And know that the sorrow of sorrows is only a law of his being.

Fiona MacLeod.

The tired leaves were falling always thicker; the days were shorter; night came down with the rapidity of a swooping bird; and more than once in the early morn a white frost had covered the ground like crystallized sugar strewn all over the earth.

The gypsies' camp was still pitched beside the wood. They had work to do in the villages close by, and often in the evenings the long-suffering donkeys came back heavily laden with vessels of shining copper, which the dark people mended and patched, as is the wont of their wandering race.

Their voices could be heard, either in song or strife, as they hammered away on the rounded caldrons that shone from far, the colour of molten lead.

The naked children played about in noisy groups, quarrelling like little brown monkeys, pursuing, with extended hands, every traveller that ventured too near their tents, and relating their misery with lamentable cries.

There was word of moving to some warmer clime, but as yet no order of march had been given, though the nights were cold and the large fires that were lit, and glowed in the dark like funeral pyres, were hardly sufficient protection. When the young men had finished their work for the day they would sit around in groups, playing games of cards with packs all greasy and blackened by constant use, games which often ended in noisy discord, when more than one sharpened blade would have to be knocked out of angry hands. The old women came together and sat by the leaping flames, weird witches of ancient legends, talking and chattering, relating endless yarns of endless deeds both gay and sinister, often scolding the young ones for all they had left undone, threatening them with every curse if they did not mend their ways.

The lean dogs walked about snatching at every remnant of food they could lay their hungry teeth upon, but the horses passively waited till the dark hour would sound for receiving once more their heavy burdens, which they would carry with patient resignation in spite of the scarcely healed wounds upon their tired backs.

Only Zorka never joined those rowdy groups; she sat alone in her gloomy tent like some old beggared queen, thinking about long-past glories. Her pipe was ever between her lips; the smoke curled upwards in tiny wisps, forming odd shapes that quivered about like mystic signs mounting into the damp cold air.

Each day she watched with growing anxiety the two young people, who, at the fall of night, would come slowly towards her out of the forest.

Since long she had imagined that nothing more could touch her withered heart; but the sight of these mortals, so full of beauty, purity, and light, had filled her with a new benevolence, and she longed with an unspeakable longing to help them if she could.

She was moved by conflicting feelings, asking herself if Stella's marvellous visions were worth one poor human kiss, one enchanted awakening to the wonders of love.

Oh, what use was all her long-accumulated wisdom if it failed her at a moment like this! What should she do? Should she tell the enamoured youth to go his way, not to waste his days running after something that could never be?

But it would break his heart; was he not a dreamer of dreams, and therefore a kindred soul to the solitary maiden who had never seen anything but pictures that certainly were not of this world.

Sometimes she felt an overpowering desire that a sweet miracle might come to pass, and that these two lovely innocents should both at the same instant put their lips to the full cup of Life.

Even ... even ... yes, death in attainment; would it be so terrible a thing! Ah! But does death ever mercifully cover with his wings two living hearts at once? Does he not always leave the one in cold misery to carry his despair alone? So many heavy problems! and she who had thought that her overburdened brain had already solved the mysteries of life! One evening she sat thus alone, pondering over all these questions to which she could find no answer.

The early dusk was descending slowly over one of autumn's last fine days, and darkness was also rising out of the cold barren earth, meeting the coming night half-way.

The sky was covered by leaden clouds, dashed by streaks of glowing red, where the sun resentfully opposed the grey shadows that strove to hide him out of sight. The air was chilly and the very old woman shivered, feeling forsaken and sad and useless.

Over the sombre expanse that lay beyond, a faint mist mounted, like fleecy wool, giving each object the appearance of floating over the earth. The tents, the gypsies that moved about, the tethered horses, the slinking dogs, all seemed to have lost their bases and to be floating in the air.

Zorka was weary, too tired to think. She was only allowing her mind to wander slowly through the past.

The fire, that young hands always built up beside her venerable grey head, leapt and sprang like restless spirits eternally striving after unattainable heights, casting fantastic lights upon her crouching form. It was a picture of old age, in all its forlorn, colourless sadness, from which all else has been taken except the weary comfort of looking back.

Zorka was remembering the distant years when she, too, had known wild love and scorching hate; when the day had been a long smile of promise, when for her also young hearts had beaten with passionate desire.

She remembered many faces that rose like ghosts out of the past, calling to her with long-forgotten voices that once she had loved. She remembered hours of triumph when the ultimate dream of happiness had arisen and wrapped her around with its burning flame.

But she had also lived through the long deadly years when nothing more was laid at her feet, when youth had carelessly trodden upon the heart that once had seemed to others a treasure impossible to obtain.

Past—past—all past; but forgotten? Dear God! ah no! But old age, weary old age from which all flee, whose breath lies like white snow upon the bended head, contains also the balm and benediction of a frosty peace that resembles the face of the night, unstarred and moonless, covering over the glaring joys and gloomy sorrows of yore!

As she was thus wandering on distant shores of her youth, a shadow crossed the space before her and she looked up. It took her a little time before she could come back to cold reality, till her brain realized that in truth she was now but Zorka the wise old witch.

Eric stood at her side; the flames flared and hissed, covering him with changing jets of light.

Between his hands he held a finished picture. Zorka gave a low cry of surprise, and rose trembling to her feet; there in the unsteady glow of the restless flames she looked upon a face the like of which human hand had never before fixed upon canvas or paper.

The eyes of the painting seemed alive, and seemed to stare with unspeakable rapture upon a sight too marvellous for poor human words to translate into mortal language. There they were with all the extraordinary beauty the hoary woman had always known: and more than all, within these eyes the dreamer of dreams had put also another expression which contained all the yearning cry of his own passionate, hopeless love.

For many a year old Zorka, the witch, had not shed a single tear—that source of emotion had dried since ages past; but now as she gazed with quivering emotion upon the glory of this unearthly visage she felt how something rose up from her heart, warm and suffocating, clutching at her strangled throat, till one by one warm drops ran down her furrowed cheeks, leaving shining wet lines upon her leathery skin like little streams of rain on hard-baked earth.

Eric watched her, but never spoke a word; he stood motionless, his arms hanging at his sides, tired and resigned, as one who can fight no more.

Overhead the white falcon circled and circled, uttering small weird shrieks like some one in pain; and as it moved about in the inky sky the blue diamond round its neck shone like a moving star.

"My son," spoke Zorka at last, "thy work is great and wonderful; and truly it could never be said of one who had fashioned so blessed a beauty that his life had been lived in vain. But I perceive that thy human longing is for ever unstilled; and now some inner truth has broken in upon my far-seeing brain, and these are the words I have to speak to thee:

"Go to the woman that thy heart loveth too well—go, for such is the unwritten law of this earth; go and take her in thy living arms and teach her with a kiss all the joy and all the sorrow of the world. And what the great God above desires that the end should be is not for us, who are but fashioned from His dust, to presume to foresee. Go, and I in the silence of the night shall remain here to watch and pray!"

Eric did as he was bid; laying the picture his hands had created down by the side of the reader of signs, he silently vanished into the dark.

The fire flared into a renewed burst of flame, and stretched out long arms of red glowing light as if endeavouring to call him back. Then a cold gust of wind swept over the waste and covered all around with clouds of smoke.