interest in us! Johannes will surely always be grateful to you."

Father Canisius pressed very cordially the hands of both of his new disciples, and, with an expression of calm satisfaction on his face, he took his leave.

The children came in, and nothing further was said that day between Johannes and his friend concerning the matter; but the countess was much more animated than usual, and wonderfully kind toward Johannes. She even kissed him again when they said good-night, as once before she had done --when with her children.

* * * * *

Johannes could not sleep. He was full of anxiety, and in a state of high nervous tension. When the house grew still, and the lonely, mysterious night had come, came also fear and doubt and faint-heartedness. He doubted that he doubted, and feared the doubt of the doubt. He heard the howling of the wolf that lay in wait for the wandering sheep; he felt the slippery, slimy, crawling grasp of those terrible arms, that unnoticed, had fastened their suckers everywhere to his limbs; he saw the great yellow eyes of the octopus, with the narrow, slit-shaped pupil; and he felt the mouth searching and feeling about his body for his heart, that it might stab it with the sharp, parrot-like beak. With chattering teeth he lay wide awake between the sheets--shivering and shaking, while the perspiration poured from him.

Then he heard a faint, creaking sound on the stairs, followed by a light footfall at the doorway. His door was opened, and a slim, dark form came cautiously up to the bed.

He felt a soft, warm hand on his clammy forehead, and heard Marjon's voice whispering:

"You must be faithful, Jo, and not let them make you afraid. The Father likes brave and loyal children."

"Yes, Marjon," said Johannes; and the shivering ceased, while a gentle warmth stole over and through his entire body. He dropped asleep so soon that he did not notice when she left the room.

X

"Jump out!" cried Wistik, excitedly, swinging his little red cap. "Come on--jump!"

Johannes saw no way of doing so. The window was high and quite too small. Perhaps by climbing still higher he might find a way out. A flight of stairs, and another garret. Still another narrow passage, and another stairway. Then he caught another glimpse of Wistik, astride a large eagle.

"Come on, Johannes!" cried he. "You must dare to--then nothing can happen."

Johannes was ready to venture, but he could not do it. The little window was again out of reach. Back again. Empty garrets, steep stairs--stairs without end. And there was the octopus! He knew it. Again and again he saw one of the long arms with its hundreds of suckers. Sometimes one of them lay stretched along the garret floor, so that he had to step over it. Sometimes one meandered over the stairs that Johannes was obliged to mount. The whole house was full of them.

And out-of-doors the sun was shining, and the blue air was clear and bright. Wistik was circling around the house, seated on the great eagle--the very same eagle they had come across before, in Phrygia.

Out-of-doors also rang the voice of Marjon. Hark! She was singing. She, too, was in the open air. She seemed to have made a little song, herself--words and melody--for Johannes had never before heard either of them.

"Nightly there come to me, White as the snow, Wings that I know to be Strange, here below.

"Up into ether blue, Pure and so high, Mounting on pinions true, Singing, I fly.

"Sea-gull like then I soar-- Not light more swift-- So near to Heaven's door To rock and drift!"

Alas! Johannes could not yet do that. He had no wings. He did, indeed, see rays of light at times, and here and there a bit of blue sky. But he could not get to it--he could not get out! And on he went again--upstairs, downstairs, through doorways, halls, and great garrets. And the terrible arms lay everywhere.

Again Marjon sang:

"Marvelous, matchless blue I cleave in flight. The spheres are not so fleet As my winged feet.

"World after world speed by Under my hand, New ones I ever espy, Countless as sand.

"Blue of the skies! Blue of the deep! Now make me wise--No more to weep."

Johannes also heard the blue calling him; but what the magic word was he could not guess. He was on his knees now, before a small, garret window through which he could barely thrust his arm. Behind him he could hear a shuffling and sliding. It was the long arm again!

"It's a shame!" said Wistik again, his little face red with anger, "the way they have maligned me! I ought to be hail-fellow with the Evil One for not letting you be. What a rascal he is! Do you want to be rid of me, Johannes?"

"No, Wistik. I believe that you are good even if you have often disappointed me and made me very restless. You have shown me so much that is beautiful. But why do you not help me now? If you call me you ought to help me.

"No," said Wistik; "you must help yourself. You must act, you understand? Act! You know that _It_ is behind you, do you not?"

"Yes, yes!" shrieked Johannes.

"But, boy, do not shriek at me! Shriek at _It_. It is much more afraid of you than you are of It. Try!"

That was an idea. Johannes set his teeth, clenched his fists, turned round and shouted:

"Out, I say! Out with you--you ugly, miserable wretch!"

I even believe he used a swear-word. But one ought to forgive him, because it was from sudden excitement. When he saw that the long arms shriveled and drew away, and that it grew still in the house--when he felt his distress abating and saw the sunlight burst out, revealing a spacious deep-blue sky--then his anger calmed down, and he felt rather ashamed of having been so vehement.

"That is good!" said Wistik. "But do not be unmannerly--do not scold. That is hateful. But nevertheless, act, and learn compassion."

Johannes was now no longer afraid; he shouted for joy. Yes, he was bathed in tears of thankfulness and relief. Oh, the glorious blue sky!

"Now you know it, once for all," said Wistik.

Marjon's voice again in song. But this time very different--the air of one of her old songs merely hummed: a customary calling sound--a soft suppressed little tune. And thereupon followed a "tap, tap, tap," at his chamber door, to tell him that it was half-past eight and time to get up.

* * * * *

Fresh energy, a feeling of high spirits and courage, filled Johannes that day. At last he was going to act--to do something to end his difficulties.

First, he sought an opportunity to speak with Van Lieverlee. He went to brave him in his own rooms where he had never yet been. There he saw a confused medley of dissimilar things: some rare old pieces of furniture, and oriental rugs; a large collection of pipes and weapons; a few modern books; on the wall some picture-studies of which Johannes could not glean the meaning; some French posters picturing frivolous girls. With the same glance he saw mediæval prints of saints in ecstasy, and plaster casts of wanton women, and the heads of emaciated monks. There were images of Christ in hideous nakedness, and lithographs and casts so blood-curdling, crazy, and bizarre that they made Johannes think of his most frightful dreams.

"What are you here for?" asked Van Lieverlee tot Endegeest who, with an empty pipe in his mouth and a face full of displeasure, lay stretched out languidly on the floor.

"I have come to ask something," said Johannes, not exactly knowing how to begin.

"Not in the mood for it," drawled Van Lieverlee.

The day before, Johannes would have wilted. Not so to-day. He seated himself, and thought of what Wistik had said--"Act!"

"I will not wait any longer," he began again. "I have waited too long already."

"The big priest has had you in hand, has he not?" said Van Lieverlee, with a little more interest.

"Yes," replied Johannes; "did you know it? What do you think of him?"

Van Lieverlee gaped, nodded, and said: "A knowing one! Just let him alone. Biceps! you know--biceps! All physique and intellectuality. Representative of his entire organization. Can't help respecting it, Johannes. How those fellows can thunder at the masses! One can't help taking off his hat to them. The whole lot of the Reformed aren't in it with them! Theirs is only half-work; they are irresolute in everything they give or take; _krita-krita_, as we say in Sanscrit. Whether you do good or do ill, aways do it wholly, not by halves; otherwise you yourself become the dupe. If you would keep the people down, hold them down completely. To establish a church, and at the same time talk of liberty of conscience, as do the Protestants--that is stuff and nonsense --nothing comes of it. You may see that from the results. Every dozen Protestants have their own church with its own dogmas, with its own little faith which alone can save, and with its little coterie of the elect! No, compared with them the Roman Church is at least a respectable piece of work--a formidable concern."

"Do you believe in it?" asked Johannes.

Van Lieverlee shrugged his shoulders.

"I shall have to think it over a while longer. If I think it agreeable to believe in it, then I shall do so. But it will be in the genuine old Church, with Adam and Eve, and the sun which circles around the earth; not in that modernized, up-to-date Church, altered according to the advancement of science--with electric light and the doctrine of heredity. How disgusting! No, I must have the church of Dante, with a real hell full of fire and brimstone, right here under our earth, and Galileo inside of it."

"But I did not come to inquire about that," said Johannes, sticking to his point. "I am not content, and you ought to help me. What I have heard in the Pleiades, and from Father Canisius does not satisfy me. I am sure, also, that it is not in this way I shall find my friend again; and now I am determined to find him."

"Where, then, do you wish to look for him?"

"I believe," said Johannes, "that if he is to be found anywhere, it is among the poor--the laborers."

"Ah! Would you take part in the labor agitation? Well, you can do so, but I do not agree to go with you. You know what I think about that. Socialism has got to come, but I am not going to concern myself with it. It smells too much of the proletariat. I am very glad of the birth of a new society, but a birth is always an unsavory incident. I leave that to the midwife. I'll wait until the infant is thoroughly washed and tidy before making its acquaintance."

"But I wish to look for my friend."

Van Lieverlee stood up and stretched himself.

"You bore me," said he, "with that eternal chatter about your friend."

"Act!" thought Johannes, and he went on:

"You promised to show me the way to what I am seeking, and to give an explanation of my experiences. But I know no more than I knew before."

"Your own fault, my friend. Result of pride and self-seeking. Why have you had so little to do with me? You kept yourself with those two little girls. Did they enlighten you?"

"Quite as much as you did," replied Johannes.

Van Lieverlee looked up in surprise. That was insubordination--open resistance. However, he thought it better to take no notice, so he said:

"But since you will join the labor movement, then you must find out for yourself. I won't hold you back. Go, then, and look for your Mahatma!"

"But how am I to begin? You have so many friends--do you know some one who can help me?"

Van Lieverlee thought about it while looking steadily at Johannes. Then he said, deliberately:

"Very well. I know of one who is in the middle of it. Would you like to go to him?"

"Yes, at once, if you please."

"Good," said Van Lieverlee. Together they set out. The friend referred to was the editor of a journal--a Doctor of Laws. Felbeck was his name.

His office was far from luxurious in appearance. The steps were worn, and the door-mat was trodden to shreds. It was a dreary and sombre place. Large posters and caricatures were pasted on the walls, and on the table, lay many pamphlets and papers. Also there were writing-desks, letter-boxes, and rush-bottomed chairs. Two clerks sat there writing, and a few men, with hats on and cigars in their mouths, were talking. There was a continual running to and fro of people--printers' devils, and men in slouch hats.

Dr. Felbeck himself had a pale, thin face, square jaws, bristling hair, and a black goatee and moustache. His eyes were deep-set, and they looked at Johannes keenly, in a manner not fitted to put him into a restful and confiding state of mind.

"This young person," said Van Lieverlee, "wishes, as you express it, to turn his back upon his bourgeois status, and to swell the ranks of the struggling proletariat. Is that what you call it?"

"Well!" said Dr. Felbeck. "He need not be ashamed of it, and you might follow his example, Van Lieverlee."

"Who knows what I may yet do," said Van Lieverlee, "when the proletariat shall have learned to wash itself?"

"What!" said Felbeck. "Would you, a poet, have washed and combed proletarians, with collars and silk hats? No, my friend; with their vile and callous fists they will smash your refined and coddled civilization, like an _etagère_ of bric-à-brac in a parlor!" Dr. Felbeck vented his feelings in a blow at the imaginary _etagère_. The attention of a clerk on the other side of the room was arrested, and he stopped his work. Van Lieverlee, too, looked somewhat interested.

"A revolution appeals to me," said Van Lieverlee. "With barricades, and fellows on them with red flags, straggling hair, and bloodshot eyes. That isn't bad. But you people of the Society of the Future!--Heaven preserve us from that tedious and kill-joy crowd! I would ten times over prefer an obese, over-rich banker with his jeweled rings, who, waxing fat through the misfortunes of simpletons, builds a villa in Corfu, to your future citizen."

"You do not at all understand it yet," said Felbeck, with a slighting laugh. "You are bound to have such notions because you belong to the bourgeois class of which you are an efflorescence. You are obliged to talk like a bourgeois, and versify like one. You cannot do otherwise. You cannot possibly comprehend the proletarian civilization of the future. It is to be evolved from the proletarian class to which we belong, and with which your young friend wishes to connect himself, as I perceive with pleasure."

The clerk across the room came nearer, to listen to the speech of his chief. He was an under-sized young man whose pomaded black hair was parted in the middle. He had a crooked nose straddled by eye-glasses, and thick lips from between which dangled a cigar--even while he spoke. He wore a well-fitting suit, and pointed shoes with gaiters.

"May I introduce myself," said he. "I am Kaas--fellow-partner Isadore Kaas."

"Pleased to meet you," said Van Lieverlee. And Johannes also received a handshake.

"Have you come to register yourself?" the partner asked.

"In what?" asked Johannes, who had not yet exactly gotten the idea of things. "In the proletarian class?"

"As a member of the party," said Kaas.

"What does that imply?" asked Johannes, hesitating.

"It implies," said Felbeck, "that you renounce the privileges of the class to which you are native, and that you range yourself, under the red flag, in the ranks of the International Workingmen's Party--with the struggling proletariat--the party of the future."

"Then what have I to do?"

"Sign your name, make a small contribution, attend the meetings, read our paper, spread our doctrines, and vote for our candidates in the elections."

"Nothing else?" asked Johannes.

"Well, is not that enough?"

"Did you not speak of privileges I must renounce?"

"There, there!" said partner Kaas, "do not make too much of that, to begin with. Don't be frightened. For the present, nothing further is required of you."

"Oh, I was not afraid," said Johannes, a trifle vexed that he should have been misunderstood. "I was even hoping that I might be able to do more."

"So much the better! So much the better!" said Kaas, stepping hurriedly over to his desk again, and eagerly hunting for a pen. "That settles it. Your name, if you please."

But Johannes was not, for the time being, in a very compliant mood. Since he had dared the octopus he had found that he had more than one string to his bow.

"No, I came for something else. I have a dear friend who lives and works for the poor and oppressed. I am looking for him. I saw him last, at the great strike of the miners, in Germany. Since that time I have heard nothing from him, but I know, surely, that he is with the working people. Mijnheer van Lieverlee has told me that you were in the midst of the labor movement. Could you not help me?"

"What's his name?" asked Dr. Felbeck.

"They know him as Markus," replied Johannes, although it cost him an effort to speak the dear name in that place.

"Markus?" repeated the gentleman, considering. "Markus only?"

"Markus Vis," said Johannes, with yet more reluctance.

"Oh! He!" exclaimed partner Kaas.

"Markus Vis?" said Felbeck, turning round to the others in the office. "Is that--?"

"Yes, yes!" interrupted Kaas, "the very same who caused that row at the Exchange."

"Gee! That confounded anarchist!" cried one of the soft-hatted smokers.

"Is he a friend of yours?" asked Dr. Felbeck, with a disdainful sniff.

"Yes, Mijnheer, my best friend," said Johannes, firmly.

"Well, young man, you consort with odd and dangerous friends.

"Do you know where he is?" asked Johannes, quite undisturbed.

"Not I," declared Felbeck, scornfully. "Do any of you happen to know?"

"I rather think somewhere in the neighborhood of Bedlam," said another man.

"Trommel," called Felbeck to a clerk who had kept on writing, "where does Vis hang out at present?"

"Markus Vis?" said partner Trommel. "Well, for the nonce, at the office of an iron foundry. He has a job there."

"That's a neat berth for him," remarked one of the smokers. "You'll see what a boot-licker he'll be after he puts on a collar."

"What foundry is that?" asked Van Lieverlee.

"In the 'de Ruiter,' of your uncle Mijnheer van Trigt," replied partner Trommel.

"How long has he been there?" asked Van Lieverlee.

"For two or three weeks past."

"Is he a tall dark fellow with a beard, and curling hair, and a jumper?"

"That is it--exactly!" said various voices.

Van Lieverlee swung round, strode up to the window, threw back his head, pulled out his handkerchief, and snorted into it. The bystanders could hardly tell whether he was sneezing, or laughing, or indisposed.

"Excuse me!" he cried out. "Something comical occurred to me."

Then he snorted again, and one could plainly see that he was laughing.

"A Mahatma!" they heard him murmur, in the middle of his laughing. "Oh! Oh! but that is good! A Mahatma!"

Those present looked rather perplexed at this outburst, as if waiting for further explanation.

"If I only had had that description earlier, Johannes," said Van Lieverlee, recovering from his fit of laughter, "we need not have annoyed these gentlemen. Your friend is in my uncle's office. I have seen him several times."

"Then will you go there with me?" asked Johannes. His voice was still firm, but I assure you his eyes were full of tears. However, he controlled himself in the presence of those men and partners.

"Of course, of course! Sometime!" said Van Lieverlee, in high glee; and he actually began laughing again. He made a pretense of trying to control this outburst, but such was his manner that Johannes would have liked to strike him straight in the face.

He did not do it, however, but went down the steps with Van Lieverlee without having enrolled in the proletarian class.

"Well, good-by!" said Van Lieverlee, when they were in the street, giving Johannes' hand an immoderate shake. "I must go to the Soos.[1] Sometime we will go to the foundry. I'll make some inquiries, first. We'll go sometime--of course--of course!"

With his mouth still twisted in irony, and humming a song, he passed on, in affected indifference. That evening--alone--Johannes hunted for the foundry. But the office was closed and dark, and there was no one about to give him information.

He found in his own little room a small bit of cheer--a vase of forget-me-nots, from Marjon.

[1] Soos = Abbreviation of _Societeit_, or Club.

XI

"Wistik, dear," said Johannes, "let me hold your hand. You are such a good and true friend. I am not sorry any more that I slipped from under Windekind's mantle to listen to you."

"One must not admire oneself--I have always said that," replied Wistik, "but it is very true that I am good, and do not deserve all those mean things said of me. And what is the truth may be acknowledged, even if it be called boasting. Neither bragging nor decrying, but the truth--that is my idea."

Thereupon the little fellow nodded proudly, and set his cap on more firmly.

They were sitting on a rocky coast. To the left the sun was shining brightly upon a steep wall of rose-red rocks. To the right was a gentle upward slope, where trees were growing, with delicate silver-grey foliage. In front of them lay the wide waters of the sea--almost motionless, but slightly stirring with the fresh wind, and sparkling in the light. There was nothing to be seen save red rocks, blue sky, and water. The blue, crystal-clear water lapped and gurgled and splashed about the hollows and chinks in the stone at their feet, and then disappeared in the clefts and caves, where the sea-weed and the coral were. How bright it was! How fresh and spacious!

"I never see Windekind, now," said Johannes. "It is truly sad, for Father Pan's kingdom was most beautiful. But I am resigned, and I believe you when you say that still more beautiful things are to be found. Did I not once think the dunes the most beautiful of all, and fear I never should feel at home anywhere else? But now this strange land seems to me even greater, and I feel at home here also. Where are we, dear Wistik?"

"What difference does it make?" said Wistik, who never willingly admitted he did not know a thing.

"It does not matter," replied Johannes. "The main thing is that I know that I am I--Johannes, and that I see things good and clear; that yesterday I was at that office, and that I sought for Markus at the foundry. And I know too that I might now be seen lying asleep. But yet I am not dreaming, for I am wide awake--quite wide awake, and I remember everything."

"Exactly," agreed Wistik. "Do you recollect what Markus said about remembering?"

He paused a moment, and then went on in a tone that grew softer and more solemn.

"Remembrance, Johannes, is truly a holy thing; for it makes the past--_present_. Now the future to it ... and then we should be...."

"Where, Wistik?"

"In that still autumn day, where the gold on the tree-tops never fades, and a branch never breaks. Do you remember?" asked Wistik, hardly above a whisper.

Johannes nodded, in silence. After a while he said:

"It is splendid, Wistik, that I still remember, even in the night, and stay awake and knowing things, even although my body is asleep in bed. I will not be dead and lie down like a log, forgetting everything, as some do in sleep. Neither will I dream all sorts of nonsense, as if every night I grew foolish. That is shameful. I will not do so."

"Right, Johannes! No one wishes to be dead, and no one wishes to be foolish. And when human beings sleep they are dead, and when they dream they are foolish. None of that for me!"

"I shall try to live in my sleep, and to be wise in my dreams," said Johannes. "But it is hard, and time flies so fast!"

He gazed at his hands, his limbs, and his whole body. He had on his handsomest suit. In amazement, he asked:

"What body is this I have on, Wistik? And how silly to wear clothes. What clothes are these?"

"Do you not see? They are your own clothes."

So it was. Johannes recalled them precisely. And he held in his hand one of Marjon's blue forget-me-nots.

"I do not understand it, Wistik! That I have a dream-life--that I travel with you in the night, that I do understand. But how did my clothes get here? Do my clothes dream, too?"

"Why not?" asked Wistik.

Astonished, Johannes continued to meditate. The water swirled and splashed all about the hollows in the rocks. The exquisite warbling of a yellow-finch rang sweet and plaintive from between the clefts.

"But if everything can dream, then everything must be alive--my trousers too, and my shoes."

"Why not?" said Wistik again. "Just prove to me that they are not."

The way to do that was not clear to Johannes.

"Or perhaps," he resumed, "perhaps I make everything--rocks, sea, light, and clothing. One or the other; _I_ dream it and make it, or it dreams everything itself and makes itself."

"It cannot be any other way," assented Wistik.

"But then, I could make something else if I wished to."

"I think so, too," said Wistik.

"A violin? Could I make a violin, and then play on it?"

"Just try it," said Wistik.

Behold! There was the violin--all ready for him. Johannes took it, and passed the bow over the strings as if he had handled it all his life. The most glorious music came from it--as fine as any he had ever heard.

"Oh, Wistik! Do you hear? Who would ever have thought that I could make such music!"

"'Vraagal can do all that Vraagal wills,' said Pan."

"Yes," said Johannes, musing an instant, and forgetting his violin, which forthwith vanished. "Pan also spoke of the real Devil, you remember. He said that I must ask you to show him to me."

Wistik had drawn up his little knees and placed his arms about them, his long beard hanging down in front to his shins. Sitting thus, he threw a sidelong glance at Johannes, to see if he intended to do it. Then his entire little body began to tremble. "Shall we not take a little fly out over the ocean?" he asked.

But Johannes was not to be diverted.

"No, I want to see the real Devil."

"Are you sure, Johannes?"

"Yes," replied the latter. He felt himself a hero, now, after having defied the octopus.

"Think well about it," said Wistik.

"What does he look like?"

"What do you think?"

"I think," said Johannes, beginning to look stern and angry, "I think he looks like Marjon's sister."

"Why?" asked Wistik.

"Because I hate her! Because whatever I think beautiful she always spoils for me, and spoils it through the remembrance alone. She looks like Marjon, and she also looks like that dear friend about whom I am always thinking; and yet she is not the same--she is ugly and common. She kissed me once, and it has spoiled my life."

"Wrong, Johannes! He does not look in the least like that," said Wistik.

Suddenly, Johannes noticed that the bright light was growing dimmer, and that the great firm rocks began to quiver and shake as if seen through heated air, uneven glass, or flowing water.

Then, all at once, he knew, without descrying it, through an inner feeling of nameless distress, that _It_ was sitting behind him.

It! You know well, do you not, what it was? It--the same that sat by the pool when that poor young girl was drowned--It was sitting behind him, huge and deathly still. Sunlight, sea, and rocks--the whole beautiful land, grew hazy and vague.

"He is here," whispered Wistik, "behind us. Bear up, Johannes! You yourself wanted it."

"What shall I do?" asked Johannes, now very nervous and terrified.

"Do not be afraid! For God's sake, do not be afraid! If you do you are lost."

"Shall I cry to God, or to Jesus? Or cross myself?"

"He cares not a bit for such things; he laughs at them; he knows all about them. He makes fun of prayers and the sign of the cross. The main thing is to keep on the alert, and not to be afraid. He will be very friendly, and show you all kinds of pretty and interesting sights, and he will try to make you sleepy and afraid. But you must not fear and must not forget. Above all, keep fast hold of Marjon's flower. And here ... look!"

With his nervously trembling little fingers Wistik fumbled in the small satchel that always hung by a strap over his shoulder, and took from the jumbled lot of pebbles, scissors, lead-pencils, and dried plants, a little mirror on the frame of which his name was neatly engraved. Then in a voice shaken and nearly speechless with emotion, he said: "Hold that good and fast! It is your salvation. Go now, dear boy. Go!"

And the good little fellow wept.

"Are you not going with me?" asked Johannes, in agitation.

"I am his greatest enemy," said Wistik; "he cannot endure the sight of me. But I will stay in the neighborhood. Call me once in a while, and I will answer you. Then you will know that you are safe...."

"Welcome, Johannes!" said a gentle, friendly voice, and a soft warm hand clasped his own. "You are not embarrassed in my presence, I hope."

Could that be the Evil One? A nice, polite person like that, with such taking manners, and such a caressing voice? Johannes looked round, in amazement, to the place where _It_ was. He could not distinguish clearly, nor look straight at the speaker, but he seemed to be an ordinary, modish gentleman, with a frank, smiling face--well dressed in a brown suit and a straw hat.

"Would you not like to make acquaintance with me and my Museum?" continued the speaker. "It is an excellent collection--sure to please you. But what have you in your hand? Not a mirror, is it? Fie! You must throw it away. I have no patience with such mirrors. I abhor them! They foster only conceit."

The soft hand essayed to take away the mirror, but Johannes held it fast, and said firmly: "I will keep the mirror."

He had scarcely said this when there flitted across that smiling, honest-looking face a shade of indescribable malice. It was very brief, but plain enough to cause Johannes a shudder, and to convince him that truly the Evil One stood before him.

But instantly the face became again most frank and winning, and he heard:

"Very well, then, as you please. We will begin by making the acquaintance of my subjects--all of them friends, comrades, or relatives."

Just then Johannes heard again the well-remembered whispering and giggling which he had heard while watching the little hands. On all sides, amid much rustling and shuffling, he heard breathing, coughing, and sniffling--all sorts of queer human sounds, as if the place was thronged with people. But still he could see nothing.

"You fancied I was very different, did you not, Johannes? That I had horns and a tail? That idea is out of date. No one believes it now. Thank God we are forever above that foolish separation of good and evil. That is untenable Dualism. My kingdom is as good as the other."

"What is your name?" asked Johannes.

"They call me King Waan.[1] Yes, indeed! I am a king, if I do appear so humble. Besides, external pomp is out of fashion. I am a constitutional, bourgeois, democratic king. Here, Bangeling![2] Come here! This is my most trusty helper--my right hand, in fact."

Johannes shuddered at the sight of Bangeling--a shrinking, stooping, pale, and loathsome youngster. His eyes were red-rimmed, and glanced shiftingly right and left--never straight in front. His lean knees knocked against each other, and every moment his rag-covered body twitched with terror, and he cried: "Oh, Heaven! Oh, God! Now you will catch it! It is too late! Too la-a-ate!"

To hear and see this repeatedly, without becoming frightened oneself, was not easy; but Johannes pressed his flower close to his breast and cried:

"Wistik!"

"Ay, ay!" he heard his good little friend shout.

But the voice sounded from above, and far away. And suddenly Johannes had a very distinct sensation of falling, fast as lightning, down fathomless depths, although everything around him remained the same.

"Are we falling down below?" he asked.

King Waan gave Johannes a falsely-sweet smile. "One should not ask such impolite questions when making a visit," said he.

"Get away!" cried Johannes to Bangeling, who was now standing close beside them, twitching and whining. Then a throng of frightful figures pushed forward, trying to approach him, grinning, twisted, misformed faces--some with big purple noses, others with drooling lips--still others pale, and passive, with closed eyes, but with scornful muttering mouths.

Johannes knew these figures well; he had often when a child seen them in his dreams. And doubtless you also have seen many of them in the night--just before the measles broke out, or after you have eaten too much pie for dinner.

And you were very much afraid of them, were you not? Perhaps as much as formerly Johannes was. But this time he was not in the least afraid. When they came too near, he called out in a fierce voice: "Back!" Then they grew pale, and crumpled up like withered toadstools.

"This one is Ginnegap!"[3] said the Devil, pointing out a girl-like being with open mouth, dull eyes, and a finger in each nasty nostril, who was constantly tittering. "Another excellent assistant of mine. Here are Labbekak[4] and Goedzak;[5] charming twins, compact of goodness and charity. Just look! They quiver and quake like jelly. They have no bones, and they never did any wrong. If they do not belong in heaven, who does?"

"Of course they have no sense," said Johannes.

"But here, then--this one--an old acquaintance of yours. Maybe you think he has no wits, either?"

Who was it Johannes saw there? Pluizer, in truth--his old enemy Pluizer! But he lacked a good deal of looking so pert and fierce as formerly. Upon seeing Johannes he hid himself behind the back of a stout, dumpy demon.

"A little to one side, Sleur!" said the king to the bulky devil. "Give Johannes a peep at his old friend."

But Sleur did not budge. He was very sluggish. Pluizer called out:

"Does Death know about it, Johannes--that you are already here?"

"What is this place, really?" asked Johannes. "Hell? Is it here that Dante was?"

"Dante?" asked the Devil. And all his retainers whispered and tittered and chattered: "Dante? Dante? Dante?"

"Surely," resumed the king, "you must mean that nice place full of light where it is so hot and smells so bad; where sand melts; where rivers of blood are seething, and the boiling pitch is ever bubbling; where they scream and yell and curse and lament, and swear at one another."

"Yes," said Johannes. "Dante told about that."

"But, my little friend!" said the Devil, affably, "that is not here, as you can very well see. That is not my kingdom. That is the kingdom of another who, they say, is called Love. With me, no one suffers. I am not so cruel as that. I cause no one pain."

"I know that well," said Johannes, "for so long as I have pain I am alive and am warned. Is it not so, Wistik?"

"Yes!" cried the little fellow, his voice now sounding as if far in the distance--up above.

"We are falling all the time!" said Johannes, in great alarm.

"Do not think about it. Does it make you dizzy? I thought you were so level-headed. Just give this a look. This is my cabinet of curiosities."

And before Johannes knew that he had entered anything he found himself in a very small, close room. It was exactly like a bathroom with low ceilings, and was brightly lighted.

"You did not think to find it so well lighted here, _did_ you?"

"Trick-light!" shouted Wistik, his voice coming faintly from above.

"Look! Here lies an acquaintance of yours."

And King Waan pointed to a straight white form that lay on the stone floor. It was Heléne; and Johannes saw that she was calmly sleeping.

Two imps stood looking at her; one was Bangeling; the other, equally small and dirty, stood gnawing his nails. His head, with its misshapen ears, was much too big for him. He had on a barret-cap of aniline blue velvet, with russet ribbons, a pale-green blouse of Scotch plaid, and short trousers, as purple as spoiled berry-juice.

"That is Degeneracy," said Waan. "These two brought her here; a deserving deed. We hope to keep her. Look! See how peacefully she sleeps."

The sight of the pale, still sleeper, with her outspread black hair, made Johannes also feel drowsy. But he looked in his little mirror, holding his eyes open, hard, and called: "Heléne!"

The long dark lashes were lifted just a little.

"Pst! Not a word!" said the king. "Here we come to number two--a pretty and clever piece of work."

By a little door, so low and narrow that Johannes had to wriggle his way through it, they entered the next place. They were in an extremely smart little church--a dolls' church. The walls were bare and white, and little candles were burning. In the pulpit stood a tiny little dominie, preaching fervidly, gesticulating with hand and head.

"Dominie Kraalboom!" cried Johannes, in astonishment. "Who is he raving at?"

"Look at him, Johannes!" said Waan. "Only do not think he is dead. In order to come here one does not have to wait till death. And do you not see at whom he is raving? Take a good look."

"Reflectors!" exclaimed Johannes. In reality the little church was empty, but it was everywhere furnished with pretty little mirrors, and in each one of them was reflected the dominie's little face surrounded by a halo.

"Those mirrors are of peculiar manufacture. I make much use of them. The imported article alone I cannot endure. Look! here is the counterpart."

Another little church--just as smart and neat and light. But here there were many more candles, also flowers and images. The walls were gaudily painted with pictures, and Father Canisius stood in glittering, gold-embroidered garments, praying and mumbling before the altar.

Johannes looked up at the stained-glass windows. It was as dark as pitch behind them.

"What is outside there?" he asked. "Just let me look out." And he thought he could hear the snickering and giggling of the imps who were peering through the windows.

"Keep away! Silence!" cried the king, sternly.

"Wistik!" called Johannes.

"Ay!" sounded the voice, now very fine, and far away. And they kept falling, falling.

Through a long, narrow passage they went to the next number. It did not smell very fresh there, and Johannes soon noticed that this stale-smelling apartment corresponded with what they usually called at home "the best room."

In the middle of the white-wood floor stood an overturned waste-water pail. A puddle of thick, offensive fluid lay trickling around it.

"Under this," said King Waan, "sits one of the most remarkable specimens in my collection. It is a little creature having the habit of describing precisely everything it sees. His watchword is: '_Truth Above Everything_!' He could not have a finer one. I make very interesting experiments with him. Sometimes I put him here, sometimes there. Just now he is under this pail. Listen to him!"

A light little voice came monotonously out from under the pail:

"A rich, soft greyish violet shading off through brown into cream-white, clot-curdling stripe coagulations; long flittery-fluttery down-trickling welter-whirls filtering through pale-yellow toned-down dully shining topazy vaults; faint phlegmy greyish-green dozing off...."

And thus the voice went on until Johannes began to get quite qualmish and drowsy.

"Is not that nice? Lately, I had him in a cuspidor. You should have heard him then. Here is his label."

And he pointed to a trim little tag on which was marked: _Division, Fine Arts. Naturalist, var. Word-Artist. Locality: Terra Firma of Europe. Rather rare._

"Is Van Lieverlee here, also?" asked Johannes.

"To be sure! I have him a few centuries farther on, composing sonnets," said the Wicked One. "This is a very large place although you might not think so. I can show you only a small part of it."

Then they came to a division called "Sciences," and the Devil said:

"Look! That concerns you, Wisdom-Seeker!"

And he had Johannes look through the crack of the door, into a little room brightly lighted, cram-full of books. Professor Bommeldoos was there, standing on his head.

"Pluizer taught him that," said the Devil. "And do you see that clever contrivance he has made of mirrors and copper tubes? That is to look into his own brains with. He thinks to become still wiser."

The professor was utterly absorbed in his intricate apparatus, and gazed and gazed, with all his might, into an odd sort of twisted tubing, the end of which was attached to the back part of his head.

Johannes heard a low rushing and roaring, as if made by a gust of wind.

"Silence!" cried the Devil, testily.

But the roaring sound continued and grew louder.

"What is that?" asked Johannes.

"That is Death," said the Devil, spitefully. "He is called an ally of mine, but he often muddles up my affairs here, and he steals by the thousand the choicest specimens in my collection--especially the crack-brained."

"Here they are all crack-brained," said Johannes.

"Yes; but those you in the awake-life call that, he snatches away from me. Here we come to the division, "Happiness." This is the richest man in the world. Would you like a magnifying glass?"

The pen wherein sat the richest man in the world was all of gold, but so small that Johannes could not possibly enter it. The richest man in the world had a large head, quite bare and bald, above a very small insignificant body. He moved slowly back and forth, like a caterpillar incasing himself; and out of his little lips there driveled golden threads with which he made a cocoon of himself.

"Poor fellow!" said Johannes, shuddering.

"Nonsense! Nonsense!" returned the Devil. "Here they are all happy. They know no better. I never torment as does the Other with his Love eternal. I have also here the classification 'War.' You would naturally think that these must be unhappy. But quite the contrary. In general, I am an enemy of war. I prefer peace, as you will presently see. But this is a pleasant 'War.' In fact, the people enjoy it. For that reason it belongs here."

And now they came to a long row of very small pens in which was just such a bustle as one hears at night in a chicken-coop when the fowls are going to sleep. Over each little pen was: "_Religious War," "Party Strife," "Class Strife_," and as Johannes looked in through a small window, he saw a solitary little fellow, much excited and red in the face, who stood skirmishing in front of a mirror. The reflection of his own figure was so queer that it looked like someone's else.

In the third pen Johannes saw Dr. Felbeck. With furious fists, the little fellow rushed up to the mirror again and again, and stamped and scolded and raved until the foam flew from his mouth.

Then they came to a very long and diminishing little room that bore the words Love and Peace.

"There!" said the Devil. "Now we can talk aloud. They are not easily wakened here. Snug and cozy, is it not? A section of it also is _Pure Living_, and _Piety_, and _Benevolence_."

In the little ward stood many tiny beds, as in a hospital; and Johannes saw Labbekak and Goedzak in slovenly felt slippers, shuffling back and forth, distributing cups of warm tea and spoonfuls of a syrupy mixture. The beings in the little beds licked off the spoons, and fell asleep again.

Outside, the demons yelled and screeched still louder, and the downward motion was so apparent that Johannes grew dizzy.

"Here, also," said the Devil, "Death does me much harm."

Johannes looked at him. He now appeared wholly different. His brown suit had disappeared, and his smooth supple body--as shiny as a snakeskin--was as iridescent as water stirred by dripping tar. His face, too, was far less affable. Hollow and grinning, it began to look like a death's head.

"You are the real Death!" exclaimed Johannes. "The other is a good friend of mine. I have no more fear of him."

The Devil laughed and reached out his hand toward Johannes' little flower. But Johannes caught it up close to his breast. The flower hung limp and seemed to be perishing. The little mirror shook like a leaf in his hand, so that he could scarcely hold it.

"Wistik!" he cried.

He listened, but could hear nothing. And now he seemed to be falling with whizzing speed. Johannes was greatly alarmed. The long ward with its rows of little beds grew ever longer, ever narrower.

"Wistik! Marjon! Let me out! Let me out! Set me free!"

"I have also a classification 'Freedom'," remarked the Devil, pointing out a mannikin who, busy with a long ribbon inscribed with the words "_Freedom and 'Justice_," kept winding it around his head, arms, and legs until he could not move a muscle.

"No!" cried Johannes, banging with both hands--in which were still clutched his flower and mirror--at a hard, spotted door. This door was marked "_Sin and Crime_."

"Look out!" said the Devil. "Do you not see what it says over it?"

"I do not care what it says!" cried Johannes, pounding away.

"Take care! For God's sake, take care!" shouted Bangeling.

"Help! Wistik! Marjon! Markus! help!" cried Johannes, crashing through the door.

Before him he saw a black and bottomless night; but it was more spacious, and he felt his distress diminishing.

And now he saw the imps all racing after him, and they were playing with something. It glittered as they threw it, one to another, and they tugged and pulled and spit on it, and did things still worse--such as only very vile and impudent beings could do.

It was a book, and Johannes saw his name upon it--his own and his family name. Johannes was called the "Traveler" of his family.

At last one of the imps caught hold of it by a leaf, and flung it high up in air to tear it to pieces. The leaves fluttered and glittered, but held together. And the book, ceasing to fall, went higher and higher up into the dark night until it seemed in the far distance to be a little star.

Johannes kept looking at it with all his might, and it seemed to him as if he were a light bit of wood, or a bubble, rising swifter and swifter to the surface--from out the awful depths of the sea. Then, slowly, the heavens grew blue and bright.

At last he was drifting in the full light of day. His eyes were still closed, but he felt that he had returned to his _day_ body, and he rested--still a little longer--in the light, motionless, blissful slumber of a convalescent, or of one come home again after a long and weary journey.

[1] Waan = Error.

[2] Bangeling = Little coward.

[3] Ginnegap = Giggler.

[4] Labbekak = Duffer.

[5] Goedzak = Goody-goody.

XII

"Shall we go to the beach this morning?" asked Countess Dolores after breakfast. "It will be fresh and cool there now."

It was a merry morning trip. Both of the little girls went with them, and Johannes carried a small folding chair, and his friend's book. The countess took a seat in a beach-chair, and Johannes sat at her feet and read aloud to her, while the two children--their skirts tucked up, and their little feet and legs bare and pink in the clear light--busied themselves in the water and sand, with their pails and shovels.

Everything was flooded with sunshine, and clearly, beautifully tinted:--the knotted blonde tresses of the little girls--beneath their broad-brimmed white beach-hats--against the delicate blue of the horizon; the still deeper blue of the sea wherein could be seen the bright figures of the bathers in their red and blue bathing-dresses; and right and left the pure white sand, and the snowy foam.

Johannes had indeed become quite accustomed to what had so pained him at first--the profanation of the sea by human beings--so they were happy hours.

He resolved this morning to resume his inquiries after Markus, as soon as he was at liberty to do so.

They had not been sitting long on the beach when Van Lieverlee came sauntering-up, arrayed in white flannel. He was without a waistcoat, but wore a lilac shirt, and a wide, black-silk girdle, and had on a straw hat.

He gave the countess a graceful cordial greeting, and immediately said to Johannes, this time without irony:

"I sent to my uncle, this morning, for information. Your friend is not there now. He received his discharge last Saturday on account of his disorderly conduct."

"What had he done?" asked Johannes.

"He had delivered an address at the exchange when, mark you, he had gone there on a matter of business. Now," said Van Lieverlee, looking at the countess with a smile, "it is quite obvious that a man of affairs could not retain such a clerk as that. It takes my uncle Van Trigt, who is so jealous of his good name, to deal with such cases."

"Yes, I understand," said Dolores.

"It depends, though, upon what he said," ventured Johannes.

"No! One talks about business at the exchange--not about reason and morality. There is a time and a place for everything. My uncle was well satisfied with him in all else. He had taken him for a rather well-bred person, he said. But the man has a remarkable propensity for discoursing in public places."

"Where is he now?"

"Where is any idler who has received his discharge? Off looking for an easy berth, L should say."

"Is your friend so very poor?" asked the countess, in a serious whisper, as one would speak over the shame of a kinsman.

"Of course," replied Johannes, with a positiveness that was a challenge. "Indeed, he would be ashamed not to be poor."

"I think such men insufferable!" exclaimed Van Lieverlee. "As Socrates said, their conceit can be seen through the holes in their clothes. Without even opening their mouths they--every one of them--seem to be forever preaching morals and finding fault. I hate the tribe. They are of all men the most turbulent and dangerous."

Johannes had never yet seen Van Lieverlee so angry, but he remained cool throughout the tirade, and kept his temper.

The countess said in a languid voice:

"He certainly is very immoderate. I cannot say, either, that such pronounced types are to my taste."

Johannes was silent, and the other two talked together a while longer. The children came up nearer, and lying down in the clean, clear sand, they listened to the conversation. It was a bright group, for they were all dressed in white, except Johannes.

At last Van Lieverlee rose to go, and the countess, clinging to his hand, with a certain warmth of manner said:

"Of course you are coming to dinner?"

"Most assuredly!" replied Van Lieverlee.

* * * * *

After he had gone, there were several moments of constrained silence--a sort of suspense so obvious that even the children did not resume their chatter as usual, but continued silently playing with the sand, as if waiting for something to be said.

Johannes also began to comprehend that something was pending, but he had no idea of what it could be.

At last the lady said, rather hesitatingly, while tracing all kinds of curious figures in the sand, with her parasol:

"Have you not observed anything, Johannes?"

"Observed anything? I? No, Mevrouw," replied Johannes, with some discomposure. He surely had observed nothing.

"I have!" said Olga, decidedly, without looking up.

"I, too!" lisped Frieda after her.

"Hear the little smarties!" said Mevrouw, laughing in confusion, and blushing. "Well, what have you observed?"

"A new papa!" replied Olga.

"A new papa!" repeated Frieda.

Johannes looked up in some surprise and perplexity, into the beautiful, laughing eyes, and exquisite, blushing face of his friend.

Her laugh was a confirmation; and accompanying her question with a shake of the head, she continued:

"Really, do you not understand yet?"

"No," replied Johannes, in all seriousness. "Who is the new papa?"

"There he goes," said Olga, pointing with her little white finger after Van Lieverlee. And Frieda, too, stretched out her little hand in his direction.

"Fie, children! Do not point," said Mevrouw.

And Johannes began to comprehend--much as one does who has fallen out of a window, or has been struck on the head with a stone. As in the latter case, his first thought was astonishment at the cause of the blow, and that he could possibly survive it.

The blue air, the sea, the sand, the series of light-green dunes, the houses, the white figures--everything reeled and whirled, and then grew altogether black. He could not think, but only felt that he was extremely uncomfortable and qualmish. He was obliged to go.

As he stood up, he heard the words: "How pale you are!" That was the last. Then he walked away, beside the sea, hearing nothing save the washing of the waves upon the sand and the rushing of the blood in his ears.

He staggered a little back and forth, as if he had been drinking too much, and he wondered how that could be.

At last he could no longer see the people or houses--only water, sky, and sand.

It seemed to have been his intention; for, weak and limp, he went and lay down in the loose sand, and fell into a drowse.

XIII

Such drowsing is not real sleep, neither does it refresh. When Johannes awoke after a quarter of an hour, his throat was parched, and he felt as if his heart were shriveled in his breast. He essayed to think over what had happened, but it was too bitter and too frightful. He looked at the imprinted sand where he had been lying, as if he would go to sleep again. But now he could not sleep, and must stay awake.

He sat up and stared at the sea, and then again at the dunes. What was it that had befallen him? A very long time--he knew not himself how long--he sat looking. Then he stood up, feeling stiff and sluggish, as if dead tired from a long journey. Slowly and aimlessly he dragged himself into the dunes, and tried to take an interest in the beetles and the flowers. Sometimes, from force of habit, he succeeded; but immediately there returned the shudderings which that cruel blow had caused.

It had never entered his head that he himself would marry his friend. Why, then, should it go to his heart as if he were flung aside and trampled upon, now that another was about to take the place of her husband?

"It must not--_must_ not be!" was all he could say. He very well knew that the world did not always concern itself with his thoughts, and that his day-life was conducted quite differently from his night-life where everything proceeded from his will and wish. But this was so squarely against his desires and ideas that it seemed to him as if the world _must_ care about it.

Naturally, the world continued not to mind anything about it, because the world is a far greater and stronger thought than that of Little Johannes.

And if he had been sensible he would have modestly admitted it, because it is true. Then, at the most, that truth would only have saddened him.

But he was not yet very wise, and he did not wish to admit that his mind and thought were still weak and small compared with the great world-thought. And therefore he was not only sad, but angry as well.

Do not judge him too harshly, for he was still more boy than man. And how few _men_ even there are with such clear good sense that they impute the variance solely to their own weakness and stupidity, and do not become dismayed and embittered when the world differs from them.

Johannes, then, was angry--furiously angry. That surely was not sensible, but yet it proved that he had more stamina than had Labbekak and Goedzak.

And all his anger was directed against that person who had thrust him aside from the place which he had so long, without being aware of it, considered his own. He thought Van Lieverlee not only a tiresome fool, but also an odious, abominable monster that ought to be exterminated.

And as his fancy pictured other figures, and he thought of that other hated being, Marjon's sister, and then again of Van Lieverlee, and his dear, beautiful, winsome friend, he found himself closely and frightfully besieged by insupportable thoughts--as if in a fire-begirt city, all aglow and scorching, with ever narrowing streets.

It was impossible to cry. At other times, as you surely must have observed, his tears came quickly enough. But now his eyes seemed to have been cauterized. Eyes, heart, brains, and ideas--all were equally hot and dry, and strained and distressed.

He went home at night with no idea of the hour. He had eaten nothing, but felt neither hunger nor thirst. Where he had been for so long, he was unable to tell. He went to his room and began trifling with his knickknacks--his souvenirs, books, and little treasures--for he was a collector.

His hostess came to rap at his door and to ask what was the matter--where he had been, and why he had been absent from his afternoon lessons. But Johannes did not invite her in, and said that he wished to be alone. And she, half surmising the truth, and distressed about it, did not insist.

Then, among his treasures, Johannes found a pair of compasses--a large pair, one arm of which could be loosened for the attachment of a tracing-pen. And that single, loosened compass-arm was a shining, three-cornered bit of steel, about a finger long, and as sharp as a lancet.

With some wood and leather he contrived a handle for that bit of steel, and then he had a dagger--a real, wicked, dangerous dagger.

Apparently he did this merely to pass away the time, but after it was finished he began to think what could be done with it. Then what he _wished_ to do with it. And at last _how_ he should do it, _if_, indeed, he was to do it.

Thus, he was already a good bit on in an ugly way.

The octopus that he had defied so bravely had laid for him a trap of which he was not aware; for it has many more than eight arms, and there are many more demons than those whose acquaintance Johannes had already made.

He was going to step up to Van Lieverlee and say to him, "You or I." And if Van Lieverlee should then laugh at him, as he most likely would, he would stab him to death.

Such thoughts as that actually took possession of Little Johannes' head; for, I have told you, indeed, that Love is nothing to be ridiculed. Fortunately, a wide gulf yawns between thought and deed, otherwise there would be a great many more accidents upon this earth.

It was already past midnight, and he still sat pottering and burnishing and sharpening, when he heard again the creaking of the stair, that he now instantly recognized, and Marjon's step at the door.

She opened the door, and Johannes looked into her distended, anguished eyes. Her blonde hair fell straight and free over her shoulders, and her long white night-dress reached down to her bare feet.

"What are you doing, Jo?" she asked. "You make me so anxious! What has happened? Where have you been the whole long day? Why do you eat nothing? And why are you still sitting up, with a light, till after midnight?"

Startled and distressed, Johannes made no reply. The dagger was still in his hand. He tried to hide it, without being observed, under his handkerchief. But Marjon saw it, and asked excitedly:

"What is that?"

"Nothing," said Johannes, in shame and confusion, like a detected child.

Marjon snatched away the handkerchief, and looked from the shining little object to Johannes with an expression of mingled pain and fright.

In silence they looked into each other's eyes a long time--Marjon with a searching, beseeching gaze, until Johannes lowered his lids and let his head droop.

"Who is it for?" she whispered. "Yourself?"

Without speaking or looking up, Johannes shook his head. Marjon sighed deeply, as if relieved.

"For whom, then?" again she asked. "For ... him?"

Johannes nodded. Then she said:

"Poor Jo!"

That sounded strangely to him, for when irritated one is not apt to be compassionate toward others nor toward one's self. He thought, rather, to find abhorrence of his blood-thirsty plan. But she said it so sincerely and fervently that he began to weaken, although not to the point of crying.

"You will not do it, will you? It would not help at all. And you would ... you would make me so frightfully unhappy."

"I cannot endure it, Marjon--I _cannot_ endure it!"

Marjon kneeled down by the table, and rested her chin in her hands. Her clear, true eyes were now looking steadily at Johannes, and as she spoke they grew more tranquil. Johannes continued to look at her with the irresolute expression of one in despair who yet hoped for deliverance.

"Poor Jo!" repeated Marjon. And then, slowly, with frequent pauses, she said: "Do you know why I can speak so?... I know exactly how you feel. I have felt that way, too. I did not think that this would be the way of it--the way it now is. I only thought, 'She is going to have him, not I.' And then I too said, 'It cannot--_cannot_ be!' But yet it might have been. And now _you_ say, 'It cannot be.' But it can, just the same."

Here she waited a while, and Johannes looked at her more attentively, and with less irresolution.

"And now listen, Jo. You want to stab that prig, don't you? And you well know that I never had any liking for him. But now let me tell you that I myself, for days and for weeks, have wanted to do the same thing."

"What!" exclaimed Johannes, in astonishment.

Marjon hid her face and said: "It is the truth, Jo. Not him, of course, but ... but her."

"You do not mean it, Marjon," said Johannes, indignantly.

"I am in earnest, Jo. I am not even sure whether I came into her service for that very reason, or for a better one."

"My God! How frightful!" exclaimed Johannes, deeply moved.

"There you are--alarmed and probably angry. Naturally you think her lovely, and are fond of her. And I am ashamed of myself--heartily ashamed."

Again they were silent, and in both those young heads were many turbulent thoughts.

"And do you know what helped me most to give it up? Not fear of punishment, nor of judgment, for I dreaded nothing so much as, worst of all, that she might succeed in getting you. But it helped me when I thought how much you loved her, and how you would cry and suffer if you should see her lying dead."

Again they looked at each other, steadily and frankly, and their eyes were dimmed with tears. Then said Marjon:

"And now, Jo, think of this. I care nothing about that man, nor do you; and doubtless he would not be a great loss. But to her he would be, and indeed if you should kill him, you would bring it about that she would see him dead, and would have to cry. Do you wish to do that?"

Johannes' eyes opened wide, and he looked into the lamplight.

"Yes," said he, deliberately. "He deceives her and she deceives herself. He is altogether different from what she fancies."

Then Marjon, taking both hands from the table, and resting them upon Johannes' arm, said with rising voice:

"But Jo, Jo--indeed everything is different from what we think! Who can see just how and what people and things are? I thought that woman hateful, and you thought her lovely. You think that fellow odious, while she thinks him charming. Really, only the Father, knows how things are. Believe me, the Father only. We are poor, poor creatures. We know nothing--nothing."

Then, resting her head, with its fair, fine hair, upon his arm, she sobbed bitterly; and Johannes, now completely broken down and mollified, wept with her.

Then they heard a door open in the hall. Probably, in their agitation, they had been talking too loudly.

Marjon took flight. In a moment of less excitement she would have been too shrewd for that. Johannes did indeed quickly put out the light, but he saw, through the crack of the door, that some one with a candle was standing in the hall. There was a meeting, and Johannes overheard a brief exchange of angry words, in vehement, suppressed tones.

The last he understood was: "To-morrow morning you leave."

XIV

About the time all this was taking place, something else occurred which most of you will readily recall. It happened at the time the King and Queen were married.

That was a time of many processions, when arches of honor were erected in all the squares, and when there arose, everywhere, the peculiar odor of spruce-boughs and of burning illuminants.

And the life of the King and Queen was far different from that of Little Johannes. They had to be decked often with beautiful clothes, and then as often to be undressed, to parade, to sit in state, to listen to wearisome harangues, to live through long dinners, and to be forever bowing and smiling. Such was their life.

To Johannes all this excitement and these joyful festivities seemed but a motley background against which his own sombre trouble was all the more sharply in relief. Although everybody was concerned about the King and Queen, and no one at all about Little Johannes, he yet found himself and his own sorrow none the less important.

You are aware that these festivities lasted for several weeks, and took place in every town in the land. In the evening of the day about which I last told you, there was a great display of fireworks on the beach, and Johannes, with the entire household, went to see it.

And there, in the midst of all that crowding and shouting, he had, for the first time, a chance to speak with the beloved friend who had caused him so much suffering. Marjon he had not seen, and he knew not if she was gone; but the countess seemed as friendly and as cheerful as ever, and she had not questioned him.

On the terrace from which they watched the golden columns rush skyward with a hiss, and the "pin-wheels" sizzle and fizz, accompanied by the "a-a-a-ahs!" of admiration from the dark, moving mass of people--there, he ventured in an undertone to speak to her.

"What did you really think of me yesterday, Mevrouw?"

"Well," replied the countess, rather coldly, continuing to look at the fireworks, "you have not come up to my expectations, Johannes."

"What do you mean? Why not?" asked Johannes, sick at heart.

"Oh, you know very well. I was aware that you had plain connections, and were not descended from a distinguished family; but I hoped to make that good, in some degree, through my own influence. Yet I had not thought you so ordinary as that."

"But what do you mean?"

The lady cast a disdainful glance upon him.

"Would you care to hear it spoken, word for word? Liaisons, then--with inferiors. And at your age, too. How could you?"

In a flash Johannes comprehended.

"Oh, Mevrouw--but you mistake--completely. I am not in the least enamored of that girl, but formerly she was my little comrade, and she thinks a great deal of me. She saw that I was unhappy yesterday, and then she came to sympathize with me."

"Sympathize?" asked the countess, hesitatingly, and not without irony, of which Johannes, however, was unconscious.

"Yes, Mevrouw. But for her, I should have done desperate things. She prevented me. She is a brave girl."

Then he told her still more of Marjon.

Countess Dolores believed him, and became more friendly. In that caressing voice which had caused Johannes so much unhappiness, and which even now completely fascinated him, she asked:

"And why were you so desperate, my boy?"

"Do you not understand? It was because of what you told me yesterday."

She understood well enough, and Johannes thought it charming in her to be willing to listen so kindly. But although she felt flattered she pretended not to know what he meant--as if such an idea were unthinkable.

"But how can that make you feel so desperate, my boy? I have not said, however, that you must leave my house on account of it."

"If that should take place, Mevrouw, do you fancy that I could remain with you? Did you think I could endure that? But it is not going to be, is it? It was only a jest. Tell me that it was! You were only teasing me! Tell me that you were only teasing me!"

It was all too clear now, and she could dissemble no longer. Half in kindness, half in compassion, she said:

"But, my boy, my boy, what has got into your head?"

Johannes rested his hand on her arm, and asked, imploringly:

"You were not in earnest, were you?"

But she freed her arm gently, saying:

"Yes, Johannes, I was in earnest."

And now he knew that he was hoping against hope.

"Is there no hope for me?"

The countess smilingly shook her head.

"No, dear boy, not the least. Put the thought quite away from you."

* * * * *

The last of the rockets rushed up with a startling hiss, to burst in the black sky with a soft puff, and expire in a shower of brilliant sparks. Then it was all over. The band played "Wilhelmus of Nassau," and the dark throng surged and pressed more vehemently, while on all sides the street-boys whistled shrilly and shouted to one another: "J-a-a-a-n!" and "Gerrèt!"

Johannes, stunned by renewed pain, passed on through the cheering like one deafened and stupefied.

His hostess, now full of sympathy, said:

"Do you remember, Johannes, what we promised Father Canisius? He was to teach you who Jesus is, was he not? Will you go to church with me to-morrow? That will best console you."

A wicked thought passed through Johannes' head. He wished to ask a question, but he could not utter the hated name.

"Is any one else going?"

"Yes, the man to whom I am engaged. He also is now convinced that peace is only to be found in the Holy Church. He is Catholic, as are myself and my children."

Johannes said not another word that evening; but he slept more peacefully than the night before.

XV

The church was full when Johannes, with the entire family, entered it. He and the others were in their best attire, and Van Lieverlee had on a very long black coat and a high hat. As he passed in he removed his hat respectfully, and his white face, now smoothly shaven, wore a serious, even stern, expression.

It was cool and dark and solemn in the building. The rays of the sun, in passing through the window-glass, were tinged with yellow and blue, and cast queer fleckings over the faces and forms of those who stood waiting or were securing seats. The fragrance of incense floated about the altar, and the organ was playing. It was not really an old church, but, with its paintings and floral adornments, was beautiful enough to move Johannes to tenderness; for he felt so sad and disheartened, listening to the solemn music in that richly-colored twilight, that he had to make an effort to keep from sobbing.

Father Canisius, smiling kindly, and with priestly seriousness in face and tread, although not yet in his robes, stopped on his way to the sacristy to speak with them. Johannes could feel his sharp, penetrating look through the thick glasses of his spectacles.

"You see, Father," said the countess, "we have come to seek Jesus. Johannes, also."

"He is waiting for you," replied the priest, solemnly, pointing out the great crucifix above the altar. Then he disappeared in the sacristy.

Johannes immediately fastened his eyes upon that figure, and continued to contemplate it while the people were taking their places.

It hung in the strongest light of the shadowy church. Apparently it was of wood stained a pale rose, with peculiar blue and brown shadows. The wounds in the side and under the thorns on the forehead were distinct to exaggeration--all purple and swollen, with great streaks of blood like dark-red sealing-wax. The face, with its closed eyes, wore a look of distress, and a large circle of gold and precious stones waggishly adorned the usual russet-colored, cork-screwy, woodeny locks. The cross itself was of shining gold, and each of its four extremities was ornamented, while a nice, wavy paper above the head bore the letters I.N.R.I. One could see that it was all brand-new, and freshly gilded and painted. Wreaths and bouquets of paper flowers embellished the altar.

For a long time--perhaps a quarter of an hour--Johannes continued to look at the image. "That is Jesus," he muttered to himself, "He of whom I have so often heard. Now I am going to learn about Him, and He is to comfort me. He it is who has redeemed the world."

And however often he might repeat this, trying seriously to convince himself--because he would have been glad to be convinced and also to be redeemed--he could nevertheless see nothing except a repulsive, ugly, bloody, prinked-up wooden doll. And this made him feel doubly sorrowful and disheartened. Fully fifteen minutes had he sat there, looking and musing, hearing the people around him chatting--about the price they had paid for their places, about the keeping on or taking off of women's hats, and about the reserved seats for the first families. Then the door of the sacristy opened, and the choir-boys with their swinging censers, and the sacristan, and the priests in their beautiful, gold-bordered garments, came slowly and majestically in. And as the congregation kneeled, Johannes kneeled with them.

And when Johannes, as well as all the others, looked at the incoming procession, and then again turned his eyes to the high altar, behold! there, to his amazement, kneeling before the white altar, he saw a dark form. It was in plain sight, bending forward in the twilight, the arms upon the altar, and the face hidden in the arms. A man it was, in the customary dark clothes of a laborer. No one--neither Johannes nor probably any one else in the church--had seen whence he came. But he was now in the full sight of all, and one could hear whisperings and a subdued excitement run along the rows of people and pass on to the rear, like a gust of wind over a grain-field.

As soon as the procession of choir-boys and priests came within sight of the altar, the sacristan stepped hastily out of line and went forward to the stranger, to assure him that, possibly from too deep absorption in devotion, or from lack of familiarity with ecclesiastical ceremony, he was guilty of intrusion.

He touched the man's shoulder, but the man did not stir. In the breathless stillness that followed, while every one expectantly awaited the outcome, a deep, heart-rending sob was heard.

"A penitent!" "A drunken man!" "A convert!" were some of the whispered comments of the people.

The perplexed sacristan turned round, and beckoned Father Canisius, who, with impressive bearing, stepped up in his white, gold-threaded garb, as imposingly as a full-sailed frigate moves.

"Your place is not here," said the priest, in his deep voice. He spoke kindly, and not particularly loudly. "Go to the back of the church."

There was no reply, and the man did not move; yet, in the still more profound silence, his weeping was so audible that many people shuddered.

"Do you not hear me?" said the priest, raising his voice a little, and speaking with some impatience. "It is well that you are repentant, but only the consecrated belong here--not penitents."

So saying, he grasped the shoulder of the stranger with his large, strong hand.

Then, slowly, very slowly, the kneeling man raised his head from his arms, and turned his face toward the priest.

What followed, perhaps each one of the hundreds of witnesses would tell differently; and of those who heard about it later, each had a different idea. But I am going to tell you what Johannes saw and heard--heard quite as clearly as you have seen and heard the members of your own household, to-day.

He saw his Brother's face, pale and illumined, as if his head were shone upon by beams of clearest sunlight. And the sadness of that face was so deep and unutterable, so bitter and yet so gentle, that Johannes felt forced, through pain, to press both hands upon his heart, and to set his teeth, while he gazed with wide, tear-filled eyes, forgetting everything save that shining face so full of grief.

For a time it was as still as death, while man and priest regarded each other. At last the man spoke, and said:

"Who are you, and in whose name are you here?"

When two men stand thus, face to face, and address each other with all earnestness in the hearing of many others, one of them is always immediately recognized to be the superior--even if the listeners are unable to gauge the force of the argument. Every one feels that superiority, although later many forget or deny it. If that dominance is not very great, it arouses spitefulness and fury; but if it is indeed great, it brings, betimes, repose and submissiveness.

In this case the ascendancy was so great that the priest lost even the air of authority and assurance with which he had come forward, and did that for which, later, he reproached himself--he stopped to explain:

"I am a consecrated priest of the Triune God, and I speak in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ--our Saviour and Redeemer."

There ensued a long silence, and Johannes saw nothing but the shining, human face and the eyes, which, full of sorrow and compassion, continued to regard the richly robed priest with a bitter smile. The priest stood motionless, with hanging hands and staring eves, as if uncertain what next to say or do; but he listened silently for what was coming, as did Johannes and all the others in the church--as if under an overpowering spell.

Then came the following words, and so long as they sounded no one could think of anything else--neither of the humble garb of him who spoke, nor of the incomprehensible subjection of his gorgeously arrayed listener:

"But you are not yet a man! Would you be a priest of the Most High?

"You are not yet redeemed, nor are these others with you redeemed, although you make bold to say so in the name of the Redeemer.

"Did your Saviour when upon earth wear cloth of silver and of gold?

"There is no redemption yet--neither for you nor for any of yours. The time is not come for the wearing of garments of gold.

"Mock not, nor slander. Your ostentation is a travesty of the Most High, and a defamation of your Saviour.

"Do you esteem the kingdom of God a trifle, that you array yourself and rejoice, while the world still lies in despair and in shackles?

"So plays a little girl with a doll, and calls herself a mother. She tosses and pets and prinks her little one, but it is all wood and paint and bran. And the real mother smiles--she who knows the anguish and the gladness.

"But you abandon the naked, living child for the bedizened doll. And the mother sheds tears of blood.

"Like peacocks, you strut through your marble churches, glittering in tinsel; but you let the kingdom of God lie like an uncleansed babe upon unclean linen--naked and languishing.

"And the Devil delights in your churches, your masses, and prayers and psalms--your treasure and fine linen; for the child lies naked at your back door, with the dogs, and it wails for its mother.

"Weep--as do I! Weep bitter tears--for that child is two thousand years old. And still it lies, unwashed and uncherished.

"Why do you vaunt your consecration, and prate of your Redeemer? Your Holy One still toils beneath His grievous cross, yet all your splendid churches have you built upon that heavy cross.

"You bear the mitre of Persians, and Egyptians, and the tabard of the Jews. And you also make use of the scourge wherewith the Jews did scourge Him.

"They bound and spat upon--they scourged and crucified and speared Him; but for two thousand years you have been roasting Him before a slow fire--before the fire of your lies and misrepresentations; of your treachery and arrogance; of your cruelties and perversions; of your pomp and oblations; of your transgressions, and of your attacks upon and strivings against the God who is Truth.

"You are commanded to serve your Father in spirit and in truth, and you have served Him with the letter and with lies.

"His prophets, who loved the truth better than their lives, you have burned at the stake, and have made them martyrs.

"Yet you have bent your proud neck to the world which you affect to despise. In the name of the Father you have burned and imprisoned sages; but at last you were forced to eat the bread of their wisdom, for the knife of the scornful was at your throat.

"The world you have disdained and denounced is wiser than you--more beautiful and even more holy.

"Black as the raven--black as the beetles, the moles, the creatures that live in the slime--black and vile, you burrow your secret way through the clear, bright world. But in your churches you enthrone yourselves and parade like kings--in violet and yellow and purple, and gold brocade.

"You were not commanded to found a kingdom solely for yourselves--a kingdom of the sacred and the elect in a world of the unholy and immature.

"You were commanded to spread abroad the kingdom of God over the whole earth--over all that weep and are oppressed.

"You were not commanded to despise the world and to forsake it, but you were commanded to hallow the world.

"You rend the world in twain, speaking of the sanctified and the unsanctified. Your Saviour lived among thieves, and died between murderers, nevertheless he promised them Paradise.

"Not until every man is sanctified, until every day is a holy day, and every house a House of God---not until then may you speak of redemption, and array yourself in white and gold.

"Woe unto you, forsakers of the world! Was not the world bestowed upon you by the Father as the noblest and most precious gift of the dearest of friends?

"How dare you despise it?

"Will you openly preserve the penny of your enemy, and reject the noblest gift of the Most High?

"Do you speak in the name of the Triune God? But you have smitten the Father's face--you have martyred the Son, and the Holy Ghost have you violated.

"You have been told that God is Truth. Yet you have striven against the truth with torture-tongs, with dungeons, and with burnings at the stake.

"You have made the Son of man an object of ridicule--a shield for lying and violence, a pretext for strife and bloodshed, a monstrous idol.

"And of all sins, the worst is the sin against the Holy Ghost--which is the bread that you eat, and the water wherein you swim.

"You shackle and restrain the Spirit. This is of all sins the worst, and this you know.

"Where God alone may reign--in the free human heart--there you establish yourselves with your laws and dogmas, your writings and your imageries.

"Think you, madman, that the wisdom of the Eternal can be comprised within the limits of written or printed pages?

"To Him your sacred books are as cobwebs and sweepings; for He lives and moves eternally, and book nor brain can compass Him. Like to flowing water, you are told, is the wisdom of God. Forever changing, forever the same, no finite word can picture His progressive wisdom.

"There is more of the Father's wisdom in the shy, faltering whisper of a poor heathen child, than in all your bulls and councils and decretals.

"Would you put a tube to the lips of the Father, that He may speak at your pleasure? Yet will He speak as seems best to Himself.

"Would you point with the finger and say to Him: 'Here! These shall speak in thy name, and to these shalt thou give wisdom, and these shalt thou inspire with understanding, and these shalt thou save, and these condemn!'

"But He will reply: 'There!' and will regard your pointings even as the lava of a volcano regards the guide-posts and little crosses on the slopes.

"But your opinions and your pride are avenged, for the world commands you as the hunter his hound, as the show-man his monkey. You pull the carriage of prince and monied man, and make grimaces before the powerful.

"They build you churches, and you say masses for them, although they be Satan himself.

"The world is sanctified without you, and you sanctify yourselves because of the world.

"That your Popes are not more dissolute, your prelates more prodigal, and your friars more slothful, is because the world has constrained you. But you have constrained the world to no purpose.

"You have set yourself against the usurer, but the world will practise usury, and you practise usury with the world. Thus are you the ape and the servant of the world.

"Where you have rivals, you show yourself discreet; but where you are without competitors, there as ever you corrupt the land.

"You follow after the world, as a captive shark follows a sailing ship. You turn and twist, but the world points out the way--not you.

"Like a kettle tied by mischievous boys to the tail of a dog, so do you rattle with hollow menaces behind the course of the world. You scare, but do not guide.

"Yes, you strive against the sanctifying of the world, for with your hands you would conceal the godlike fire of knowledge; but the flame bursts through your fingers, and consumes you.

"What have you done for the sheep committed to your care--for the poor and bereaved--for the oppressed and the disinherited?

"Submission you have taught them--ay--submission to Mammon. You have taught them to bow meekly to Satan.

"God's light--the light of knowledge--you have withheld from them. Woe be to you!

"You have taught them to beg, and to kiss the rod that smote them. You have cloaked the shame of alms-receiving, and have prated of honor in servitude.

"Thus have you humbled man, and disfigured the human soul.

"With the fruit of their hands you have decorated your churches and adorned your unworthy bodies.

"You have aroused the devil in the heart--the devil of fear--fear of hell and everlasting punishment. The aspiration of the free heart toward God you have deadened; and with indulgences and the confessional have you lulled the waking conscience.

"Of the love of the Father you have made commerce--a sinful merchandise. Not because you love virtue do you preach it, but because of the sweet profit. You promise deliverance to all who follow your counsel; but as well can you make a present of moon and stars.

"Are you not told to recompense evil with good? And is God less than man that He should do otherwise?

"It is well for you that He does not do otherwise, for where then were your salvation?

"For you, and you only, are the brood of vipers against whom is kindled the wrath of Him who was gentle with adulterers and murderers."

* * * * *

While speaking, the man had risen to his full height, and he now appeared, to all there assembled, impressively tall.

When he had spoken, reaching his right hand backward he grasped the foot of the great golden crucifix. It snapped off like glass, and he threw it on the marble floor at the feet of the priest. The fragment broke into many bits. It was apparently not wood, but plaster.

"Sacrilege!" cried the priest, in a stifled voice, as if the sound were wrung from his throat. His eyes seemed to be starting out of his great purple face.

The man quietly replied:

"No, but my right; for you are the sacrilegist and the blasphemer who makes of the Son of man a hideous caricature."

Then the priest stepped forward, and gripped Markus by the wrist. The latter made no resistance, but cried in a loud voice that reverberated through the church:

"Do your work, Caiaphas!"

After that he suffered himself to be led away to the sacristy.

While the congregation still sat, spellbound and motionless, Johannes hastily writhed his way out between the benches and the throngs of people.

Father Canisius returned, now quite calm and far less red. And while the sacristan with broom and dust-pan swept up the fragments and put them into a basket, the priest turned toward the audience and said:

"Have sympathy with the poor maniac. We will pray for him."

After that, the service proceeded without further disturbance.

XVI

In a dreary district of the city, at the end of a long, lonely street, stands a long, gloomy building. The windows--all of the same form--are of ground glass, and the house itself is lengthened by a high wall. What lies behind this wall the neighbors do not know; but sometimes strange noises are borne over it--loud singing, yelling, dismal laughter, and monotonous mutterings.

On the steps of this house, silent, and with earnest faces, stood Johannes and Marjon. The latter had on a simple, dark gown, and she carried Keesje on her arm.

The door was opened by a porter wearing a uniform-cap. The man gave them, especially the monkey, a critical, hesitating look.

"That will not do," said he, drily. "You must leave your little ones at home when you come here to make visits."

"Come," said Marjon, without a smile at his jest, "ask the superintendent. My brother is so fond of him, and I do not dare leave him at home."

They had to wait awhile in the vestibule. At first they said not a word, and Keesje was very still.

Then, scratching Keesje's head, Johannes quietly remarked, "He has grown thin."

"He has a cough," said Marjon.

At length the doorkeeper came back, with the superintendent. Johannes instantly recognized in the tall, spare gentleman, the slovenly black suit, the gold spectacles, and the bushy white hair, his old friend Dr. Cijfer.

"Whom have they come to see?" he asked.

"The new one who was brought in yesterday--working-class," said the doorkeeper.

"Violent?" asked the doctor.

"No, quiet, Doctor. But they want to take their monkey with them."

"Why so, young people?" asked Dr. Cijfer, frowning at the monkey over the top of his spectacles in a most objectionable manner, to the discomfiture of Keesje.

"Doctor Cijfer, have you forgotten me?" asked Johannes.

"Wait," said the doctor, giving him a sharp look, "are you the boy who assisted me some time ago, and then ran away? Your name, indeed, was Johannes, was it not?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Ah, yes," said the doctor, reflecting. "A rather queer boy, with some talent. And there is a brother of yours here? I always thought there were hereditary _moments_ in your family. You were a queer boy."

"But it can't do any harm if our monkey goes with us, Doctor," said Marjon. "He is quite still and obedient."

Slowly shaking his head, the doctor made a prolonged "m-m-m" with his compressed lips, as if to say that he did not himself think it so hazardous.

"I have not yet seen the patient. We will ask the junior physician if he may receive callers. But only ten minutes--not longer, mind."

Dr. Cijfer vanished with the doorkeeper, and again the trio waited a considerable time.

Then the doorkeeper returned with a man-nurse in white jacket and apron. The latter led them down long halls, three times unlocking different doors and gratings with the key that he carried in his hand, until it seemed to Johannes as if they were pressing deeper and deeper into realms of error and constraint.

But it was still there--sadly still--not, as Johannes had expected it to be, noisy with ravings. Now and then a patient in a dark blue uniform came toward them, carrying a pail or a basket. He would look back at them suspiciously, and then go farther on, softly muttering.

At last they came to a dismal reception-room with a little wooden table and four rush-seated chairs. It was lighted from above, and there was no outlook. There they were left by themselves in painful suspense.

After what again seemed to be a very long time a different door of the same little room was opened by another nurse; and then, at last, Little Johannes could rest again on the bosom of his beloved brother.

But even before Johannes could reach him, Keesje had sprung to his shoulder and received the first greeting.

"Hey, Markus, do you greet Kees before you do us?" said Marjon, laughing through her tears.

"Are you jealous?" asked Markus. "He has become such a good comrade of mine."

Drawing Keesje up to him, he sat down, while Johannes and Marjon kneeled, one on each side. The two young people regarded him a long while without saying anything; yet it did them good.

"Only ten minutes," sighed Johannes, "and I have so much to ask and to say."

"Do not be uneasy," said Markus. "I shall not be here long.

"Is it not frightful here?" asked Marjon.

"It is the most sorrowful place on earth. But it is without deceit; and I am happy here, for I can do much to comfort."

"But it is fearfully unjust to put you here, with crazy folks," said Marjon. "Those miserable creatures!" and she clenched her slender little hand.

"It is only a small part of the great wrong. They act according to their understanding."

"Markus," said Johannes, "I want to ask you this: I saw poor Heléne in the kingdom of the Evil One. Do you know whom I mean? You do? What does that signify? And will she be saved?"

"I know whom you mean, Johannes; but do not forget that we are all in the kingdom of the Evil One. Only in the heart of the Father are we free. The Father allows Waan to have power over all who are away from Him--even over me.

"But not for ever, Markus."

"How can that which is evil avail for ever? The melancholy seem to be the chosen ones. The burden they bear is a precious one, but only if they realize that it is of the Father. Then it sanctifies; otherwise it crushes. Some learn this first through death, as did Heléne."

"Markus," said Marjon then, "we both have had such wicked things in our heads. Shall we ever be forgiven them?"

"Tell me about them," said Markus. "I know indeed, but yet tell me."

"We have wanted to murder, out of jealousy--he and ... and I."

"That is the way with stags and buffaloes and cocks," said Markus. "They kill one another on account of their love. The strongest survives, and feels not the least remorse. And he is forgiven."

"But we are human, Markus," said Johannes.

"That is fine, dear Johannes, that you should say it of yourself. And yet you have not murdered anybody, have you?"

"No, but I have wanted to."

"Truly and with all your heart?"

"Not that way," said Johannes.

"No, for in that case you would not now be asking forgiveness. Forgiveness is already there, because insight is forgiveness."

The two disciples were silent, and looked at him thoughtfully through half-closed eyes. At last Marjon said:

"But then if we had done it we would have been forgiven all the sooner; for then we should have perceived the sooner that it was wrong."

"You would then have experienced the desire for, and the satisfaction in, the deed, and have lost the fear of it. That would have been two more fetters for you, with the power to understand reduced."

"But yet there are things which we have to do in order to know that they are wicked," said Johannes.

"Are there such things?" asked Markus. "Well, then, do them; but do not complain if the lesson is a hard one. There are children, also, who do not believe their parents when they tell them that fire will burn, and that burns are painful. And yet such children cry if they burn themselves."

"But why is it so intolerable to think that another will obtain that which we hold dear? Is that wicked?" asked Marjon.

"It is not wicked to long for love or power or honor, when those things are our due because of our being wise and good. But that which he covets comes not to the jealous one, nor power to him who thirsts for it, nor honor to the over-ambitious. The things longed for will not satisfy them. Nor are eating and drinking bad in themselves, but they are only for those who have need of them."

At that moment the door was unlocked. As it swung open the nurse said that the time was up, adding:

"Perhaps you may come again to-morrow."

"Will he have to stay here?" asked Marjon, as they were on their way down the long hall.

"Well," replied the nurse, "they may indeed shut up quite a lot more. He can deal with the violent ones better than the professor can. There was one here who gave us a lot of trouble, because he wouldn't eat. He'd thrown his plate at me head. Look here! What a cut! But your brother had him eating inside of ten minutes."

"Will he soon be free?" asked Johannes.

"They ought to make him a professor," was the reply. "I've heard they're to examine him to-morrow."

* * * * *

Little was said while Johannes was accompanying Marjon to the boarding-house in which she now lived. It was kept by one of Markus's friends, a workman in the iron foundry. The man was called Jan van Tijn, and was foreman of the hammer-works. He earned sixteen guldens a week, and had nine children. His dwelling had three small rooms and a kitchen, and there twelve persons had to sleep--father, mother, nine children, and the boarder. But Juffrouw van Tijn was still young, with a fresh face and a pair of strong arms, and she made light of her work.

"If there are to be still more of us," said Jan, "we must begin to lie in a row--spoon-fashion."

Jan had a long blonde moustache and a pair of shrewd eyes, and his manner of speech was coarse--terribly so. Marjon slept in the little kitchen, and, as Jan's eldest girl was not yet sixteen, Marjon could be of great service in the family.

"Did you get him out?" asked Jan, who had come in his working-blouse to meet them. And when they shook their heads, he began cursing, tremendously.

"Well-! Did ye ever see such scoundrels? I'd like to pitch into the loons! Can't that perfesser see that Markus knows more in his little finger than the whole scurvy lot of them--patients, doctors, perfessers, and all? And because he's given the priest a dressing-down, and broken an image worth a nickel, must he be shut up in a mad-house? Well-!!!"

Jan was furious, and proposed, with the aid of a sledge-hammer, to convince the learned gentlemen that they had made a blunder.

"He is to be examined to-morrow," said Johannes, thinking to calm him.

But Jan retorted scornfully, "Examined! Examined! I'll examine their own cocoanuts with a three-inch gimlet! If anything comes out but sawdust I hope to drop dead."

He said much more that I will not repeat.

Johannes stayed away from the Villa Dolores the entire day, for it was too dreary for him there. He would now far rather be in this poor household with its many children. He noticed how the young mother managed her uproarious little troop, how constantly and cheerfully busy she was the whole day long--bearing, and getting the better of, difficulties which would have dismayed and discouraged many another.

Johannes ate with them, and although not very hungry, because of his anxiety, he enjoyed his food. And after they had had their late afternoon coffee, and the younger children had gone to bed--when Van Tijn had returned from his work, and with a certain solemn thoughtfulness had filled his pipe and was silently smoking it--then Johannes felt wonderfully at peace. He had not known such peace in a long time. Very little was said. Outside, the twilight was falling; indoors, the only light was from the little flame under the coffee-pot. The women, too, were tired, and sat listening to the sounds in the street. And Johannes knew that they were all thinking of the friend in the asylum.

* * * * *

That evening, when he was again in the handsome, luxurious villa, everything seemed strange and distasteful. In the brightly lighted drawing-room, chatting in a low tone, Van Lieverlee sat close beside the lady of the house, with an intolerable air of being the rightful lord of the manor. Johannes merely wanted to bid them good-night.

"Have you found your poor friend?" asked Van Lieverlee, in his most condescending manner.

"Yes, Mijnheer," replied Johannes. And then, after some hesitation: "Can anything be done to get him out promptly?"

"My dear boy," said Van Lieverlee, "it is not to be desired, either for his own sake or that of society. I am not a doctor, but that he belongs where he is I can see at once, as could any layman. What do you think, Dearest?"

Dolores nodded languidly, and said: "My heart was touched for the man--he has a fine face. And have you noticed, Walter, what a splendid baritone voice he has?"

"Yes," said Van Lieverlee; "it is a pity he is out of his head. What a good singer of Wagner he might be! An excellent Parsifal! Do you not think so, Dolores?"

"A splendid Parsifal! Perhaps he may get well yet," added the countess.

"Oh, no," said Van Lieverlee. "That sort of prophet-frenzy is incurable. I know indeed of so many cases."

For an instant Johannes stood hesitating. Should he give vent to what was boiling in his breast?

But he was older now, and he curbed himself. Before he went to sleep he resolved: "This is my last night here."

XVII

Again they stood on the steps of the gloomy building--the three--Johannes, Marjon, and Keesje. It was a bleak day, and Keesje's thin little black face peeped out from under a thick shawl.

"Just go into the doctor's room, will you?" said the doorkeeper. "The doctor wishes to speak with you. The professor is there, also," he added, importantly. And when Marjon would have gone with them, he extended his hand as if to stay her, saying, "Pardon, but the lady and the little one weren't invited."

Without replying, Marjon turned round to Johannes and said, "Then I'll wait for you at the house. Will you come soon?"

* * * * *

In the tiresome, pompous quarters of the doctor, with its bookcases draped in green, its white gypsum busts of Galenus, Hippocrates, and other old physicians, sat two dark-coated gentlemen. They were vis-à-vis, each in an office-chair, and deep in conversation.

On the large writing-table lay several open books, and some shining white metal instruments for measuring and examining.

"Sit down, my friend," said Professor Bommeldoos, in his loud voice and brusque manner. "We all know one another, do we not? We have already made an examination together."

Johannes silently took a seat.

"Let me explain to you, Johannes," said Dr. Cijfer, in more soft and moderate tones. "We--Professor Bommeldoos and I--have been charged by the judicial commission to make a medical investigation of the mental condition of your brother. He has committed a crime--not a heavy one, but yet not without significance, and one for which he ought to have been placed under arrest. Yet the clergyman thought him irresponsible, and summoned a physician from the asylum. Your brother simply would not reply to the latter. He was stubbornly silent."

Johannes nodded. He knew it already.

"That was the reason for his being temporarily secluded here. Now I have seen the patient myself once, but I am sorry to have to say that I can get no further than the other physician. When I interrogate him he looks at me in a very peculiar way, and remains silent."

"I do not understand, Colleague," said Bommeldoos, "why you did not instantly diagnose this as a symptom of megalomania."

"But, worthy Colleague," replied Dr. Cijfer, "he does talk with the nurses and his fellow patients, and he is obliging and ready to help. They all wish him well--yes, they are even singularly fond of him."

"All of which comports very well with my diagnosis," said Bommeldoos.

"Does he often have those whims, Johannes," asked Dr. Cijfer, "when he will not speak?"

"He has no whims," said Johannes, stoutly.

"Why, then, will he not reply?"

"I think you would not answer me," returned Johannes, "if I were to ask you if you were mad."

The two learned men exchanged smiles.

"That is a somewhat different situation," said Bommeldoos, haughtily.

"He was not questioned in such a blunt manner as that," explained Doctor Cijfer. "I asked about his extraction, his age, the health of his father and mother, about his own youth, and so forth--the usual memory promptings. Will you not give us some further information concerning him? Remember, it is of real importance to your brother."

"Mijnheer," said Johannes, "I know as little as yourself about all that. And even if I knew more I would not tell you what he himself thought best not to tell."

"Come, come, my boy," said the professor, "are you trying to make sport of us? Do you not know whence you came? Nothing of your parents, nor of your youth?"

Johannes hesitatingly considered whether or not he should do as Markus had done, and answer no questions whatever. But still he might reply to those that concerned only himself.

"I do, indeed, know all that about myself, but not about him," said he.

"Then you are not brothers?" asked the doctor.

"No, not in the sense you mean."

Dr. Cijfer looked at Bommeldoos as if to see what he thought of this reply. Then he touched a bell-button, saying:

"It seems to me, Colleague, that we might better see him face to face. We can then, perhaps, get on better than when apart."

Bommeldoos nodded solemnly, and passed his hand over his mighty forehead. A servant came in.

"Will you bring the patient Vis from the ward of the calm patients, working-class?"

"Very well, Doctor."

The servant vanished, and for several minutes afterward it was as still as death in the study. The two learned men stared at the carpet quite absorbed in thought--not minding delay--after the manner of deep thinkers. Johannes heard the clock ticking on the mantel, the faint music from an out-of-doors band playing a merry march, the sound of hurrahs, and the clatter of horses' hoofs on the cobblestone pavement. The royal wedding-festivities were still in progress, and Johannes could mentally see the two people who at that moment were bowing and waving as they sat in their carriage. There was a knock at the door. The nurse came and said, "Here is the patient." Then he let Markus in, remaining himself to look on.

"I will ring for you," said Dr. Cijfer, with a gesture. The nurse disappeared.

Markus had on a dark-blue linen blouse, such as all the patients of the working-class wear. He stood tall and erect, and Johannes observed that his face was less pale and sad than usual. The blue became his dark curling hair, and Johannes felt happy and confident as he looked at him--standing there so proud and calm and handsome.

"Take a seat," said Dr. Cijfer.

But Markus seemed not to have heard, and remained standing, while he nodded kindly and reassuringly to Johannes.

"Observe his pride," said Professor Bommeldoos, in Latin, to Dr. Cijfer.

"The proud find pride, and the gloomy, gloom; but the glad find gladness, and the lowly, humility," said Markus.

Dr. Cijfer stood up, and took his measuring instrument from the table. Then, in a quiet, courteous tone, he said:

"Will you not permit us, Mijnheer, to take your head measure? It is for a scientific purpose."

"It gives no pain," added Bommeldoos.

"Not to the body," said Markus.

"There is nothing in it to offend one," said Dr. Cijfer. "I have had it done to myself many a time."

"There is a kind of opinionativeness and denseness that offend."

Bommeldoos flushed. "Opinionativeness and denseness! Mine, perchance? Am I such an ignoramus? Opinionated and stupid!"

"Colleague!" exclaimed Dr. Cijfer, in gentle expostulation. And then, as he enclosed Markus's head with the shining craniometer, he gave the measurement figures. A considerable time passed, nothing being heard save the low voice of the doctor dictating the figures. Then, as if proceeding with his present occupation, taking advantage of what he considered a compliant mood of the patient, the crafty doctor fancied he saw his opportunity, and said:

"Your parents certainly dwelt in another country--one more southerly and more mountainous."

But Markus removed the doctor's hand, with the instrument, from his head, and looked at him piercingly.

"Why are you not sincere?" asked he then, with gentle stress. "How can truth be found through untruth?"

Dr. Cijfer hesitated, and then did exactly what Father Canisius had done--something which, later, he was of the opinion he ought not to have done: he argued with him.

"But if you will not give me a direct reply I am obliged to get the truth circuitously."

Said Markus, "A curved sword will not go far into a straight scabbard."

Professor Bommeldoos grew impatient, and snapped at the doctor aside in a smothered voice: "Do not argue, Colleague, do not argue! Megalomaniacs are smarter, and sometimes have subtler dialectic faculties, than you have. Just let _me_ conduct the examination."

And then, after a loud "h'm! h'm!" he said to Markus:

"Well, my friend, then I will talk straight out to you. It is better so, is it not? Then will you give me a direct reply?"

Markus looked at him for some time, and said: "You cannot."

"I cannot! Cannot what?"

"Talk," replied Markus.

"I cannot talk! Well, well! I cannot talk! Colleague, you will perhaps take note of that. You say I cannot talk. What am I now doing?"

"Stammering," said Markus.

"Exactly--exactly! All men stammer. The doctor stammers, and I stammer, and Hegel stammers, and Kant stammers...."

"They do," said Markus.

"Mijnheer Vis, then, is the only one who can talk. Is it not so?"

"Not with you," replied Markus. "In order to talk one must have a hearer who can understand."

Dr. Cijfer smiled, and whispered, not without a shade of irony, "Take care, Colleague! You also err in dialectics." But Bommeldoos angrily shook his round head with its bulbous cheeks, and continued:

"That is to say that you consider yourself wiser than all other men? Note the reply, Colleague."

"I think myself wiser than you," said Markus. "Decide yourself whether this means wiser than all other men."

"I have made a note of the reply," said Dr. Cijfer, while a sound of satisfaction came from his pursed-up lips.

Yet the professor took no notice of these ironical remarks, and proceeded:

"Now just tell me, frankly, my friend, are you a prophet? An apostle? Are you perhaps the King? Or are you God himself?"

Markus was silent.

"Why do you not answer now?"

"Because I am not being questioned."

"Not being questioned! What, then, am I now doing?"

"Raving," said Markus.

Again Bommeldoos flushed, and lost his composure.

"Be careful, my friend. You must not be impertinent. Remember that we may decide your fate here."

Markus lifted his head, with a questioning air, so earnest that the professor held his peace.

"With whom rests the decision of our fate?" asked Markus. Then, pointing with his finger: "Do you consider yourself the one to decide?"

Both of the learned ones were silent, being impressed for the moment. Markus continued:

"Why do not _you_ now reply? And would you have decided otherwise had I not been what you term impertinent?"

Here Dr. Cijfer interposed:

"No, no, Mijnheer, you mistake. But it is not nice of you to offend a learned man like the professor here. We are performing a scientific task. You impress us as being a person of refinement and advancement, aside from the question of your being ill or not. For all that, it behooves you to have respect for science, and for those who are devoting all their efforts and even their lives to its development."

"Do you know," asked Bommeldoos, in a voice now near to breaking, "do you know what the man whom you have scoffed at as opinionated, stupid, and a ranter--what that man has written and accomplished?"

Then Markus's stern features relaxed, assuming a softer, more companionable expression, and he took a chair and sat down close beside his two examiners.

"Look," said he, showing both of his open palms, "your naked sensibilities protrude on all sides--from under the cloak of your wisdom. How otherwise could I have touched you?"

"Your wisdom--so much greater--does not, however, make you invulnerable to our opinion and stupidity," said Professor Bommeldoos, still tartly, indeed, but yet with far more courtesy.

"The most high wisdom of God does not make Him invulnerable to our sorrows and sins," returned Markus. "Wisdom is a covering which makes its wearer not insensible to suffering, but able to support it."

"Forever that speaking in metaphor!" exclaimed Bommeldoos. "Figures of speech do not instruct. A weak and childish mind always makes use of metaphors. Science demands pure speech and logical argument."

"Forgive me if I offend still further," said Markus, gently now and kindly, as he laid his hand on the black cloth enveloping the arm of the professor, "but it is exactly your own weakness that you cannot question. Science is the light of the Father. Why should not I respect it? And I know also what you have written and accomplished. But the most you did was to question imperfectly, and then to assume the complete reply. That one should find it so difficult and unsatisfactory to reply amazes you, because you do not realize the imperfection of your questions. But the finest and clearest responses--those that are most satisfying and intelligible to all--await those who have learned better how to question. If I esteem myself wiser than you, it is solely because I realize that we have nothing but metaphors, and that we must patiently and unpretendingly decipher as a communication from the Father the meaning of all these metaphors. While you imagine that, from your words and documents, one may comprehend His living Being."

"With your permission," interrupted the professor. "You seem not to have read what I have written concerning the logical necessity of an incomprehensible basis for reality. Did you consider me such a dunce as not to have perceived that?"

"To speak of things is not necessarily to understand them," replied Markus. "And so to speak of them is proof of not understanding."

"I know very well what the human mind can compass, and what not; and in my last work, 'On the Essence of Matter,' I think I have defined the utmost to which the human mind can attain," said Professor Bommeldoos.

"So did the Egyptians place the farthest reaches of the earth at the first falls of the Nile, to which the river was said to have flowed from heaven. And thousands and thousands of years passed away before they ventured to step beyond that boundary. And now the world is beginning to fraternize, and men to co-operate--now the barriers of the world are being removed to infinite distance. Who then shall term that which the human intellect can grasp, the extreme limit?"

"There remains a barrier, constituted by our material structure, just as there is a barrier because of our confinement to this terrestrial ball which we cannot leave," declared Professor Bommeldoos, loudly and oracularly, encircling his chin with his hand, as was his habit when in learned discussions. He seemed to have quite forgotten that he had before him a patient for examination.

"You read the book of life from the end toward the beginning," said Markus, "and see the world upside down. Why do you babble of a dead dust which would establish a limit to the life of the soul? But all matter is made of living thought, and nothing is lifeless, or formed without life. Mountains and seas are thoughts of the earth; and planets and suns, and all life, are the thoughts of God. The stone at your feet seems to you dead; but neither does the ant that creeps over your hand perceive the life of it. You have built up your own body--"

"Out of existent material," cried the professor.

"There is nothing existent as the effect of other life, that you cannot search into. And the operations of your life meet on all sides the counter-influences of other lives. But all is spirit and life. Shall, then, a builder say that the house he has built defines the boundary outside of which he cannot go?"

"But a race like the human race preserves its permanent characteristics," interpolated Dr. Cijfer.

"Why do we term permanent the creatures of one day? There is nothing permanent, and there are no persistent races. Life is a flowing water, a flaming fire--never the same from one second to another. But in your ignorance you make fixed definitions, write dead words and dead books, and imagine that you understand the things that live."

There was an instant of silence. Then Markus added:

"You have yourselves created death, and placed the barriers. Your words are diseased and rotten; and with those words you would analyze life. Would you perform an operation with unclean knives? But with your dead words you cut into life, and thus spread death."

Another silence, and then:

"Purify your thoughts and your words. Put away that which is impure--that is, the superfluous. Make a science of words, as you have made a science of the stars--as exact and as sacred.

"Through co-operation and fellowship among scholars you have created a system of relations called mathematics. Make also such a system of significations, for you miss your mark with words, and fail to find that life which is the most beautiful and exquisite, as children miss the moths they would catch with their caps and with bags. And through co-operation and fellowship you shall create a demand, the response to which shall ring out like a revelation and an evangel--full, joyous, marvelous."

Markus ceased speaking, and gazed as though into the far distance. For a while they all waited, respectfully, to see if he was going to say more, for they had been listening eagerly.

Then Dr. Cijfer said, in a gentle tone: "Your views are surely worthy of consideration. Neither did I make a mistake when I thought you a person of advancement and refinement. But let me remind you that we are here for the purpose of making a medical examination. Without doubt you will now indeed reply to the simple questions that I shall put to you."

Markus, throwing a glance and a smile to Johannes, who had been listening with breathless attention, said to the learned men:

"I spoke not for you; that were fruitless. I spoke for him."

After that he uttered not a word. Dr. Cijfer questioned with gentle stress, Professor Bommeldoos with vehement energy; but Markus was silent, and seemed not to notice that there were others in the room.

"I adhere to my diagnosis, Colleague," said Bommeldoos.

Dr. Cijfer rang, and ordered the nurse to come.

"Take the patient to his ward again. He will remain, for the present, under observation."

Markus went, after making a short but kindly inclination of the head to Johannes.

"Will you not tell us now, Johannes, what you know of this person?" asked Dr. Cijfer.

"Mijnheer," replied Johannes, "I know but little more of him than you do yourself. I met him two years ago, and he is my dearest friend; but I have seen him rarely, and have never inquired about his life nor his origin."

"Remarkable!" exclaimed Dr. Cijfer.

"Once again, Colleague, I stand by my diagnosis," said Bommeldoos. "Initial paranoia, with megalomaniacal symptoms, on the basis of hereditary inferiority, with vicarious genius."

XVIII

In all this time the King and Queen were not yet married. That was the way of things in such lofty circles. They were still to attend many more banquets, to listen to many more speeches, and to make a great many more bows. I should judge, indeed, that they were just about half-way through.

And while most of the people acted as if they thought the ceremonies proper and pleasant, and took their part in the celebrations, there were others, who met to say that they were not altogether pleased. Such gatherings are called "indignation meetings." Of course they do not protest against the marriage of those two people--they have nothing to say against that--but only against the prolonged ceremonials. They consider the banquets, the fine array, the wine-drinking and the feasting occasioned thereby, both costly and unnecessary. They also consider the maintenance of a king and queen costly and unnecessary.

Such an opinion is, indeed, very uncommon, if not unheard of; for you remember that even the creatures of the pond into which Johannes dived with Windekind had found the need of a king who could eat a great deal. So, when Jan van Tijn and his wife got ready to attend that indignation meeting, Johannes wished to accompany them; for he was curious to hear what would be said there.

Like Marjon, Johannes was now in a boarding-house. He was with some friends of Jan--a worthy couple without children--who kept a total-abstinence coffee-house. The man was named Roodhuis, and he was tall and stout. He had a large, forceful face, light-colored eyes, and a small, fair moustache. He said little, and had a great dislike of alcohol and of soldiers. His wife, too, seldom spoke, but was very kindly and industrious. Through their little business they made a livelihood, and no more. They were interested in everything that concerned the labor movement, and received in their small assembly-place all of the leaders and speakers prominent in the struggle. In that little hall, too, choir rehearsals were held, and little plays were given--as often as possible, adverse to war and to alcohol, and in favor of the so ardently desired Freedom and Fraternity.

Here Johannes found board and lodging, for which he did not need to pay, because he lent a helping hand in the work of the place.

He had just been having a hard experience: he had bidden his little friends good-by. Although they had grown larger and stronger, and were therefore no longer so tender and delicate as when he first saw them, yet the parting was full of sadness.

"Why do you go away, Johnny, and where are you going to live?" they asked.

"I am poor, and must work to earn my bread," replied Johannes.

"Oh, but Mama will give you money--will you not, Mama? And you can always eat and live here. Then you will not need to work," said Olga.

"You can have half of my share of oatmeal every time," said Frieda; "I get more than I want, though."

"No, children," said the mother, "it is not nice nor well to live upon what one gets from another, without working one's self. That is parasitism, and sinful before God. Johannes knows this, and being poor he is good to wish to work."

"Well, then, dear Johnny," said Olga, "I shall pray that God will make you rich quickly--as rich as we are; and then you will not need to work, and will come back again."

"I don't think it nice of God to make Johnny poor and us rich," said Frieda, pouting.

"Fie, Frieda, you must not say that," said Mevrouw. And then Johannes went away swiftly and bravely before the tears came.

Later, he heard that Van Lieverlee, whom he had not bidden good-by, had told everybody that Johannes had left in a pet to live with some proletarians because of his having been repeatedly rebuked by himself on account of his excessive vanity.

* * * * *

In the little public room of the total-abstainers' coffee-house, "The Future," a large circle of congenial spirits sat waiting. Jan van Tijn was there, his wife, an infant, and the oldest girl. Marjon was there also, a neighbor having volunteered to care for the other Van Tijn children. Besides those named, there were about twenty other men and women in the little hall with its dirty, dingy hangings. On small tables in front of the visitors were cups of tea and chocolate. Many mothers had brought their infants. There was a dearth of talking and a deal of smoking; for it would have been too much, at the outset, to put a ban upon both alcohol and tobacco.

"Well, what did they find with their examination?" asked Jan van Tijn, as Johannes entered the smoky hall.

"He is not free yet," replied Johannes, "but he talked with them so finely and sanely they are bound to let him go."

"Good!" said Jan.

"Come here, Jo. Here's a cup of comfort for you, then," said Vrouw Roodhuis.

"But all the same," cried a man with a hoarse voice, a sallow face, and black beard, dressed in a brown Manchester suit, with a loose scarf around his sweater, and a pair of sandals on his bare feet, "you needn't think he will be set free. As soon as you begin to oppose that pest of hypocrites, you'll have the whole crew at your throat. That sort knows it all, every time--whether it be the pastor, or the dominie, or the general, or the professor--always the same pack; and if they once get you into their clutches you never get out again, whether in jail or in the madhouse or in the hospital; you never get out till they've given you a good start toward kingdom-come."

"Are they goin' to poison 'im?" asked a woman, in alarm. "What with? Ratsbane?"

"They'll poison him, for sure," answered the man in brown, "or they'll nag him to death, or starve him. They have methods and tricks enough--the villains!"

It was scarcely half-past eight o'clock yet, and the indignation meeting was to begin at nine. So it was proposed to shorten the time with recitations and singing. And this was done. First some one sang alone--the song of a poor conscript who was forced to go to war, and had conscientious scruples about it. Then they all sang a song of freedom.

After that, a very young typographer recited, with great fervor, a poem describing the way the Jews made merry at the crucifixion of Jesus on Golgotha; how they even took their little children with them, and hoped the anguish would be prolonged, that they might have the more pleasure.

The description of that cruelty, vehemently expressed, made a deep impression, and they sat listening with open mouths notwithstanding that they had heard it many times before. When it was over they all stamped uproariously on the floor.

At that moment the door opened, and Markus stood at the threshold of the little hall.

"Hurrah!" cried Johannes; and the others, who had just before been shouting; "Hurrah for Golgotha!" now shouted "Hurrah for Markus!" They were all greatly excited and glad to see him free.

"Good-evening," said Markus, without giving token, himself, of being particularly glad. He wore again his customary workman's suit. From all sides hands were held out to him.

"I hadn't thought it," said Jan, "that they'd let you out of their clutches again. How did you manage it?"

"Let 'im have something to eat, first," said Vrouw Roodhuis. "Aren't you hungry, man? You couldn't have been in clover there."

"I shouldn't have had any appetite with all those mad folks about," remarked another woman. "And then, too, when they wanted to poison you!"

"Yes, I am hungry," said Markus. And then bread and milk were given him.

"Why did you come here again?" asked Marjon.

Markus replied simply, "I had something more to say."

After he had eaten, he asked, "Is there a meeting to-night? Who called it?"

"The politicians," replied the young typographer.

"Felbeck wants to be President of the Republic," said the man in brown.

"Is there to be a debate?" asked Markus.

"Listen! Hakkema is coming, too. Oh, there'll be a racket!" said Jan.

"You might say a little something, too, Markus," said Roodhuis. "You must give that confounded military set a good thrashing, just such as you give the pious."

"I never have given the pious a 'thrashing,'" said Markus.

"That's a damn shame!" said the man with the sandals. "Religion is the root of all evil."

"No, it's militarism," said Roodhuis.

"No, alcohol," said the young typographer.

"Neither of them! It's eating meat that does it," said a pale, slim little woman, not yet twenty. "First you slaughter animals, then you eat them, then you drink, and then you murder and steal. One thing leads to another."

"So long, I say, as the people let themselves be taxed and fleeced by kings and priests, so long as they bow to a boss--whether they call him patron or God makes no difference--so long shall we remain in misery."

"Now, Markus," said Jan, "put in an oar yourself. You know better how to pull than the rest of 'em, I should say."

"Well, I will tell you a story," said Markus, "if you will promise to remember it, and not ask an explanation."

"Why not an explanation?" asked the man in brown. "What does that mean? Is it a riddle?"

"I would just as soon be silent," said Markus.

"Come, now, Markus, pitch in! We won't ask you any more than you want to tell us."

"Listen, then," said Markus; and he began his story in a tone which constrained them all to silence.

"Once there were some field-laborers who were very poor--so poor that when they were asked how, with all their children, they could make both ends meet, they replied, 'The churchyard helps us out.'

"They had a rich landlord, and there was an abundance of land. But they were obliged to work so long every day, and so many days in succession, that they had no time to learn anything--not even the best way to plow and sow and reap. They did only the work they were bidden to do. So they remained dull because they were poor, and poor because they were dull. It seemed as if it would stay thus until eternity.

"But the landlord grew richer and richer, through the toil of his many laborers, and according to the increase of his wealth did he become more covetous and dissolute and indolent. And he demanded that his laborers work still harder because his desires were greater.

"But that they could not do. And the help of the churchyard was so very great that they were filled with fear.

"Then, through their great need, there came to one of them a little spark of light, and he said to the others: 'Brothers, this is all wrong. At this rate we shall very soon perish ourselves. We have hungered long enough. Let us slay him and seize the treasure we have collected for him.'

"That seemed to the others a good plan, and they wondered they had not thought of it before. Thereupon they slew the rich landlord, and divided his wealth. But, because he had lived a prodigal life, and since they themselves knew not the best way to plow, to sow, and to reap, they were in a short time still poorer than before.

"Then the son of the landlord, who had escaped, returned to them, and said:

"'You see it was stupid of you to kill your master, for now you are bound to starve, because you cannot manage for yourselves.'

"Then they replied: 'Be to us then a better master, and we will let you live.'

"And the son of the landlord, who had the knowledge of his father, directed their work. And he became rich, and they remained poor--so poor that the churchyard had to help, although not to the former extent. Yet was there land in abundance.

"But the spark of knowledge which that extreme need had awakened continued to shine, and that one laborer said to his fellow-workers: 'Brothers, still is it not well, for, although we do not yet die ourselves from want, our children die. And although it is not right to slay one's lord, why should it be right to make him so rich that he becomes idle and lewd and wanton? We labor hard, and our toil enriches him. But he saves nothing. When we struck down his father we did not find enough to feed us for a week. We must not suffer this, for our wives and children can live upon what he wastes.'

"Then said another: 'We have no need of the landlord, but of his knowledge. For when we had slain our lord we found ourselves no richer. Nor had we the skill to create new wealth. Therefore are we even more miserable than before.'

"At that, a third one said: 'Lacking our labor, must he die; but without his knowledge we must starve. Let us go to him, and say that we will not give him our labor unless he give us his knowledge. If he refuse, then we shall die with him; if he assent, then we shall all live.'

"This the laborers did. And the young landlord, fearful lest he die, taught all who asked him with what they must fertilize the land, and what to sow, and how to irrigate, and all the secrets of tilling the soil, so that they might live. And he also gave to every one that asked it some land to cultivate, and a handful of grain. 'For my forefathers also began with no more than this,' said he.

"Then some of them took the handful of grain and ate it up, because they were so poor and so greedy. And they squandered away their piece of land, and asked not for the knowledge wherewith to till it.

"But others, accepting the knowledge, cultivated their piece of land with the mouthful of grain. But because they had for so long suffered a scarcity they were overjoyed at the harvest. And those--the first--who had again become poor, they pressed into their service. So each became a landlord, and they each gave to the first landlord a share of what was theirs. Thus the first landlord remained very rich, while the others were even richer, and the very poorest remained as miserable as before. All that resulted was the renewal of slothfulness, prodigality, and killing. And the churchyard had to keep on helping.

"But the spark of knowledge, once lighted, continued to burn, and one laborer said to the others: 'Brothers, still it is not well, for we remain unhappy beings. The rich are unhappy through their over-abundance, and the poor through their poverty. What, then, shall be done that it be otherwise?'

"Then said another: 'Brothers, we have taken away from our landlord both his power and his knowledge. We have no further need of him. But what master is it then of whom we have need? For we are as miserable as before.'

"Then said another: 'Brothers, we still need a master, but one who will teach us wisdom and charity; for is it not ignorance through which some have eaten up their seed-grain; and a lack of charity that has caused others to waste all their harvest, and compelled the poorest to serve them?'

"Then they chose a master who taught them wisdom and charity, and that master said: 'You shall not give full possession of the land, for it is lent to all; and of your harvest shall you not--you and your household--consume more than is good for your health. And all the surplus shall you sow again; for there is land enough. And no man shall work for another who can himself work and yet does not.'

"And they did according to this command. And under that master they founded a realm of plenty that was called 'Freedom.'"

Markus was silent, and so for a while were his listeners. At last, the man in the brown suit said:

"Well, now, but they might have done that just as well without master or mandate."

"Say, Markus," said Jan van Tijn, "if you happen to know of such a gentleman, just quietly set me down on the waiting list. My word for it, if he's boss, I'll not go on a strike."

"Well, heaven help us! Are you an anarchist?" asked the other. "You throw the whole principle overboard."

Jan just glanced at him. "I don't hear anything fall yet," said he, drily. And then, looking to right and left at his neighbors:

"D'ye hear anything?"

The company laughed. Markus, looking earnestly at him, said:

"You can at once enter that service, Jan, as can every one."

"What a silly gull!" said he in the brown suit.

XIX

On the way to the Assembly-room they passed the Royal Residence. The windows were a blaze of light, for another banquet had just been held, and the marriage was thus brought a step nearer. The lackeys looked down at the thronging multitude, and smiled disdainfully. In front of the palace, erect upon their horses, their carbines at their hips, sat the hussars. The people shouted. They wanted to see the bridal pair do some more bowing.

And, verily, after a while, open flew the balcony doors, and out came the King and Queen--for all the world like the cuckoo of a clock at the stroke of the hour; and there they bowed and bowed--many times more than the hours that were struck by the clock. Thus the crowd had its will, and shouted to hearts' content. At the same time Johannes also felt, distinctly, a thrill of enthusiasm, although it was mingled with pity; for it did seem as if the crowd found delight in keeping those two poor people bowing, without asking if they had the least desire to do so, so soon after dinner, and after a busy day.

* * * * *

At the indignation meeting it was very warm and crowded. People stood packed at the entrance. Inside, above a haze of tobacco smoke, Dr. Felbeck could be seen sitting at a table covered with green. In front of him were a black hammer, a carafe, and glasses. The table stood on a little stage between side-scenes that represented a forest by moonlight.

There was a great deal of bustle and noise in the hall. Above the clamor rose the cries of the colporteurs reiterating the virtues of their weeklies and pamphlets: "Buy the Pathfinder--three cents!" "Throne, Exchange and Altar; or the Robber Conspiracy Unmasked--one cent!" "Hypocrisy; or the Source of all Depravity--one cent!" "Who are the Murderers?--two cents!"

Dr. Felbeck looked around the hall, casting piercing, frowning glances, like a general surveying the field of battle. At times he chatted with the associate chairman who sat beside him, apparently about this or that advocate or opponent whom he observed in the hall. At times, also, he nodded smilingly to some one in the audience.

The doors were closed, and no one else was permitted to enter. A few helmeted policemen took their stand at the entrance.

The chairman--a spruce young gentleman--after straightening his eye-glasses, grasped with his left hand the old speaker's hammer, rapped upon the table with it, and spoke a few words. Gradually it grew more still. Then Dr. Felbeck stood up, resting upon the table with both hands--his head between his shoulders like a cat about to make a spring. Then, rising to his full height, and glancing several times at his audience--challenging, and certain of success--he began: "Comrades!"

* * * * *

The speech lasted an hour and a half. What he said accorded very well with that which Johannes had heard him say when they first met. The downtrodden proletarian must in the end gird himself against the oppressor--against the rotten civic society, against the gentry of the safety-box, who are supported by the soldiers, assisted by priests, and represented by the Crown. The people must become conscious of their power, for the people are the source of all wealth, and to the people belongs the future. If only the laborers would act in unison, they would be able to make the laws. They were by far the majority. They might compose the Parliament, command the military, possess the collective wealth. Then they could make better laws, and could take from the rich their unmerited privileges. Then would come a time of real liberty and fraternity.

Thereupon Dr. Felbeck made an estimate of the number of guldens a minute that the King had to spend; adding the statement that whole families of laboring men must live for a week upon no more. He showed how many people must work hard, continually, to pay for all that festivity and magnificence. He showed in detail how the rich live, and what splendor was theirs; and he claimed that such beauty and pleasure were the right of each and all. And with tears in his voice, he told them how, with his meagre wages, the poor wage-earner must make both ends meet.

He said the laborer must learn to hate his enemy, and not let himself be deluded by oily-tongued preachers of peace who were paid by the rich; for then he would surely remain in his misery. And yet, in the end, they must certainly have a share of the pleasure--they who had heretofore always come out of the little end of the horn.

All that Dr. Felbeck said was listened to with avidity. The listeners grew more and more attentive, and the speaker more and more vehement. There were frequent outbursts of laughter from the audience, and the hall trembled with the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands. Sometimes there was cheering to the echo. And when the speaker ended--with a fiery, well-turned clause in which all were urged to join the International Social Democratic Labor-Party--Grand Army of Laborers--there followed such an uproar that Johannes lost all sense of sight and hearing.

His duty done, the speaker sat down, yet he looked around with some anxiety at the succeeding speakers.

Again the hammer sounded: "Would any one like to add a few words?"

Three--four--hands went up.

"Hakkema has the Boor."

"Oh, indeed!" said Jan. "Now for a Punch-and-Judy session!"

Hakkema was a small, stocky man, with long hair combed straight back to his neck. His voice was rough and harsh from much speaking, and as he spoke he dropped his head back, in such a way that his shaggy beard stuck out in front. He began very softly, almost hesitatingly--apparently to flatter the former speaker. But very speedily the audience observed--what every one had expected--that he was deriding him. His deep voice grew steadily louder and rougher, and his jokes tarter and tougher. Part of the audience, carried away, and agog for fresh taunts, burst out in loud, insulting laughter, while another part enlivened itself by hissing and whistling, and by shouts of derision.

The irony chiefly concerned the fact that the former speaker termed himself a proletarian, while at the same time he owned a villa at Driebergen, and had a son preparing to be a lawyer. Of course, he appeared to be quite disinterested and would fight for the people, if only the people would be so good as to send him to the House of Representatives, with a salary of forty guldens a week. Certainly, if the King should make Dr. Felbeck Minister to-morrow, with a salary of eight thousand guldens, Dr. Felbeck would accept it out of sheer self-sacrificing devotion to the people. And then the laborer could demand audience of Dr. Felbeck, and ask why the portion on the table of the laborer should still remain so small, and also when the general national distribution would begin.

After a half-hour of such talk, the speaker ended with a stimulating appeal for a purified class struggle in which no little lords among the proletarians should be tolerated, and in which--pointing at Dr. Felbeck, who, smiling scornfully, sat sharpening a lead-pencil--the wolves in sheeps' clothing should be restrained; a struggle in which war should be declared, not only against all tyranny, all coercion, but also against the despotism of party; a struggle in which there should be strife until men had a free society where each might take what he pleased, without lords, without bosses, without safety-boxes, without gods, and without laws.

The applause for this speaker was none the less thundering, mingled, however, with shrill whistlings, and cries of "Throw him out!"

But Felbeck was a match for the man. With furious gestures and banging of his fists on the green-covered table, he called his opponent a deceiver of the people, a man without judgment or conscience, an enemy of the laborer, a sower of discord who would never bring anything to pass save disorder and confusion.

The audience grew more and more excited. Ten, twenty speakers at once, stood up in their places. Angry words were shouted back and forth. Everybody thought it time to say something. The women grew nervous, and the policemen looked at their chief as if only awaiting a signal to put an end to the row.

All this time, Markus, without having made a sign either of approval or of censure, had been sitting between Marjon and Johannes, with the family of Van Tijn.

"Have you been listening, Markus?" asked Marjon, for it seemed to her as if his thoughts were elsewhere. But he nodded "Yes."

"Say something, then," said Marjon.

"Yes, do," urged Johannes. "Tell them which one is right."

"Speak out, Markus. The one who knows ought to tell," said Van Tijn.

"That is not easy to do," said Markus. Then he stood up.

His figure now, as always, riveted attention, and the adroit leader of a tumultuous meeting felt instantly to whom he must yield the floor in order to re-establish calm.

Thus Markus' first words rang out, amid the lessening uproar, as in a subsiding storm. And as he spoke it finally grew very still. But there was no sign either of assent or of disagreement.

"There are fathers and mothers here," said Markus, "who know what spoiled children are. The spoiled child that is always coaxed and indulged, like the one that is always constrained, becomes at last capricious, malicious, and sickly.

"Shall we then treat one another as we may not our children? People are flattered by undue praise of their power and influence--are carried away by the sweetness of fine words concerning the injustice they have too long endured and concerning their right to property and to happiness. You all listen to that eagerly, do you not?

"But that to which one listens most eagerly, it is not always best to say. There are things hard to hear, which must, however, be said and be listened to.

"I know that you are not going to applaud me, as yon did those two others; but yet I am a better friend to you than they are.

"Among you there are those who suffer injustice. Yet you must not exalt yourselves. You should be ashamed of it. For whoever continues to suffer injustice is too weak, too stupid, or too indifferent to overcome it.

"You must not ask, 'Why is it done to me?' but, 'Why cannot I overcome it?'

"The answer to that question is, Weakness, stupidity, and indifference.

"I do not blame you; but I say, blame not others, only yourselves. That is the sole way to betterment.

"Is there one here--a single one--who dares assure me, solemnly, that if an honorable place were offered him by his master, on account of his good work and his good judgment, with higher pay than that of his comrades--that he would, in such case, reply, 'No, my master, I will not accept; for that would be treachery to my comrades, and desertion to your party.' Is there one such? If so, let him stand up."

But no one stirred, and the silence remained unbroken.

"Well, then," continued Markus, "neither is there here a single one who has the right to rail at the rich whom he would hate and supplant. For each of you in their place would do what the rich do. The affairs of the world would be no better conducted were you, not they, at the helm.

"How you delude and flatter and fawn upon one another! You continually hear that you are the innocent, downtrodden ones who have so much to suffer; who are worthy of so much better things; who are so good and so powerful; who would rule the world so well; whose turn it now is to have ease and luxury.

"Men, even if this were so, would it be well that you should always be told it? Would it not make of you conceited fools? Would not the reality revenge itself frightfully upon yourselves, and upon those fawners and flatterers?

"It is, instead, falsehood and conceit.

"You would not rule the world better--you have neither the wisdom nor the charity to do so. You are no more worthy of pity than are your oppressors, for when they injure your bodies they injure also their own souls. The rich are in paths more perilous than are the poor, and it is always better to suffer wrong than to commit it.

"The good things of the earth do not yet belong to you, for you would make the same misuse of them as do those against whom you are being incited.

"Wage war, and desist not until death; but the war of the righteous against the unrighteous, of the wise and charitable against the stupid and sensual. And question not whence come your companions in arms, for you are not the only unhappy ones, you are not alone merciful among men, and good-will and uprightness are not the exclusive possessions of the poor."

* * * * *

Although it seemed to Johannes that Markus' voice was not so wonderfully impressive as at other times, the people had become very attentive. And when he stopped, and sat down without having made a particularly oratorical or cumulative close, they all were still for many seconds. But not a foot stamped, not a hand stirred.

And this very silence made Dr. Felbeck angry.

"Comrades," he began, in his most scornful manner, with an envious, nasal twang in his voice, "we do net need to ask whence the wind blows. This is one more of that obsolete little band of old-fashioned, bourgeois idealists who wish to reform the world with tracts and sermons, and to keep the toilers content in subjection and resignation. Laborers, have you not, I ask, practised patience long enough? Have you, then, no right to the pleasures of life? Must you fill the hungry stomachs of your little ones with palaver about wisdom and charity?"

"No, no!" roared the crowd, freed instantly from the spell of respect under which for a moment they had been held.

"Do not let yourselves be befogged by those tedious maunderings that would reason away the strife of the classes. Oh, true! To such the gentlemen of the safety-box listen eagerly enough, for they are, oh, so afraid of the War of the Classes! But if they were to hear this gentleman talk, they would shout their approval. Take notice, this gentleman will do much to further it. Of course, they have his medal all ready for him."

"And a pension," said Hakkema, while the audience laughed.

"He is an unfrocked priest," said he in the Manchester suit.

"Damn ye, are ye a workman?" cried a voice at the back of the hall. "And do ye mean to say it's my fault that my children perish with hunger, and not the fault of those cursed blood-suckers? You 're a God-forsaken hypocrite, no laborer!"

Markus sat very still, gazing straight before him into the flame of a gas-jet. But Johannes saw that he was deathly pale, and that his eyes seemed to sink deeper into their sockets. Beads of perspiration were standing on his temples.

Hakkema stood up.

"Now I chance to know, fellow-laborers, that this man has escaped from a madhouse. That is a mitigating circumstance. Otherwise," Hakkema went on, drawing his clenched hand from his pocket, and thrusting it out in front of him, "otherwise I would have my fist at his jaw, and ask him if he had no feeling at all in his accursed carcass, that he begrudged the laborer his pittance of the good things of life. It's an enormous amount of pleasure, isn't it--glorious pleasure--you've been able to get on two hundred cents a day!"

"You cad!" cried the young typographer, to Markus--the very same youth who had recited the poem about Golgotha.

"I'll invite you sometime to my home--with my six children, and a seventh one coming, and the clothes in the pawn-shop, and no warm food for three days--then you can see what a fine time of it the laborer has."

"Vile, hateful traitor!" "Hireling socialist!" "I'll ring yer neck for ye!" "I'll guzzle yer blood, ye hateful cur!" Such cries as these rang from various sides, and the uproar steadily increased.

The man in the brown suit shrieked invectives without cessation--"Cad! Carrion! Thief!" and the worst ones he could think of; while, in his excitement, the tears ran down his pale, drawn cheeks.

The din was deafening.

Johannes clenched his fists, and stared at the pale, passionate faces with their evil, flashing glances, which threatened them on every side. He saw Marjon beside him, her eyes distended with terror. Markus sat immovable. The drops of moisture were so thick upon his forehead and cheeks that Johannes took his handkerchief and wiped them away.

Jan van Tijn stood up, but he felt he could do nothing to stem that tide. He began, "Say, are you people--" But he was shouted down, with threats of a broken head; and already fists and chairs were upraised.

Then the chief gave the signal, for which the police had so long waited, and declared in a hard, impartial voice that the place must be vacated. And this work was expedited, with the calm satisfaction of officials who had indeed hoped that matters would end thus--as usual.

The Roodhuis family and the Van Tijns remained with Markus, while Johannes and Marjon were a little in the rear. Roodhuis and Van Tijn wished, they said, to protect Markus if he should need their help. Markus said, "No need."

"Please, Markus," pleaded Van Tijn, "don't think it means so much. I know the workmen. They fly off the handle so easily, but by morning they'll shriek something else. They're not so bad--only a bit rough, you know--sort o' half wild yet. Will ye believe me, Markus, and not despise 'em for't, nor turn yer back on 'em for't, Markus?"

"No, Jan, surely not, if only I have the strength," said Markus, in a hoarse, unsteady voice.

XX

One chilly autumn day, the three sat together in a gloomy bar-room, just as formerly they had done in the small mining town. And, also, the fourth one was there, but in a pitiable condition.

Keesje lay in Markus' lap, under a covering of faded, old red baize. His little black face was as full of folds as an old shoe, his body wasted away, and he was panting and gasping for breath. A hairy little arm came out from under the red baize, and a long, slim black hand clasped Markus' thumb; and whenever Markus had occasion to use his hand, one could see the little black monkey-hand stretch out and feel around, while the brown eyes looked restlessly backward, as if now all safety were gone.

They were in the total-abstainers' coffee-house, for Roodhuis continued to proffer hospitality to Markus, although this did not help his business. After that indignation meeting Markus' stay with Roodhuis was made an excuse by all his friends for their avoidance of the coffee-house. Except Van Tijn and a few other independent ones, none of the old customers returned; but Roodhuis would not permit Markus to go away on that account.

"Now, you must never again lower yourself for that rabble that doesn't understand you, anyway, and isn't worth the trouble," said Marjon, with the pride of one who knows what takes place in high circles, and esteems one's self of better origin.

"Tell me, Johannes, what you would do," said Markus, kindly, while he warmed Keesje's little hand in his own.

"I do not know, Markus," replied Johannes. "It was a wretched evening, for I could not endure that it should cost you so dearly. But if they had done it to me I would not have cared."

"That is right," said Markus. "And now, my dear Johannes, do not think that I am less submissive than yourself. Did you indeed fancy it?"

Johannes shook his head.

"Well, then, it is not scorn which humiliates, but the doing of unworthy deeds. And those people are not less worthy of my help than they were before. Evil inclinations are good inclinations gone astray."

"Then are there not any wicked people?" asked Marjon.

"Ay, ay! Because there is not a black light, is there therefore no night? Calmly call a villain a villain, but take care that you are not one yourself, Marjon."

"But are there not, for the Father, any evil-doers?" asked Johannes.

"Why should there not be for the Father what there is for us? But He knows--what we do _not_ know--the why and the wherefore."

"But, Markus, I saw what you endured that wretched evening. And it must not be. Must you, then, let what is high and noble be so misunderstood and defiled?"

Markus bowed his head in silence over the coughing monkey. Then he said gently:

"I have suffered, my two dear ones, because my Father has not given me strength enough. Did you not see how they listened to me, and trusted, for an instant? But then my Father, in His own way, which is beyond our comprehension, gave power again to the Evil One. Had I more wisdom I should have been able so to speak that they would have understood me. Thus I suffered doubly: on account of their dulness and wickedness, and from shame, not of them, but because of my own weakness. And this I say, Johannes, that you may know what weakness also there is in one who is stronger than you yourself will ever be."

Johannes, his chin upon his clasped hands, looked at him long and thoughtfully, and then whispered:

"Dear Brother, I believe I understand."

In this way they lived together for some time, and saw one another frequently. Johannes and Marjon performed their daily tasks in the boarding-house, and Markus went out every day to look for work. But Johannes was sad and troubled to see that Markus looked more pale and weary than formerly; and as Johannes lay awake in the night, he heard his brother, who slept beside him, sigh often, and softly moan.

One morning Markus did not go out, for Keesje lay still, looking, and could neither get up nor eat. When Markus took away his hand Keesje began to whine; and this brought on a paroxysm of coughing. Markus set him in a patch of sunshine that fell upon the counter from an upper window. There he brightened up a bit, and looked at the flies that, chilled with the cold, crept over the counter near his head. But toward night, when Marjon came, it was all over with Keesje.

He was all shriveled up, and as light as a handful of straw. They put him into a cigar box, and the trio buried him at night, by the light of a lantern, in the bit of soggy, black ground between the foul fences that had to represent a garden, and where shavings and papers supplied the place of flowers and trees.

Marjon and Johannes tried to control themselves, but did not succeed. First one and then the other began to cry.

"Truly, it is silly," said Johannes, "sobbing over such a creature, when so many thousands of people are starving every day."

Said Markus, "There are thousands starving here, and infinitely many more in all parts of my Father's world, but yet none cry a tear too much who cry as you do now. The tears that the angels will shed for Johannes, he will need as much as Keesje needs these tears of his."

XXI

At last they had had enough of smiling, of dining, and of bowing, and the King and Queen were actually to be married in the Cathedral, at eleven o'clock in the morning. Furthermore, it was to be a great feast day, with brilliant illuminations at night, in all the towns of the good Netherlands.

* * * * *

What Hakkema had said of Markus--that he had escaped from an asylum--was not true. He had simply been released because he was not considered dangerous, and because, nowadays, the asylums, especially those of the working-class, are already too crowded.

But he had been warned sternly that a watch would be kept over him, and that he would be rearrested at the slightest disturbance of the peace.

Since the indignation meeting, the police had been a number of times to see Roodhuis, to inquire after Markus. It was further said that he had been advised not to speak in public, because such speaking might furnish a pretext for his immediate arrest.

Markus had not again spoken in public, but had been seeking work. Sometimes he went afoot to neighboring towns, many hours' distant--but always fruitlessly. He did not always lodge with Roodhuis, but sometimes with a kind-hearted and trusted friend, at another place. Johannes noticed that Markus was very poor, for he was obliged to live upon what his friends gave him, and they could spare but little.

"Why do we not travel together, we three," asked Johannes, "just as we used to? We could surely earn our living."

"Yes, those were good times," said Marjon. "And if Markus would go with us, we would have still better ones. He makes even better music than ours. We shall earn money."

But Markus shook his head.

"No, dear children, for us three those good times will not come again. My singing-time is passed, and I must remain here, for my task is not yet done. But it soon will be."

"And then shall we go together?" asked Marjon.

"No; then I shall go alone," replied Markus, briefly.

"Why alone?" asked Johannes and Marjon, almost in the same breath. And there followed a silence of some moments' duration.

Then said Markus: "You will be faithful and remember me and my words, and act as if I were with you, will you not?"

They sighed, and thereafter their words were few and brief; nor did they sing.

* * * * *

But on the morning of that festal day, when the bells of all the Netherlands were ringing, Markus came into the little tavern with a face more joyful than Johannes had ever seen him wear. His eyes shone, and a smile was on his lips.

"Do you hear the bells, Johannes?" asked he. "It is a holiday."

Johannes had entirely forgotten about the holiday.

"How splendid, Markus, to have you so glad. Has something good happened?"

"Have you struck it?" asked Juffrouw Roodhuis. "Happy man!"

"The worst is over," said Markus. "Yes, Juffrouw, to-day I'll 'strike it', and it is well."

After eating some bread, said he: "Johannes, go to the Van Tijns and ask if Marjon may go with us. If you would like to, we will go to see the King and Queen."

"Where?" asked Johannes.

"In the church, Johannes. The sexton is a good friend of mine, and has promised me a place for you both, near the singers."

I shall not tell you in detail of the ceremony, for you may read all about it in the papers: how the church was crammed with the stateliest and most distinguished citizens of the Netherlands, all of them beautifully dressed; how the floral decorations were furnished by a certain firm; how people stood at the door all night that they might be the first to enter in the morning; how the bridal pair came in to the music of Mendelssohn's wedding march; how charming the bride looked, although a little pale; how an impressive train of brilliantly decorated military men and magistrates followed the royal pair, and grouped themselves about them, till the church interior seemed truly magnificent; how respectfully the people stood, and how stirred they all were; how the Minister made a brief but touching speech, that affected all profoundly; how finely, during the customary formalities, the King carried himself, and how winsomely the Queen; how the Queen, moreover, said "Yes" in a voice that thrilled all present; how the King then spoke a few words, in which he promised to consecrate all his powers to the good of his beloved people, and invoked the blessing-of God upon his difficult but exalted task; and how, finally, a thundering "Long live the King!" and "Long live the Queen!" burst forth, making the whole vast edifice resound.

With all of this the papers have accurately acquainted you. But you might perhaps recall that a number of journals had something to say of a slight disturbance caused by the appearance of one who probably was not quite right in his head. The incident, however--so the papers averred--had no significance whatever, and was speedily forgotten; such instances often occurring at ceremonies attended by great crowds.

The disturber of the peace--so the papers stated--was one whom the police had long held under surveillance, on account of his peculiar behavior. He was, therefore, promptly taken into custody, the police, indeed, having had no little difficulty in protecting him from the fury of the populace. The royal pair, not in the least agitated by the occurrence, drove home through the enthusiastic rejoicings of the people, greeting all with friendly smiles.

This, then, was the information imparted by some few of the newspapers--not all of them. But now I will tell you what actually took place. I know well, because Johannes and Marjon--for whom the sexton had secured a fine place with the singers in the church choir, and who, therefore, witnessed everything--told me all about it.

* * * * *

In the nave of the cathedral, above the arches of the aisles, and running beneath the high windows, is a very narrow gallery having a stone balustrade. The only way to this gallery is through small doorways called "Monks' Holes." They are so named because from them, in olden times, the friars could witness the church rites below.

When the King had ended his brief speech, and all present, being deeply impressed, held respectful silence, there appeared up above, through one of these openings, a man in a spacious, dun-grey mantle, with a white cloth about his neck. And suddenly, in the deep silence, the voice of this man--much fuller and more powerful than that of the King--cried out, so that they echoed and re-echoed from every corner of the great temple, these words:

"King of men!"

At once everybody looked up, including the King and Queen, who were directly opposite.

But the man was not looking at them. He held his head a little backward, and his dark hair fell down in curls over the white linen. His eyes, beneath their half-closed lids, were gazing into the light of the arched windows opposite him as if to screen the inner vision from the too fierce outer light. His figure was tall and erect. One hand rested on the white balustrade, the other was raised to the height of his head, in a strange and majestic posture of authority.

Again he cried:

"Hail to thee, King of men!"

The master of ceremonies with his white staff, the generals, stiff with gold, the diplomats and magistrates, all looked with something of wonder, by turns at the speaker, at one another, and at the royal pair, not knowing but that it was a special addition to the program, of which there was no official mention. But since it had made an impression, and seemed to befit the temper and spirit of the assembly, all continued to listen. And the conductor of the choir of children, whose turn it now was to take part, waited and listened as well. And quite without hindrance, Markus spoke the following:

"Hail to him who should be called the King of men!-Blessed is he who merits that name.

"For he is crowned by the grace of God, which is wisdom. His sceptre is love, and his seat is righteousness.

"Among the millions who wander and complain, he is the strong and wise one, who goes before and lights the way.

"Blessed is his progress, for without effort he leads the multitude.

"Blessed are his thoughts, for beyond all others he fore-sees the marvels of the Father.

"Blessed is his word, for he is the poet who fashions worlds after the pattern of the Father. God's mouthpiece he is.

"Joyful is he in the midst of sadness and happy in all adversity; for wherever he goes he dwells in the shadow of the Eternal, and hears His wings above him.

"Among the countless lame and maimed, in the multitude of the defective and infirm, he is the only perfect one, showing what it is possible for man to be.

"Strong is he, and beautiful in person; proud and unpretentious; daring and patient; wise in great, and sagacious in lesser, things; stern in deed, yet tender-hearted; unlimited in love; gentle, but never weak.

"For he is the only hale flower of perfect bloom in a full field of the pale and the deformed. Honor be to him! Elect him, and encompass him with care and with homage; for in him exists the future and the entire race.

"He is the director of the ways of men, and bears with ease the burden of their sorrow and their care, for he knows the issue and the solution.

"He is the maker and maintainer of order in human relations, because he knows and comprehends, and beholds in his mind, like an accurate map, the longings and emotions of men.

"He operates not through pressure of fear or force, but through the superiority of his mind, which must be perceptible to all.

"He is the regulator of the labor of men, teaching them how to bring forth and to distribute in such manner that none may have overflow while others suffer scarcity; and also that none may be idle while others overwork. He plans and confirms the bond through which each finds his place in the great family, so that life becomes fine and orderly and easy, like the figures of a well-drilled dance.

"Such is the King of men. His power is given him, not through the unreasoning, capricious fancy of the undeveloped who are the slaves of custom and of idle, impressionable fear, but through the reasonable views of the multitude who follow and honor, in him, their own best self.

"He moves not in the splendor of external pomp, neither wears he a golden crown; but around his head streams, visible to all, the grace of God, which is wisdom, love, and beauty."

* * * * *

When Markus had said this, people here and there began to be restless. The master of ceremonies indicated that enough had been said, and sent one lackey to the choir-conductor to ask why, according to regulations, there was no singing, and another lackey to the door to see if the carriages were in waiting.

But the carriages were not yet there, and the children who were to sing the chorus now in order, remained, with perplexed faces and open mouths, gazing at that strange figure speaking as if out of the sky in such a marvelous voice. The conductor failed to attract their attention, and realized that all his painstaking, studious preparations for the song were useless.

Markus paid not the slightest heed to the increasing unrest and nervousness, nor to the commanding gestures of the irritated master of ceremonies that he cease speaking; instead, he now raised his voice until it reverberated from the high vaultings:

"Where is he, that King of men?

"Where is the people's King? Where is the people's Queen--his peer--who supports and supplements him?

"Seek them, ye unhappy ones! Never so much as now have you had need of them.

"Seek them in every land; for misery and ugliness and barrenness and confusion are not much longer to be endured.

"Seek them in the city and in the country. Seek them also in the alleys and in the hovels. Yes, seek them in the prisons and in the places of execution. For even so great is your confusion."

Then, bending his head toward the royal pair below, and fastening upon them and the surrounding group of splendid notables his flashing glance, Markus shouted in vehement, resounding tones:

"But seek them not here. Has the light of the grace of God pointed hither?

"Has the grace of God become here evident to all, like a shining aureole of wisdom and love and beauty?

"What children and mischief-makers you are--you there, with your robes of state, and your badges of dignity,--that you think to create a king without the manifestation of the grace of God!

"Deluded by an empty sound, by a dynastic name, you in your ignorance would proclaim, 'Here is a king, and here therefore must God's grace be manifested, for even so we wish it to be.'

"Would you, like mischief-makers and frivolous bugle-blowers, dictate to your God, and show Him where to bestow His grace?

"Who has beheld in this pair of wretched human beings the wisdom, beauty, love, and power which are the visible tokens of God's elect?

"Do you not tremble, then, at the fearful responsibility you take upon yourselves, and put also upon these two pitiable people, by this blasphemous child's-play?"

* * * * *

The excitement now became more serious. That the King and Queen, counts and barons, generals, court marshals, state counselors and ministers should be called mischief-makers and frivolous bugle-blowers, was not to be tolerated.

The King grew red, coughed in his glove, and looked angrily at the master of ceremonies. The Queen, on the contrary, grew pale, and nervously fingered the folds of her heavy, white-satin train. Half turning round, a quick-witted courtier beckoned to the organist, and shouted: "Music!" A general--Johannes recognized him as one of the "Pleiades"--in an attempt at guarding his Rulers, cried out with all the dramatic importance and bluffness of a war-charge:

"Silence, miscreant!"

But it had to be admitted that this sounded more ridiculous than impressive. And not one of the courtiers, officers, or magistrates felt individually powerful enough to set himself by voice and bearing against that forceful speaker. Each felt that he would appear theatrical. And the man in the grey cloak, up above there, was not that. Besides, the assembly gave no countenance to such effort, and was, like every great gathering of people, under the influence of the most powerful personality.

At last, the organist comprehended what was desired of him in this critical situation, and drawing out all the stops he sent forth a heavy peal of trembling sound. In the meantime, two policemen were despatched aloft to silence the undesirable speaker.

But the majestic music rang out upon the words of Markus as if in solemn confirmation. So at least it seemed to Johannes, and to many others in the church. Markus ceased speaking, and appeared to be listening, pensively.

The policemen returned without having attained their object. The gallery could only be reached by climbing over a great beam, having broken and decayed supports, one hundred feet above the floor. The officers, becoming dizzy, lost their zest for the affair, and the firemen had to be sent for.

The music stopped again, and yet there was no continuance of the ceremonies. Markus still stood calmly in his elevated place, looking down upon the throng below with that sad expression of countenance which Johannes knew so well. And yet again, softer, but with keen and cutting penetration:

"Oh, ye poor, poor people! Slaves of the devil, called custom!

"You know no better, and cannot do otherwise. You mean to perform your duty, and to reach that which is good and holy.

"How would you possibly find your King? And how would you maintain order--holy order--without these two people; without him whom you happen to have named your king, as you might have named some foundling?

"But notwithstanding you have felt, every one of you, that I spoke the truth just now, you yet will continue this unblushing lie because you dare not do otherwise, and because you know no other way.

"But bethink yourselves, unhappy beings! Cowardice and weakness shall not excuse you, if, knowing the lie, you adhere to it, and, seeing the truth, you accept it not.

"What you endure is indeed terrible. I esteem you still more worthy of pity than the neglected people out of whose misery you have extracted your splendor.

"You have burdened this poor pair of human beings with royalty--a power befitting only the strongest and the wisest among men.

"Thus do you crush their weak spirits under a weight which only the strongest can bear. You desecrate the name of King--you blaspheme against God, whose grace is not subject to your command.

"You dazzle your bewildered people with a blinding glare, as if they truly had a king. But it is an idle puppet-show, to comply with a hollow peace and a defective method. There is none among you who has the wisdom and the might to lead this people into righteousness; and yet you bear all the responsibility for their confusion, their ignorance, their crudeness, and their misery.

"And they are the least guilty, because, in working for your luxury, they miss the opportunity to learn.

"But you pride yourselves upon your knowledge and your refinement. You know how the industrious lack food, and the rich have the privilege of idleness. You know how an over-abundance flows to you from the deprivations of the neglected. You know the injustice of all this, and yet permit it. And on these two unfortunates you impose the responsibility and the lie.

"But you know--and you shall not be justified!

"And you, two unfortunates, corrupted by the burden of your imposed greatness--poor man, poor, poor little woman! The superhuman power to break the spell of lies round about you will not be yours. May the Good Father, who hath not poured out His grace upon you, encompass you with His compassion."

* * * * *

Just then an excited young adjutant drew out a revolver, and cried, "He insults the Queen!"

A more moderate diplomat, fearing a panic, held back his hand. The cry "He insults the Queen!" was repeated at the entrance to the church. And an uproar was heard outside, for, at the coming of the firemen, the waiting crowds had overheard something about a murderer, or a madman, who was in the upper part of the church.

The helmeted men now appeared in the small gallery, and dragged Markus aside. They immediately bound him with strong cords, fearing he might throw them down below. Then one of them first made his way over the big beam, and ordered Markus to come to him. After that, the other cautiously followed.

The assembly could not see this, because it took place in the dark ridge of the aisle; but all breathed freely once more, now that the powerful voice up above was silent. Again the organ pealed forth, and the royal pair, ceremoniously preceded by the court official, at last proceeded toward the exit, for the carriages were now ready. The singing by the children was omitted. Everything else went just as the daily papers have recorded it for you.

* * * * *

Markus, tightly bound, was led out through a side door, yet not so secretly but that the crowd became aware thereof, and a riotous mob soon encircled the firemen and their prisoner.

"The Queen insulted!" they shrieked. "Kill him! Orange forever!" And they pressed closer and closer.

When Johannes and Marjon, hurried and breathless, had forced their way out through the disorderly throng, they saw, in the distance, above the encircling crowds, the shining helmets, swaying and undulating as they gradually moved farther and farther away. Hands, hats, walking-sticks, and umbrellas could be seen, now uplifted and then lowered.

The two followed on, in extreme anxiety, but they were not so fortunate as to get close by. They saw the red, angry faces of men and women, and heard the shouts of, "Orange forever!" and "Kill him!" At last, to their relief, they saw approaching a long file of policemen, who forced their way through the crowd. The people now pressed closely about the entrance to a narrow alley in which was the police-station. Then Johannes saw a man take up a large iron ash-can that stood on a stoop at the corner of the alley, and toss it so that it came down in the middle of the clamoring crowd where Markus was. A great cloud of yellow-white ashes flew from it, and the rabble laughed and cheered. The police cleared the alley, and the mob slowly scattered, with the triumphant shout: "Orange forever!"

When Johannes peered into the alley, between the policemen who would not let him through, he saw Markus--no longer walking, but only an inert body under the weight of which the firemen were moving with shuffling feet.

Marjon and Johannes waited patiently during what seemed an hour. It might have been only fifteen minutes. Then they obtained permission to pass through, and to see their brother in the station-house.

When questioned, an officer, who was sitting at the entrance, pointed over his shoulder with his pipe-stem to a dark corner.

There, upon the wooden floor, unconscious, lay Markus. His clothing was torn to rags; his hair, his beard, his eyebrows and lashes, were white with ashes; and over all were dark red clots and streaks of coagulated blood. He breathed heavily and painfully. There was no one close beside him, and he lay unwashed and uncared for, with the rope still around his wrists.

Johannes and Marjon asked for water, but were not permitted to do anything. They had to wait until the municipal doctor came. Tightly clasping each other's hand, they waited, watching their friend. At last the doctor came, and cut away the rope. It was not a mortal hurt, he said.

They saw the ambulance, with its white awning come, and saw Markus laid therein. Then, hand in hand, they walked behind to the door of the hospital, without speaking a word.

* * * * *

That evening there were great rejoicings and brilliant illuminations in all the towns and villages of the dear Netherlands. Everywhere there were flaming torches and exploding fireworks, and on all sides rang strains of "Wilhelmus!" and "Orange forever!"

The King and Queen were glad when at last the day was ended.

XXII

Johannes and Marjon both held out bravely until night, doing their daily work as well as they could, and telling briefly, to the few faithful friends of Markus, what had occurred.

But when the lonesome night was come, and they were about to part for several hours, Johannes said:

"No, do not go away from me! How can I endure it--alone with my thoughts--without you!"

They were in the little kitchen where Marjon slept. A small lamp, without a shade, stood burning on the table beside an untidy coffee-set.

When Johannes said this, Marjon looked at him with puzzled, half-closed eyes, as if she did not understand and was trying to think it out. Then she threw herself forward upon her pillow, her face in her hands, and began to cry piteously.

At that Johannes also broke down, and kneeling beside her poor, rickety little iron bed, he cried with her like one in desperation.

Then said Johannes: "What shall we do without him, Marjon?"

Marjon made no reply.

"Do you remember that he said he should soon go away from us?"

"If only I could nurse him," she said.

"Is he going to die?" asked Johannes.

"He can die as well as we. Is he not flesh and blood?"

"He will never really die, though."

"Nor will we, Jo. But what does that avail us? I can't do without him."

And she sobbed again, hopelessly.

"Perhaps it is not so had," said Johannes. "We will call in the morning, and they surely will let us see him."

And so they talked on for a time. Then Johannes said:

"Let me stay with you, Marjon. It really seems as if I never again could go away from you."

Marjon looked at him through her tears, and even smiled.

"But, Jo, we cannot do as we used to. We are no longer children. I am already eighteen, and are you not that also?"

"Then let us become husband and wife, so that we can remain together," said Johannes.

"Then you no longer love that other one more than me?"

"I think not, Marjon; for she would understand nothing of this, and certainly would not join us in our sorrow."

"But, dear boy, we are far too young to become husband and wife."

"I do not understand, Marjon. First you find us too old to stay together, and then you find us too young. And yet I want to remain with you. How can it be done?"

"Listen, Jo. Formerly you said to me, 'No foolishness,' and that hurt me for I cared much more for you than you did for me. Why were you never more kind to me then?"

"Because I was forced to remember that ugly, dark woman, your sister. I cannot bear the thought of her."

Marjon reflected a while, and then said:

"But that is no reason for you to be hard toward me, Jo. I am not low, like her."

Johannes was silent. Then she resumed:

"But then I know what, Jo: you may stay here. But now _I_ shall say 'No foolishness,' and remain unyielding until you shall have forgotten that ugly woman. Will that do?"

"Yes, Marjon," replied Johannes. Then a pillow and some covering were given him, and he lay on the hard floor of the little kitchen the entire night. And now and then, as one of them became aware that the other was still awake, they would talk together, softly, about their poor friend, each trying to comfort the other.

And thus it happened, as I told you it would, that, before the ending of the book, they became husband and wife.

But when Johannes forgot the ugly, dark woman Marjon's sister I do not tell you; for that does not concern others.

XXIII

The humble little kitchen, in the first pale, glimmering light that passed through the unwashed, uncurtained window; two rush-bottomed chairs; the unpainted table with the oil-lamp and the untidy coffee-set; Marjon's narrow iron bed, which quaked if she merely stirred; her breathing, now deep and regular, for at last she slept; the first chirping of the sparrows out-of-doors; continually before Johannes' mental vision the pale face of his kind Brother, befouled with blood and ashes; in his ears the powerful voice resounding through the arches of the church; the howling of the mob; and then--his own body, stiff and sore, on the hard, wooden boards....

Then, all at once, light! Bright, golden sunlight, a mild, refreshingly fragrant air, all pain away, an elastic, feather-light body--and the majestic sound of the sea.

Where was he? Where--where!

Oh, he knew; he felt in himself where he was.

He recognized the feeling of self-consciousness, although he had not recalled his surroundings.

But he heard the ocean--heard it roaring grandly as only it roars on a level, sandy coast; and he heard the whistling of wind in the rushes. And he watched the play of the grey-green waves as they came rolling in--their long lines of shining breakers crested with combing white, dashing and splashing and foaming over the flat stretches of sand.

He had seen it all for years, and every day it was the same, from age to age.

And when he glanced round to see if his little friend Wistik, whom he hoped to find, was also here, he saw, close beside him, a bright little figure sitting quite still and gazing out over the sea.

It was not Wistik. No, for this one had the large, gauzy wings of a dragon-fly, and a little mantle of delicate blue waving gently in the sea-breeze.

"Windekind!" exclaimed Johannes.

Then the bright being looked at him, and he recognized the dear, enigmatical eyes, and the exquisite hair--a bloom-like blonde like the mere sheen of gold--with its flower-crown of green and white.

"Here we are again," said Windekind.

"Then did you not die with Father Pan?" asked Johannes, in astonishment.

"I live forever," said Windekind.

Johannes thought this over. He was tranquil again, as he always was here. Life, so rude and painful, seemed now very far away. He felt only calmness and contentment, although he well knew that his body still lay on the hard floor.

Then he asked, "Does not that bore you?"

Windekind laughed, and held out in front of him his flower, which he used as a staff. It was not an iris, but a strange, splendid blossom--a lily or an orchid--blue, striped with white and gold.

"Silly boy!" said he. "To be bored is to be no longer able to enjoy anything. I am not a human being, that gets bored after a few years. I am not weary of happiness."

"Never?" asked Johannes.

"That I do not know," answered Windekind; "but not yet. If life were to bore me, then I should die and return to my Father. He can never grow weary."

"And have you grown still wiser?"

Windekind looked tenderly and very seriously at Johannes.

"Do you see my flower?" he asked. "This is not my old iris. This is much more beautiful. Oh, Mother Earth is greatly changed; and so am I."

Johannes looked about him. But everything appeared as before: the long lines of delicate green dunes; the sky, all mottled with white clouds; the graceful sea-gulls rocking in the wind, with their cry of grand and lonely liberty. But on the water not a sail was to be seen, nor on the strand a person.

"How good it is to see you again," said Johannes. "I have been so sorry about Father Pan. And now I am very anxious about my poor Brother."

But as Johannes said this he felt quite calm and peaceful; and this puzzled him.

Windekind looked at him, and smiled mysteriously.

"That was a long time ago," he said.

And when Johannes gazed at him in amazement, he repeated:

"Long ago--quite a thousand years."

"A thousand years?" murmured Johannes, mistrustfully.

"Yes, truly a thousand years," said Windekind, positively. "I have grown old, although you cannot see it in me. But the longer those of my race live, the younger they grow, in nature and appearance. Learn that yourself, Johannes--it is well to. I have grown stronger with the centuries, and more elastic--wiser and more loving. That's the way. I have not now an enemy upon earth. I have made up with that small goblin Wistik. He is a right good fellow, after all."

"Is he not?" exclaimed Johannes, delighted. "I too have noticed that."

"Yes," said Windekind, "when he has a leader. I have also become reconciled to human beings."

"Oh, splendid, splendid!" cried Johannes. "I know who has done that!"

"Right!" said Windekind, nodding. "Your good Brother did it."

Then Johannes saw great numbers of sea-gulls flocking together from all sides, wheeling and screaming because of something in the distance that was drawing nearer from out over the sea. It was like a large bird soaring on vast, silently outspread wings. The fierce sunlight fell upon it, making it flash like burnished gold, or like some shining metal. As it came nearer Johannes saw that it had the pretty colors of a swallow, steel-blue, brown and white, but with gilded beak and claws, and that long, variegated feathers, or ribbons, were streaming out behind, because of its rapid flight. The exquisite white of the circling, screaming sea-gulls was in sharp contrast with the huge, dark-colored hulk. A soft, clear sound came from above, as of clinking glass attuned like bells.

"What is that immense creature?" asked Johannes; for the shadow of it moved over the sea like that of a cloud.

"That is not a creature," replied Windekind. "There are human beings in it, but they are not at all ugly now, nor ridiculous. Only look!"

And Johannes saw, from its immobility, that it was not a bird, but a colossal air-ship in the form of a bird. And also he could see, clearly, that lightly dressed figures were moving to and fro along the decks, tossing crumbs to the sea-gulls that, fluttering, and crying caught them up.

Then the great shining wings altered their course, and with a graceful movement the colossus dipped gently downward, skimming the level sandy beach for the distance of a hundred yards.

At last it was still, and Johannes could admire the splendid structure: the glittering gold, the gleaming steel-blue decorations, and the bright-hued banners and pennants with gold-lettered mottoes that fluttered in the breeze.

"Climb up," cried Windekind, "it is going away again. It will not stay a great while."

"Are you going along?" asked Johannes.

"Yes," replied Windekind. "I am at home with these people. But remember they cannot see us yet, any more than could those a thousand years ago. They are still only human beings."

Johannes, his hand in Windekind's, floated up to the air-ship, and nestled in the golden crown upon the head of the bird. Secluded there, they could see what the people were doing.

The people were strong and handsome, like those in the realms of Father Pan; but their hair was darker, and their faces, with thoughtful eyes, were more earnest. And they all resembled Johannes' Brother--as if they were all one large family, and akin to him.

The garments of all of them were much alike--exceedingly simple. They were of unfigured material, similar to linen, with the pretty, sober coloring of some birds--the wood-dove and the peregrine; and all were bordered with fine, bright-colored embroidery. Almost without exception the passengers carried flowers. And festoons of flowers hung in every part of the ship; but these were wilted, and diffused the sweet, keen fragrance of roses.

All went with heads uncovered, and their waving hair was thick, but not long. There was little to distinguish the dress of the men from that of the women; but the men all wore full beards, and the women braids of hair wound about their heads.

Now, leaving their vessel for a short time, they raced along the beach, laughing merrily, and glad of the exercise. Johannes saw that they wore sandals--just like the man in brown at Roodhuis'; and he had to laugh at the recollection. The younger ones were barefooted.

After they had bathed and played, they climbed into the ship again; and, taking their places, all facing the sea, they sang a song. Although Johannes did not understand the words, he knew the meaning of them. It sounded like a psalm, but was more fine and earnest than any he had ever heard.

"That is the song of thanks they always sing after a safe passage over the great water," said Windekind. "Yes, they mean it, for they all know the Father. See how they mean it."

And Johannes saw the deep emotion in their earnest faces, and the tears that glistened beneath the eyes of the younger women. And he heard the quiver of feeling in their full, pure voices.

Then the magnificent great bird, with a strange clatter of unfolding wings, with the whirring of unseen wheels, and the klink-klank of glass bells, rose slowly, and pointed its golden beak and its fixed, crystal eyes toward the land.

"But how does it move?" asked Johannes.

"Could you have explained to your forefathers how an electric vehicle of your own time was propelled?" asked Windekind. "Then do not ask that question, but rather, take a look at your native country, and see how beautiful it has become."

The long line of coast was visible as they ascended, and Johannes could see extending into the ocean at regular distances great dikes of dark-grey stone, over which the white foam of the waves was splashing.

"They are not handsome, but necessary," said Windekind. "But here are our dunes."

And behold! They were as fair and free as in the olden days--a wide, open wilderness without hedge or fence, without shavings or paper. The hollows were full of little green groves; and there the white hawthorn blossomed, and the singing of hundreds of nightingales ascended to their high position. Johannes saw, as of old, the little white tails of thousands of rabbits, flipping over the grey-green stretches of moss. And also he saw people--sometimes by twos or threes, then in large groups. But they did not disturb the harmony of the peaceful scene, and their delicate grey, soft brown, and subdued green clothing was quite in keeping with the tender tints of the landscape.

After that came the verdant country. And how excited Johannes was when, in his flight, he saw it looking like one great, flowery, tree-filled park!

The bright green fields were there, the straight ditches and canals; but everywhere were trees. Sometimes they stood alone--mighty giants casting broad shadows; sometimes in great forests, each one vast expanse of foliage, cool and rustling, where the wood-doves cooed, and golden thrushes whistled. Gorgeous blossoms and thickly flowered shrubs, such as Johannes had seen only in gardens, were everywhere--growing wild in such masses that, from above, they sometimes looked like carpets of glowing red or deepest blue.

And the small white houses of the people, looking as if some giant had sawed them out with supple hand, were dotted about in the midst of the verdure and flowers. But on the borders of the water, by lakes and rivers and canals, were they strewn most thickly. The shining blue waters appeared to be the magnet which had attracted the little square blocks.

"You see, indeed, Johannes," said Windekind, "it was their own fault that human beings seemed out of place in Nature. They had no reverence for her, and harmed her in their stupidity. They have now learned from Nature how beautiful and like unto her they themselves may be, and they have made friends with her. They have taught their children, from their earliest infancy, to do no needless damage to flower or leaf, and to kill no creature ruthlessly; taught them also to desire to be worthy of their place in the midst of all those beautiful and charming objects. Sacred reverence for all that is beautiful, and for everything that has life, is now strictly enjoined. Thus is peace preserved between man and Nature, and they live in intimate relations, neither annoying the other."

"But, Windekind, where are the cities? I see only scattered houses and churches. And where are the iron railways and their sooty stations? And where are the factories, with their tall chimneys and dirty smoke?"

"My dear Johannes, ought ugly things to be retained any longer than extreme need for them demands?"

"Are not, then, railroads and cities and factories necessities?"

"There are still factories, but they do not have to be ugly. There they are--finer than many palaces of a thousand years ago. And why tracks of iron, when the broad ways of the air are open and free to all? And why swarm in cramped quarters, high over one another, so long as there is dwelling-room amid the flowers and the verdure? Men were not so stupid but that they found a way to dispense with all that ugliness, and to drive their engines without the burning of dusty, deeply buried coal. But still some roads remain. Look!"

And Johannes saw that all the dwellings were connected by roads--some of them fourfold and broad, of a dark russet color; others like narrow white ribbons winding through the grass from house to house. And people were passing over them, afoot, or in small, swiftly moving vehicles.

"It is a holiday," said Windekind. "Such days are now really happy and holy days, without the deadly dreariness of the former ones."

Everywhere Johannes saw little churches having pointed spires in the old Dutch style; but now they were full of statuary and ornament. The doors stood open, and people were passing through. And now Johannes heard the sound of music coming out of those little churches--as pure and as fine as the best he had ever heard.

"Oh, Windekind, how I should love to go in and listen to that splendid music! I do so want to," said Johannes.

But Windekind put his finger to his lips, and said:

"Hush! We are going to hear still better. Our voyagers are going to a much larger church, where most beautiful music can be heard. They are pilgrims, such as go from all countries every year, at this time, to celebrate the great festival."

"Do I not see another air-ship, Windekind? And there--still another?" asked Johannes.

"Yes; perhaps, indeed, one may be going along with us," said Windekind. "That will make it lively."

And very soon there actually came a second air-ship--a big brother-bird, that flew up to them. Then the flags dipped, and wide dark-blue banners, bearing silver-lettered mottoes, were unfurled to the breeze. The people waved, and shouted aloud. And when the twin birds were so close together that the tips of their great bright wings nearly touched, the people on Johannes' ship struck up an anthem--a full and powerful song--that was immediately responded to by an antistrophe from the other ship. And thus they took turns, first one, then the other, for quite a time.

Johannes' heart was warmed by this sweet understanding among peoples wholly unknown to one another.

"Do all men now speak the same language?" he asked his friend.

"Do you not hear what they are singing? All people have chosen that language as the most beautiful and the most natural. It is Greek."

"I do not know Greek," said Johannes, regretfully.

"But just look at that pennant, then, on the other ship. What does it say?"

"That is Dutch, Windekind--ordinary Dutch," cried Johannes. And he read: "_There is no Death_," and "_Gladness only endures_." And he also read the name of the ship, "_he Heron_."

Then his own ship dropped down again, upon a level meadow close beside some large buildings of grey freestone, charmingly sculptured, and there, for some mysterious reason, the vessel lay a long while--to get up power, thought Johannes. And the pilgrims took advantage of the delay to dance over the meadows with graceful steps, and also to replace with fresh flowers the wilted festoons.

Then they rose again, and whizzed through the still, summer air toward the south. Johannes noticed that not much more than half the land was devoted to field and orchard and vegetable-garden, and that all the rest was forest and park and flower-garden; that there were no hedges nor fences, nor any walls, except those against which grapes and peaches were growing. He did indeed still see brown and white sails on lake and river--that beautiful and ever charming spectacle--but there were no more of the tall four-armed windmills. And that was a pity.

"One cannot demand everything," said Windekind.

Johannes saw colossal wheels, like anchored paddle-wheels, glistening in the sunlight--turning constantly, and moved by some mysterious force. That certainly was better than smoking chimneys.

And nowhere was it dirty, nowhere was there wan poverty, nowhere the deathly ugliness and monotonous melancholy of the cities. He saw no ragged nor wretched people, no unsightly regions of refuse and lumber. In the places where he knew the cities to have been, there were now verdant tracts vocal with the songs of birds, and fruitful, well-tilled fields and gardens.

"The housekeeping of the world is revolutionized, dear Johannes," said Windekind. "It lasted quite a while, and cost considerable bickering; but that is all over now, and everything is according to method. I myself take real pleasure in it."

And from his golden seat he gazed over the country, like a tiny pretty king, who, proud and well-satisfied, rules his domain with a floral sceptre.

"Watch, now: we are going higher. We have to fly over the mountains."

And the ship rose until the people below were no longer visible, and at last even the houses disappeared. It grew chilly as they cut through the white mists of the great clouds; and, as of old, Windekind threw his little blue mantle about Johannes. Thus they went on for hours, in fog and mist, and the mighty vessel quivered with the speed of its flight. The voyagers were still, and stayed, snug and safe, inside. On they rushed, through rain and through snow, catching occasional glimpses of wide tempestuous landscapes, with green fields, foaming rivers, snow-capped mountains, glaciers, and lakes of gleaming blue.

"Is the whole world as beautiful now, and as well cared for, as my own country?" asked Johannes.

"The work of men is never complete," replied Windekind, "and that is good for them, else they would become too proud. Asia and Africa are a long way yet from being in trim, possibly they never will be. But then it is all very well as it is--very well. A thousand years ago one could not have said that."

How long they had been speeding thus, Johannes could not say. It seemed to him many hours. Then the great billows of cloud grew more and more transparent, and again the green land beneath them became visible, and also a deep, deep blue sea.

"Is it Italy?" asked Johannes. Windekind nodded, and Johannes hoped they would stay still a while so that he might see the beautiful country of which the priest had told him. Then the ship descended until people and houses could again be distinguished, and Johannes saw a scene so grand, so rich, so overwhelming, that he was startled and almost speechless. He could only say, thinking of Marjon, "Oh, how shall I describe all this?"

For the scene was exhibited with a fulness and variety that left no time for close observation. It was a landscape and a world-city in one--an extraordinary valley, down which the vessel now drifted, full of trees, verdure, flowers, buildings, statues, and people. Just before him he saw a gigantic azalea-tree covered with red flowers; farther on, a long arcade, overgrown with ivy, extending down to the foot of the vale. Then a temple with tall, slender, white pillars, also overgrown with ivy. In the middle of the valley stood a colossal piece of sculpture--simply a head. Johannes saw the sun shining upon it. And farther on there were structures unending, and thousands and thousands of people. Altogether, it gave him an impression of happiness and of beauty indescribable. Johannes could only cry, "How splendid! How splendid!" doing his utmost to take in everything, that he might remember and describe it to Marjon. But he felt that it would be beyond his powers, and so deeply moved was he by the beauty of the scene that he cried out, "It is too glorious! I cannot bear it!" And he wondered if the ship was going to stop there.

It did not stop, but floated farther on--not far now from the ground--and followed the rocky coast. Johannes remembered the red rocks and the coast where he and Wistik had sat when the Devil appeared. This country, also, looked well-tilled and inhabited, after the manner of his own country.

Then they put out again, over the blue, deep sea, and observed how it was navigated by large, swift vessels, without either sail or steam. They seemed to glide over the water as sledges over the snow, and the white foam flew high up over the bows.

* * * * *

Then after a long voyage there loomed from the sea, like a violet shadow, a large island; and, although it was broad daylight, it seemed as if above that island a bright yellow-white star were sparkling.

"That is our goal," said Windekind. "Take heed, now, you are going to see something fine."

And when they came nearer, Johannes could not tell what it was: whether the island was Nature's work, or some marvel wrought by the hand of man.

For that whole great island, that from a distance had looked like a mountain, appeared, when approached, to be entirely covered with buildings--a piling up of pillars and roofs that soared one above another, and converged to an awe-inspiring dome. That crowning dome sparkled in the clear, sunlit air like an arrested cloud--with the silvery, light green, and dark blue splendor of a glacier covered with thousands of beautifully sculptured, inverted icicles; and upon the top shone the yellow-white light which, even in broad daylight, seemed to be a star.

So immense and so numerous were the structures, that one could not tell what the natural form of the island had been, nor what had been made by human hands.

Coming still nearer, one could see green masses of foliage filling all the spaces between the buildings, up to the very top. The whole island seemed a miracle of art and nature; of columns of pure white, of silver and silver-blue; of cupolas, bronze-green or golden; while amidst them all was the dark green of the dense groves and the shrubbery, above which rose the tufted palms on their slender, slightly curved stems.

"Oh, Windekind," cried Johannes, "is this a story?"

"This is a story," said Windekind, "as fine as any I ever told you. But this one is true. Human beings first heard of it through me, and then they resolved to build it as soon as they could find time, and housekeeping was systematized. It could have been somewhat finer, but still it came out very nicely, especially when you reflect that they have had merely a hundred years in which to work out the plan; considering, also, that, when half completed, an earthquake destroyed it."

"What is it that glitters on that high dome at the summit of the island? It looks like a distant star. Is it fire?"

"That is not fire, Johannes, but metal--a golden flame. It is a piece of gilded metal, that always glow's in the sunlight as if it were burning. By means of that flame the people wish to indicate their ardent love."

"Love for whom, Windekind--for one another, or for God?"

"They know no difference, Johannes," said Windekind.

With radiant faces the pilgrims stood gazing at the spectacle; and, shouting their joy, they sang again. Only a few of the older ones appeared to have seen the island before.

The sea was now covered with large white vessels speeding to and fro, and one could also see air-ships flying thither from all points of the compass, like herons to their nesting-place.

Then Johannes vessel settled down upon a great grassy plain close to the shore, and the pilgrims alighted. They were embarrassed and bewildered now by all that surrounded them--by the multitude of air-ships, and also by the people, among whom they felt shy and strange.

Hundreds of these ships were now at rest--a brilliant spectacle, all differently rigged and adorned, and patterned after various birds. There were hawks and eagles, and giant beetles, entirely of bronze, looking like gold. There were moths of green-reflecting metal; and dragon-flies with wings of iridescent glass; wasps with bodies ringed with black and yellow; butterflies having enormous yellow wings, marked with peacock-eyes of blue, from which long pennants, black and red, streamed out behind.

There was now considerable commotion throughout the grassy plain, among those who, just arrived, were trying to find their way.

On the coast, around the whole island, was an almost unbroken series of cool terraces beneath white colonnades shaded by the light lavender flowers of the _glycine_; and behind them were small, white-stuccoed recesses overlooking the sea. There the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who annually came to the feast were lodged and fed.

Johannes saw them sitting at long tables on which were bread, fruit, and flowers. And above the sound of the foaming surf, as the crystalline blue water broke in white spray over the dull red rocks, cheerful talking and laughing could be heard, and also the music of guitars.

Higher up, the island was clear and open. Here were sunny parks with low flowering shrubs, and now and then a tall palm, and everywhere temples and buildings for various purposes.

With his hand in Windekind's, Johannes glided over this, unable to note all of the many things that met his gaze. He saw, beneath him, close to the shore, large arenas for the games and the races; also long buildings, with thousands of columns, for the display of useful and ingenious articles and implements.

A little higher were gardens with plants and animals, museums, observatories, immense libraries, and covered colonnades and assembly-rooms for scholars. After that came theatres, in Hellenic form--semicircular--with white marble seats. And every place was thronged with people, in their tasteful, charming dress. The brown and the yellow races were represented; also the very dark-colored ones, with their flashing eyes, haughty bearing, and vigorous frames. These wore brightly-colored silken garments, green and red, embroidered with gold; but all who were white or fair were soberly clad in soft, refined colors.

Still higher were collections of statues, marble and gilded--many of them outside in the park, among the flowers, the aloes, and the plashing fountains; others, beneath long porticoes; and in large, low buildings there were sketches and paintings, or statuettes wrought in metal or carved in wood.

Finally, still higher up the incline, close beside the great middle temple which was the crown of the island, surrounded by the serious silences of dark laurel and myrtle groves, were the temples of music.

There was a variety of them. Some were lighter and more ornamental--of brighter stone, and with steep, golden roofs; others, massive and strong, of quiet grey limestone, with green and red granite pillars, and arched roofs of bronze.

Windekind pointed out that each temple was dedicated exclusively to one composer; and Johannes heard with joy names that were well known to him in his own day.

"Which one shall we choose?" asked Windekind. "Nowhere else upon earth can their works be heard as in any one of these temples."

While he hesitated, with the name Beethoven on his lips, Johannes saw coming over the grassy path between the rose-colored flowering oleanders, a group of five majestic persons. They were tall, powerful figures--four men and a woman. The men were all elderly, one of them having silver-white, the others thick grey hair. The woman was younger, and indescribably noble and beautiful. They each wore a mantle of the same amaranthine red, and upon the head a small wreath of green myrtle, and each one held a flower.

They walked slowly and with dignity, and wherever they went the people all greeted them. Those who had been chatting were respectfully silent; those sitting or lying down stood up; and those who were in their path hastily stepped aside.

"Who are those five people, Windekind?"

"They are the five kings. Do you not see that they carry my flower in their hands? It is the blue, white, and gold Lily of the Kings, which the people have evolved. Formerly it did not exist. These are the noblest, wisest, strongest, the purest and most worthy among human beings. In them are united, in most perfect harmony, all of the human faculties. They are poets, masters of speech, and sages, that purify and elevate morals. They are regulators of labor, directors in business, in taste, and in science. Not all are equally excellent, nor are there always so many. The best are sought for and elevated. But they bear no rank--they have no court, no palace, no army, no realm. Their throne is where they seat themselves; their kingdom is the whole world. Their power consists in the beauty of their words, in their wisdom, and in the love of their fellowmen. See how they are revered! Look at those adoring women--doing obeisance as ever. There are still the very same foolish ones among the young women."

And Windekind called Johannes' attention to the fair enthusiasts who attempted not only to kiss the hands of the Five, but also to touch them with their flowers, which, thereby made sacred as relics, were later to be cherished as mementoes. But the sages smilingly motioned these aside, and entered the largest of the music-temples--a mighty structure of smooth, cream-white marble, without ornament, but pure in line, and nobly harmonious in its proportions. It was round in form, having a bronze roof without side-windows, and lighted only from above. Over the entrance, in large gold letters, was the name "Bach."[1] When the Five came in all the people stood up, and waited until they were seated in the chairs reserved for them.

And then Johannes heard exceedingly fine music. And Windekind said, "This fountain is not yet exhausted, nor will it be for ages to come."

When they were again out-of-doors, and Johannes saw the happiness of all those beautiful people, and the mood of solemn devotion into which the music had put them, he suddenly became depressed, and said: "Oh, Windekind, now that I have seen all this, and know what it is possible for people to be if only they are wise and good, what avails it all when I have to return to that pitiful land of ugliness and folly and injustice? And, alas, of what advantage is it to all those poor people who are perhaps preparing for this lovely life, but who yet are never to see it?"

Johannes looked imploringly at his friend, who was silently meditating while they slowly drifted still higher along a dense grove of dark laurel, through which the happy, high spirited people were proceeding to the great, the loftiest temple.

Said Windekind: "You do not yet comprehend the unity of life, Johannes. However beautiful all this appears to you, it is only a short step in advance. These are yet, and will continue to be, human beings--subject to illness and death, to quarrels and misunderstandings, to superstition and injustice. All that now seems to you elevated and marvelous is but a wisp of straw compared with the magnificence of the Father to whom we all return. The victory is not here, but higher. And whoever has made preparation, however humble, shall have his rightful part in the final triumph."

Johannes did not fully understand, but eagerly drank in the comfort of these mysterious words. Still musing upon them, he stepped out of the dark, leafy woods upon an extraordinary plain, and saw before him the great middle temple that formed the summit of the island.

The sight of it was overwhelming, for it was almost frightfully and oppressively grand; and he saw all the oncoming people stop, as though turned to stone. None ventured to speak unless in whispers.

The plain was so large that those who had just reached the border of the woods could not distinguish the hands nor the heads of those who were entering the temple. The plain was utterly bare--upon it was neither plant nor statue. It was the leveled top of the natural rock--a reddish-grey granite, smoothly polished, and rising gradually by low flights of steps each twelve paces wide and one foot high.

The base of the temple was sombrely grand. Its shape was oblong, the greatest length being from north to south, showing an endless series of massive lotus-columns, close together, and all of the same reddish-grey stone. The eye was bewildered by them, as if in a dark forest of pillars. The steady stream of dot-like human forms appeared to be engulfed in their shade.

These mighty columns, resting on straight and flat string-courses, supported a broad terrace that surrounded the entire temple. Upon this terrace was a layer of earth, whence sprang a luxuriant growth of trees and shrubs, wide-spreading sycamores, towering cypresses, and slender palms--all overgrown and bound together by a veil of flowers and leafy vines.

Then succeeded, higher up, a second series of pillars, supporting another terrace covered with smaller shrubs. And above that, still a third, whose columns were of brighter stone--light-green and grey. The topmost row was of pure white, against which the green of the plants was in clear relief.

And above these, delicate and daring, soared a convergence of groinings, with a maze of exquisite spires and pinnacles, resembling a forest of stalagmites. Together they formed an oval whose chief colors--steel-blue, dark and sparkling, light-grey, and silver--resembled a cloud or a glacier; yet all harmoniously fashioned by human hands. Above, on a colossal tripod, glowed the emblem of love and life--the Golden Flame!

Although thousands of people from every side were ceaselessly pouring into the temple, and disappearing amid the dark columns, it was very still there--so still that above the sound of moving feet one could distinctly hear the babbling of the brooks that, coursing through the verdant terraces, flowed thence to the four corners of the plain.

Johannes tried to follow the soft speech of the people, but he did not understand the language. Then Windekind, calling his attention to a trio of persons--a vigorous father about fifty years of age, and his two sons, slender, fine fellows not far from twenty--said, "Listen to them!" It was Dutch they were speaking--pure, mellifluous Dutch.

The father said: "Look, Gerbrand; the lowest columns are so large that ten men could not encircle them. But within the temple, in the great oval centre, there are a hundred columns, far larger, that reach to the floor of the third terrace. On the groined arches resting upon those columns stand twice as many smaller pillars, which, rising somewhat higher than the gallery of the third terrace, are attached thereto by a system of buttresses. On these two hundred smaller pillars rests the enormous middle dome which over-arches the oval hall. The dome is entirely of metal. The dark blue is steel; the grey, aluminium; the bright green, bronze. The pinnacles, arches, and ornamentations are all of silver or silver-plated steel. In the four corner-spaces, between square and oval, stand four towers, having small gold-covered cupolas. Within these, elevators move up and down, and through them the water also is raised for the terraces.

"The tall tripod at the top of the dome is of bronze, and the flame is gilded bronze. The flame itself is twelve metres long, and its tip is a hundred and eighty metres above the plain."

Gerbrand, the younger son, knitting his brows as he regarded the awe-inspiring spectacle, asked: "How many people have worked upon it, father?"

"Oh, more than a hundred thousand, for nearly a century. But if the temple should again collapse, as once it did, ten times as many more would eagerly come, to rebuild it in less than half that time."

Drawing nearer, Johannes discerned, on the stone band beneath the first terrace, colossal silver letters, in plain Roman form. On the front a portion of a proverb was legible. The rest of it probably ran around the entire temple. Johannes retained the majestic tenor of it, although he did not comprehend the full meaning. Facing him was:

REDEUNT SATURNIA REGNA

and on the eastern side he read the first words,

IAM NOVA PROGENIËS....

This was all he could distinguish.

They entered the forest of columns, and Johannes continued to follow the trio closely. Through the solemn semi-darkness all pressed gently on toward the steps that led to the higher terraces.

On the second terrace stood thousands of statues, representing the great and famous of all the ages. Johannes was delighted to hear what the sons and their father said about them. They seemed best acquainted with the composers, then with the dramatic poets, the sculptors, the painters, and the scholars. They were most at a loss concerning the statesmen.

Gerbrand said, "Here is a warrior, father--Bismarck is his name. When did he live, and what did he do?"

Then the father said to his elder son, "Do you not know when Bismarck lived, and what he did, Hugo?"

Hugo replied, "I think he lived in Bach's time, father; but what he did I do not know."

"Yes, he lived about the time of Bach, or rather, that of Brahms. He created the German Empire."

Said Gerbrand, "The German Empire, father! Where is that?"

"There is no longer a German Empire, Gerbrand, although there are millions of Germans. Such empires do not now exist; but in that day they were thought to be something very admirable."

And Hugo: "Was it as fine as the Chromatic Fantasie, father, or the Pyramids?"

"It was something very different, my boy, but certainly not so fine, for it was less lasting."

On the third and highest terrace, beneath the loftiest of the white marble columns, and running around the entire temple, was a frieze, sculptured in bas-relief. Upon it were groups of figures, cut with most wonderful art, giving representative scenes from the whole history of mankind. Among them, the spectacle of the battles held the youths the longest.

"Look, father! Here again is a man being killed. Why was that? What harm did he do?"

"That is Pertinax," replied the father, "a king of Rome, killed by his soldiers because he was just."

"A man killed for being just! What strange people!" said Hugo, smiling.

"They killed Socrates also, because he was wise, did they not, father? We saw that a little while ago," said Gerbrand.

"Yes, Gerbrand," said Hugo; "but indeed they also fought for good reasons, did they not, father? Socrates himself fought, and Sophocles."

"And Æschylus," added the father. "He lost his hand at Marathon. And Dante fought, and so did Byron."

"Shelley too, father?" asked Hugo.

"No, my boy."

"But, father," asked Gerbrand, "when is it right to fight, and when is it not?"

"It is right, my boys, when that which is the dearest and most sacred must be protected from attack--whatever is dearer to us than our lives. That is what Æschylus and Socrates and Dante conceived to be their duty. They fought for freedom--the greatest freedom of their time. And should any beings come now and try to attack what we term our liberty and our rights, we also would fight for them."

"I wish that would happen," said Gerbrand.--And the others laughed.

"Did Beethoven fight, father?" asked Hugo.

"No, although his life, as well as that of Shelley, was a struggle in the cause of true liberty--at least for what he held to be true liberty."

"But Beethoven wore a high, black hat, did he not, father? And Bach had his hair cut off, and wore a wig," said Gerbrand.

"Mozart also," added Hugo. "I do not understand how kings could do such queer things."

"How was it possible," exclaimed Gerbrand, "for these people in their high hats and silly black clothes to look at one another and not burst out laughing?"

"My dear boys," said the father, "there is not a thing so foolish, so ugly, or so bad, but even the best of men will do it, or tolerate it, if only many take part in it, and it is a common error of their time. But that was a very queer age. At the time such great and wise kings as Goethe, Shelley, and Beethoven lived, ninety out of every hundred men lived like the very beasts. Some never bathed their entire bodies....

"_Think_ of it!" cried the youths.

"They wore soiled, hideous clothing, were rude and ill-mannered, and had no conception of music nor of poetry."

"How could that be?" exclaimed the two young men.

"Because it was thought that the best human living was possible for only an occasional exception--for one in a hundred, or one in a thousand. You think that very stupid, do you not? But at that time everybody felt so, even the kings."

"Not Shelley, though," exclaimed Hugo.

"No, not Shelley," said the father. "But it is now nearly noon. We must not miss the Hall of the Hundred Pillars. We agreed to go there, you remember, while we were still at home with mother and the children."

The halls were decorated with inscriptions in many languages--each with its own ornate characters. Johannes recognized Sanskrit, Chinese, Arabic, Hebrew, and Greek. He could read only a few of the sentences; but these he retained, without understanding them:

"IN LA SUA VOLONTADE E NOSTRA PACE," and "MITE ET COGNATUM EST HOMINI DEUS."

The Hall of the Hundred Pillars had entrances from all sides, on the same level, through the lowest and heaviest colonnades, and also along stairways descending from all the terraces. The floor of the hall looked like a vast, snow-covered plain, so white was the marble, and the astronomical figures with which it was inlaid were all of silver. The hundred pillars that gave the hall its name were of red granite, and supported the central dome, which, spanning the imposing space by arch on arch, stood like a miracle of art. There were no windows, but the light streamed in through the open arches, and past the white and light blue pillarets of the dome. Yet it was not possible, from below, to see the sky.

The hall was already filled with people--thousands upon thousands. Whispering softly, all pressed forward, and at last stood still in silent expectation. Johannes followed his fellow-countrymen.

"Look, boys," whispered the father, "these pillars are of one piece--the largest stone columns in the world. In remote antiquity, when, also, men were able to build great structures, there were two like them in Rome; and we found another one, half hewn, on the coast of Corsica. Then we ourselves made ninety-seven others, and placed them all here, to the honor of God."

"Father," whispered Gerbrand, "surely we are now the happiest and the mightiest beings in the universe, are we not?"

But the father looked at him reprovingly, and said: "For shame, boy! We are only poor blind earth-worms, and all our happiness is misery, and all our magnificence is a sham, compared with the splendor of the Truth. It is but a feeble glimmering of the reality. To express this, we come hither yearly; and it was to teach you this that I brought you with me. Look up, and read what is written there."

Johannes' eyes followed the direction of the upraised hand, and he saw a Greek proverb that ran around the dome in colossal letters of gold. As interpreted by the father of the two youths it read thus: "To the only God, who alone is the Truth and the real Existence--our Father, whom we love with all our hearts and all our understanding, and for whose sake we love one another as we love ourselves."

Then the man showed his children a gold figure, at the northern end of the hall, at which the eyes of all the people were now directed, and said:

"Notice! There is the number of the hour; but beneath, it says: '_There is neither hour nor time_.' Do you see? Remember that as long as you live. And now consider why we have come here to-day. For a few moments the sun stands at the summer solstice--its highest point. The temple is so built that just at that instant the sun's light comes through the opening in the dome and touches the golden figure of the hour. Then all of us--thousands on thousands from every region of the world--will again in song solemnly pledge ourselves to faithful love toward one another, and toward the Father of us all."

After this the boys were silent, gazing with all the people at the golden figure. And now that innumerable throng, in the whole, vast space, became as still as death--as still as some great forest before a storm, when not a leaf stirs.

Then, in mighty, resounding tones, a great bell began to strike the hour; while the people, all in the utmost suspense, counted the strokes. Before the last stroke fell, the golden figure burst into flame, in the bright light of the sun.

Then, in unison, without any pause, all joined in one mighty chorus, stately, solemn, and simple, that soared into the spacious vault like a song of thanks and of promise in one--a renewal for the year to come of the bond of love between God and man.

And so strong and deep was their emotion that some sank to their knees as if overcome, while others rested head or hands upon the shoulders of those standing in front of them. But the greater number stood erect, and sang loudly and clearly, regarding the scene with bright, joyful, and spirited looks.

Johannes himself felt thankful and happy beyond words--like a child under his Father's blessing, in the heart of his home.

* * * * *

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!!! went the alarm-clock on the black mantel-shelf above the Dutch oven in Marjon's small kitchen. The iron bed shuddered and creaked; and Marjon sprang up, with the sleepy, mechanical haste of one accustomed to begin work at dawn, to stop the alarm.

There stood the unpainted table, the oil-lamp, and the unwashed coffee-set, and Marjon began to put things in order.

And out from the stifling, dark alcove came, one by one, the seven children of Van Tijn--to wash themselves at the kitchen pump and to dry themselves with one and the same old hand-towel.

[1] Bach = Fountain.

XXIV

Already they had been twice to the hospital, on visitors' days--Wednesday and Saturday--but they had not been permitted to see Markus.

He still lay unconscious, and the doctor did not yet know whether an operation would be necessary.

And when Johannes implored that they might only look upon the face of their friend, to know if he was still alive, it availed nothing. Their acquaintance with Dr. Cijfer or with Professor Bommeldoos had no influence here. There was no disposition to be indulgent. The feeling of hostility toward his Brother was general, and permeated the humane, scientific atmosphere of the hospital to such an extent that Johannes also was received more coldly because he appeared to be a relative of this man. For not even doctors and nurses are exempt from the suspicion of being sensitive to the opinions of others.

The strain of their sorrow was so great that Johannes and Marjon each feared lest the other would be ill--they ate so little and looked so worn, and their cheeks, although never very round and blooming, grew so pale and sunken.

At last--at last, they might go, for their third call, and join the stream of callers on Wednesday afternoon, from two o'clock until four. Marjon carried some white and purple asters; Johannes, a bunch of grapes bought with money carefully saved, cent by cent.

Entering the ward, they looked in great anxiety over the two long rows of beds. They searched for the face they knew so well, but did not find it. Timidly, they made inquiry of the nurse who sat writing, in the middle of the ward, at a little table covered with bandages and remedies. Without replying, she pointed to a bed. Then they saw the dark eyes, turned toward them with a kind smile.

They had not recognized him, for his beard was gone, his head enveloped with wrappings, and his face covered with plasters.

He beckoned them, and extended his emaciated white hand. They flew to him.

Two young men stood beside his bed. They were students. One of them, who seemed to have just made an examination of Markus, was rather gross in appearance, and had a flushed, uneasy face. The perspiration stood in drops on his forehead. The other stood by, indifferently, his hands in his pockets.

"Have you got at it?" asked the latter.

"Confound it, no," replied the other, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "It's a thundering complicated case. There's a fracture of the skull; but the paralysis I can't account for. It's a mean trick of Snijman's to pick out such a business for me, just to pester me. I'll be sure to fail in the examination.

"Come, come, old fellow, you're in a pet. It's a pretty little chance for you--one to brag about. Come to-night to the quiz, and go through the brain anatomy again with me. Bring your _Henle_ along. I'll give you such a lift you'll astonish them, old man. But we must be off now, for it's visiting-day."

And, taking the arm of his comrade, who sighed and packed up his instruments, he led him out of the ward.

"What do you think of the way they have fixed me up, children?" asked Markus, cheerfully, as he took Marjon's flowers--with his left hand, because he could not move the other.

But neither Marjon nor Johannes could speak. They stood with trembling lips, swallowing back their tears. Then they sat down, one each side of the bed, and Marjon rested her forehead on his helpless hand.

Johannes held out to him the grapes, and tried to greet him in words; but he could not.

"Children," said Markus, gently, yet with a rebuke in his tones, "I notice that you cry altogether too much. Do you remember, Johannes, when you sat down in the street beside the scissors'-wheel, and how I reproved you? When one cries so readily, it looks as if the great sorrow of mankind were not felt. He who has once realized that, weeps no more over his own little troubles; for the greater grief should hold him bathed in tears, both day and night."

At these words the two controlled themselves in some degree, and Marjon said:

"But this is not a trifling thing that they have done to you."

"It is not a trifling thing that the world is so that this could happen. _That_ is frightful; but it remains equally frightful whether this befell me or not. And that it has been done to me, and I have submitted, is cause for joyfulness, not for weeping."

Then said Johannes:

"But, dear Markus, what has it availed, and what will be the good of it? No one is sorry for it. No one will ever perceive the significance of it. No one, at this instant, has any further thought of you, nor of your words."

Markus, regarding him attentively, with an earnest expression, as if to urge upon him a deeper reflection, said:

"But, Johannes, do you not remember the story of that little seed--the most diminutive of all seeds? It falls to the ground--is trodden under foot--no one sees it--it appears to be completely lost and dead. But in good time it begins to germinate, and grows to be a plant. And the plant bears new seeds, which are scattered by the wind. And the new seeds become new plants, and the whole terrestrial globe becomes too small for the might of what proceeds from that insignificant seed. Has Johannes forgotten me and my words?"

Johannes shook his head.

"Well, then, Johannes and Marjon are not the only ones with ears to hear, are they? The spark has fallen, and shines in secret. The seed lies in the dark ground, and waits its time."

Gradually the ward began to fill with visitors. Relatives were now sitting beside each bed. There were wives and mothers with children, little and big, and some had babes at the breast. A subdued murmuring filled the place, where the smell of old and long-worn clothing mingled with the sharp scent of the disinfectants.

"Stay with me, children, as long as is permitted. The instrument is broken, and will soon cease to sound. Listen to it so long; as it vibrates."

"Are you going to leave us, Markus?" asked Johannes, setting his teeth to keep command of himself.

"I have performed my task," said Markus.

"Already? Already?" they both asked. "We cannot spare you. We might for a little while, but not for always."

"Where is your memory, Johannes? You possess me always, and some time I shall be still closer to you than I now am."

"But, Markus, how can I, without you, help people in their sorrow? Indeed, I am far from knowing the way yet. It seems as though I ought to be asking the way, for weeks to come, day and night."

"Dear Johannes, I have said enough. To ask day and night would help you no more than to think day and night upon what I have already said to you. It seems--does it not--as if I had spoken little, and done little, among men. But recall how the same was said of old, and how it has never, through many words, become clearer, but always more dim. Where the plain commandments have not enough weight, much speaking has not a particle of effect. Has not the best already been said--two thousand years ago? Millions have torn and martyred one another on account of additions, because of misinterpretations, explanations, and commentaries; but the simple commandment, known of all, they have not kept. Concerning the swaddling-cloths they have fought bitterly; but the babe itself they have left to the swine and the dogs."

They were permitted to stay throughout the time of visiting, and Johannes related where he had been during the night of his betrothal.

Marjon, having listened, asked:

"Markus, if he really saw the whole world as it is to be, why did he neither see nor hear anything of Markus himself?"

But Markus closed his eyes, as if weary of listening, laid back his head with a contented smile, and said, gently:

"The faithful architect is not concerned about his own renown, but about the work itself."

Then he indicated that he wished to rest; and, exchanging looks, they slowly stood up, and with reluctant steps, absorbed in deep thought, they turned away.

* * * * *

On Saturday, when they came again, they looked straight over to Markus' bed, for now they knew where he lay. But an icy fear came upon them when they caught sight of his face, below the white swathing-cloths. It was like sallow wax, with insunken eyes, and lay pressed into the pillow. They thought he was dead.

And when they stopped, hesitating and trembling, the patient in the cot next that of Markus motioned to them to come nearer.

"Come on, you," said the man, a disreputable old fellow with a bandage around his bald head, a crooked nose, and a shaggy beard stained a yellow-brown with tobacco-juice. "He isn't cold yet, but he's snoozin' away's steady's a new-born babe. Isn't that so, Sjaak?"

And Sjaak, the patient on the other side--a drunkard with a broken leg, and a face full of red pimples--cried out: "Hear me! I couldn't sleep better meself--after a couple o' drinks."

"Just make yerselves easy," said the old fellow. "Don't be upset about it. He'd be sorry if you went away again."

"A little less noise, number eight," called the nurse. "Talk quietly."

"Is he your brother?" asked Sjaak, in a whisper this time. Johannes nodded.

"They've given him the very devil," said the old man, "just as they gave it to me. Though I believe they served me about right."

"I'm askin' a great deal," said Sjaak; "but if we've both always got to stay in this here boardin'-house--him and me--why, then, I'd like to ask the good Lord not to let him kick the bucket before I kicks it. Because if I've got to stay here alone with that old red-nose there, and my own damn wicked carcass, then--hi! hi! hi!"

Then came a sudden outburst of maudlin sobs, due, no doubt, to a condition of enforced abstinence.

"Silence!" called the Sister, sternly.

Markus waked up and greeted his two loved ones. Then he looked at his neighbors, right and left, and asked:

"Have you been childish again, Sjaak? I heard you, indeed. No one is forever doomed, I tell you, neither you nor old Bram--if you take care from now on to drink water only, and not gin."

"I swear I will, Marrakus--swear it by God!" said Sjaak, striking himself on the breast.

"You cannot do that, Sjaak; neither would it help. After a half-glass of beer you will have forgotten all your vows."

"No beer, either," said Sjaak. "So help...."

"Be quiet now, Sjaak. Do not talk about it, but let it alone."

"Mar-r-akus," said Old Bram, in a hoarse, quaking voice, at the same time sitting up, with his griffin-like knuckles stretched out over the woollen covers, "tell me now, the honest truth: can it be possible for such a old hulk as me to escape eternal damnation? I'm shy of the priest, but I was brought up a Christian: and now that I can't get no booze here, I settle down in me bed o' nights with the jim-jams, and shake like an earthquake. But if _I_ don't have to go to the devil, they can go to blazes with their bloomin' damnation! They can use their fires to dry the shirts of the angels, or to bake butter-cakes!--it's all the same to me."

"Listen, my man," said Markus, kindly. "I am going to speak to you from my heart. Will you believe me?"

"That I will, Marrakus," replied the old man, seriously, holding up a withered talon.

"When I stand before the Father above--if He let me into heaven--I shall say, I will not enter in until Old Bram also is redeemed from hell--even if he be the very last one."

For a time the old fellow continued to gaze into the earnest eyes of Markus. Then his grotesque face assumed a whimsical grin, and he let himself fall back on his pillow, with a thud. There he lay, dumbfounded, staring at the ceiling--grinning, mumbling, and shaking his head. Johannes heard him whisper, "God-a-mighty!--Jesus Christ--Jesus Mary--God-a-mighty forever--" and so on and on.

Gently, yet not without some bitterness, Marjon asked:

"But, Markus, is he worthy of that? The fellow is half-witted."

Markus replied, "And Keesje, then? Have you not shed tears over him? There is more need for them here."

Thereat the two lapsed into thoughtful silence. At length Johannes, sighing deeply, exclaimed, "Oh, how many enigmas there are! The golden key seems farther away than ever."

"Yet it is nearer," said Markus. "Because you have chosen Me and Life, instead of Windekind and Death.

"The lily of eternal wisdom is a tender flower, which needs to grow slowly, and of itself.

"The Father hath sent us all forth to search for it; but no one findeth it alone.

"Eternal wisdom is like a bashful maiden: she flees from him who pursues too recklessly; but that one who turns aside, and first follows after love--him she coyly comes to find."

When Markus had said this, Marjon blurted out:

"Johannes and I are husband and wife."

Markus nodded, without appearing at all surprised.

"Will you join us in truth, Markus?" asked Johannes.

"Can I give truth, Johannes, where it is not?" asked Markus.

"That is not what I mean," said Johannes, in confusion; "but I will promise to be true to her, in the sense you mean."

"Consider your words, Johannes. A promise is a prophecy. Who can prophesy without full knowledge? This man beside me here promised not to drink. He intended not to; but what is his promise worth, without knowledge? Have you knowledge of your lasting faith? Then say, 'I desire to be true,' and show it. But make no promises; for whoever makes an idle promise is guilty; and whoever keeps a false promise is more guilty than he who breaks it."

Then said Marjon to Johannes: "I do not wish you to make any promises, but I want your loyalty. If you will not remain true without promises, I do not wish them. Can you love only because you have promised to? For such love as that I would not thank you."

"Then I will say that I feel true, so far as I know myself," said Johannes, "and I will promise that I will do everything in my power to remain true."

"That is more considerately said," added Markus.

"But where we are to set up housekeeping I cannot yet see--he a _piccolo_, and I only a housemaid! That doesn't bring in much. I think we shall yet fetch up in a tingel-tangel."[1]

"It cannot make any difference to me where we find ourselves, if only I know I am contributing something toward the good life--toward the happiness of all those fine and dear people whom I have seen. But there will be small chance of that, either as _piccolo_ or in a tingel-tangel."

"Children," said Markus, "out of the word springs the deed, and out of the deed springs life. And every one who speaks the good word creates the deed and fosters life."

"Good," said Johannes. "We will speak the word to all who have ears, so long as we shall live; and even if in prison, we shall speak it. And I have not only a mouth, but hands also that are willing to do."

"Such hands will always find something to do--with more to follow; for the word and the deed are like the forest and the rain: the forest attracts the rain, and the rain makes the forest grow."

"But how, then," cried Johannes, "how? I see no way, no opportunity for my deeds."

"Do you remember what I told you about the field-laborers? That tells it all. And this I say to you, Johannes: constant love makes one invincible; love, a sure memory, and patience. For him who draws nigh to the Father, and who forgets not, who remains always the same,--for such a one, although he still be weak, God always opens the way through every obstruction and perplexity. He is like one who continues to urge gently, in one direction, through throngs that go--they know not whither. He will make progress where others lag behind. And think of it, children, the highest and noblest thing you can long for is still only sad and inferior compared with what you can attain through a calm and steadfastly determined love."

The bell which warned the visitors that it was four o'clock, and time to leave, had sounded some time ago, and the ward was nearly empty. The head nurse softly clapped her hands, to indicate to Johannes and Marjon that they must pass on. They were obliged to rise.

Then the door opened, and Professor Snijman came in with two assistants. The professor was a tall man, with a beardless face, and brown hair which curled behind his ears and about his carefully shaven neck. He had a hard and haughty look, with an assumption of stately condescension. With short steps he walked up to Markus' bed, followed by the two young men--his assistants--with little pointed, blonde beards, and in spotless white linen coats.

"Well, well! Come! Visitors still? Not getting on very fast, are you?" said the professor.

At the same time he studied Markus with the cool calculation of a gardener considering whether he will uproot the shrub or let it remain. Then he took Markus' paralyzed hand in his own, and moved it meditatively.

"It seems to me, gentlemen--don't you think?--that we'll have to try what the knife can do here. Don't you think so? It's a _casus perditus_, anyway, isn't it? And who knows?... removal of the bone splinter--relieving the pressure on the motor-centre.... Possibly splendid results, don't you think?"

The assistants nodded, and whispered to each other and to the professor. Markus said:

"Professor, will you not let me rest in peace? I am quite resigned to my condition. I know that it will be labor lost; and I am not willing to be made unconscious."

"Come, come," said the professor, half commanding, half in pretended kindness. "Not so gloomy, not so crest-fallen. We'll just see if you can't have the use of this arm again, shall we not? You need not be afraid. Everything is safe, and no pain. Would you not like to be able again to draw on your own blouse, to cut your meat, and to fill your pipe? Come, come! Keep up courage--keep up courage. Sister, to-morrow--ten o'clock--on the operating-table."

Then to Marjon and Johannes:

"Hello, young folks, it's after four. Out of the ward, quick!"

Markus put out his hand, which they both kissed, and said: "Till I see you again."

[1] A kind of cheap music-hall.

XXV

The next Wednesday, at two o'clock, when they came again with the stream of visitors, and, with the eagerness of those who thirst and know where they will find water, hastened to the ward where Markus lay, they saw, as they entered, three green screens around his bed.

They had not yet learned what that means in a hospital ward, and they stepped up to the bed as hastily as ever, expecting that Markus might now be able to speak to them with more privacy. But Sjaak, at number six, saw them coming, and, thrusting out his lower lip compassionately, he shook his red head.

"Gone!" said he.

And Old Bram, on the other side:

"Just missed him! Gone--this mornin'!"

"Gone!" exclaimed Johannes, terrified and not understanding. "Where?"

"Well," replied Sjaak, "if he'd only come back and tell me where, I'd know more than I do."

And Bram, whom Sjaak could not see, on account of the screen, said to Marjon:

"He promised me," striking the woolen covers with his fist, "that I'll not be lost. He promised it, and I count on it. I just do!"

"What has happened to him?" asked Marjon, gradually comprehending.

"They operated on him," said Sjaak. "They got the ash-can out of his brains. If he'd lived, then he'd 'a' walked again. He'd 'a' left the premises now, if he'd only lived."

"Come with me, Marjon," said Johannes; and he led her away. Then softly, "Shall we ask to see him--now?"

Marjon, pale as death, but calm, replied: "Not I, Jo. I want to keep the living picture before me as a last remembrance, not the dead one."

Johannes, as pale as she, silently acquiesced.

Then he went to the head nurse and asked, softly and modestly:

"When is the funeral to be, Sister?"

The Sister, a small, trim, pale and spectacled lady, with a rather sour but yet not heartless face, gave the two a swift glance, and said, somewhat nervously and hurriedly:

"Oh, you mean number seven, do you not? Yes? Well, we know nothing about him. There is indeed no family, is there? There was no statement of birth--no ticket of removal--nothing. There is--ah ... there is to be no funeral."

"No funeral, Sister!" exclaimed Marjon. "But what then? What--what is to be done with ... with him?"

Then the nurse, with a scientific severity probably more cruel than she purposed, said:

"The cadaver goes to the dissecting-rooms, Miss."

For a time the two stood speechless--completely dismayed and horrified. They had not thought of that possibility--they were not prepared for such a thing. They both felt it unbearably gruesome, now that they faced the fact, and were without advice.

"Is there no help for it, Sister?" asked Johannes, stammering in his confusion. "Can it not ... can it not ... from the poor fund...?"

He comprehended that it would be a question of money, but he could see no relief.

More practical, Marjon immediately asked, "What would it cost, Sister?"

"I am sorry, Miss," replied the nurse, her feelings now really touched for them, "but I fear you have come too late. You ought to have asked about that in advance. The professor has given express orders."

"Twenty-five gulden, Sister? Would that be enough?" asked Marjon, perseveringly.

The Sister shrugged her shoulders.

"Possibly, if you ask the professor, and if you can prove that you belong to the family. But I am afraid it is too late." The two turned away in silence.

* * * * *

"What shall we do, Marjon?" asked Johannes, when they were in the street.

"There is no use in going to that professor," said Marjon. "He's a conceited fool--bound to have his own way. But it's a matter of money."

"I have nothing, Marjon," said Johannes.

"Neither have I, Jo--at least, nothing to begin with. But we must go after the people who _do_ have something. You know who."

"It is miserable work, Marjon."

"It is that; but we shall maybe get still harder work on his account. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, of course; but neither will I shun it. I am going, now. I know well where you want me to go."

"Good! They are the richest, are they not? But I, too, am going out to get something. You might not succeed there."

"Where are you going?"

"Where there is money, Jo,--to the circus, and to Vrede-best."

"Have you enough to get there with?"

"Yes. I've enough for that."

* * * * *

Great was the indignation in the Roodhuis and Van Tijn households when they heard of the event. Sentimentality, the enjoyment of the sensational, and attachment to tradition--all this so moved the good women that their meagre purses contributed, without delay, three gulden and twenty-four cents.

In the meantime Johannes dragged himself to Dolores' villa. In the drawing-room, beside a brightly flaming wood fire, sat Van Lieverlee engaged in lively conversation with two young-lady callers, for whom the countess was pouring tea. Into this circle came Johannes, with his sad heart and his lugubrious petition.

He entered hurriedly, awkwardly, abruptly, without heeding the astonished and disdainful looks of the visitors, nor the very evident consternation which his poverty-stricken appearance, his untoward entrance, and his melancholy tidings made upon host and hostess.

"But, Johannes," said Van Lieverlee, "I thought you were more philosophical and had higher ideas than that. It seems to me that--for your friend who claimed to be a magician, and for yourself who believed in him--it makes a sad lot of bother what happens to the dust out of which his temporal presence was formed."

"I thought," replied Johannes, "that as you are now a Catholic, you might perhaps feel that you could do something for...."

"Certainly," said Van Lieverlee, scornfully, "if your friend also were a Catholic. Was he?"

"No, Mijnheer," replied Johannes.

"But, Johannes," said the countess, "why was not your friend in a burial club? Nowadays all people of his class belong to such clubs. Is that not so, Freule?"

"Of course," replied the Honorable Lady. "Every decent poor person belongs to a club. But it's astonishing how people will complain of their poverty and yet be _so_ thoughtless and careless."

"Yes, astonishing," sighed the other visitor.

"Then you will do nothing for me?" asked Johannes, not without a touch of bitterness in his tones.

The countess looked at Van Lieverlee, who frowned and shook his head.

"No, dear Johannes. For anything else, quite willingly; but for this there seems to be no justification."

* * * * *

A whole night and day passed in which nothing could be done, since Marjon had not yet returned; and the three gulden and twenty-four cents had only increased by very slow degrees to about five gulden.

At last, on Saturday forenoon, a carriage drew up to the door of the little coffee-house, and out stepped a stately figure in black, which, with its old-time jetted bonnet, heavy rustling black-silk skirt, full mantilla, and a dainty, lavenderlike suggestion of linen chests, and of choice silken souvenirs, entirely filled the narrow entrance.

"Aunt Seréna!" cried Johannes. And in a quick impulse of warm affection he threw his arms around her.

"It is herself!" said Marjon, excited by her success. "And I've got ten gulden from the dark woman, who is not so bad as I thought she was."

* * * * *

Aunt Seréna received a cup of coffee, and was soon on good terms with the Roodhuis family.

In the same carriage that had brought her, Marjon and Johannes drove with her to the hospital. They were sure of success, now, relying upon Aunt Seréna's wealth.

But you will not be surprised to hear that they arrived too late--that the doorman, and the doctor on duty, gave them positive assurance that, for all the gold in the world, there could now be no question of burial--because no one could reassemble what had once been the body of their friend.

"Wretches!" muttered Marjon, as they went homeward. But Johannes cried out: "Oh, Marjon, Marjon, the time is not yet come for men to honor their kings."

* * * * *

There was mourning only in the dark alcove behind the drinking-room of the total-abstainers' coffee-house; but there the mourning, the sobbing and the sighing, were genuine.

Before going away, Aunt Seréna remarked:

"You see, the golden apples of my little tree were good for something, after all."

"Ah, Aunt Seréna," replied Johannes, "do not think me proud. I did not come to you before, because I was ashamed, even though you had said I need not be. But _he_ has cured me of looking down upon others because they do not yet think as I do."

"Then you will not be too proud to cherish my little apple-tree, if I leave it for you to transplant into your own garden?"

And she laughingly continued:

"That is not so kindly intentioned as it appears to be. I have a mischievous pleasure in thinking of your embarrassment at not knowing how to use it better than I did."

"That is naughty of you, Aunt Seréna," said Marjon.

"One thing I know," said Johannes. "I shall spread broadcast, the 'little apples,' that from them new trees may grow; for _he_ taught us that."

"Good! You must come, some time, and explain that to me. God bless you both! And God bless your work, my children."

"God bless you, Aunt Seréna! Give Daatje our greetings."

And now I have told you all that I had to tell about Little Johannes.