Zorka could not bear to part from Eric of the golden locks, and begged him to remain at her side.

He, too, for a while felt that he dared not leave the old woman who had led him to his love; so all that winter he wandered about with the travelling clan, from clime to clime, leaving far behind him the country of his dream. Wherever he went the falcon followed, flying as near his head as it could.

Radu had parted from Eric with tears in his eyes; both boys felt as they joined hands for the last time that nothing could wipe out the deep affection they had conceived for each other.

Radu had gone off on an endless road, playing a melancholy tune on his wooden flute, his flock following him, his cowed dogs at his heels, his feet splashing about in the mud, the patient sheep leaving thousands of small footprints wherever they passed.

But Eric played no more, neither did he sing; and over the gold of his locks the silver began to spread more and more, like foam on the sea.

Wherever he stopped he bought canvas and paint, but each of his pictures showed always but the one and only face.

He painted the features of his dream in every form his heart could remember.

He represented her as first he had seen her, crowned with a wreath of bells, her old violin pressed under her cheek, her eyes full of the visions she alone could see. He painted her seated in the dust of the road with a circle of corn-ears round her delicate brow. He conjured up her beauty against the setting sun, whilst the coronet she wore was of autumn leaves all glowing as the blazing sky.

One of his sketches showed her shimmering and pale, lit by the rays of the moon, and this time it was a halo he had painted round the pureness of her heavenly face.

And once his restless fingers had created the picture of her marble features as she lay motionless on her bier, her face still and white under the brooding clouds, with the crown of thorns on her head, her wonderful eyes closed beneath the heavy lids, a smile of peace and happiness hovering like a blessing over her lips.

But one picture alone no human eye but his was ever allowed to see; on that one he had awakened, for a second and last time, the look her eyes had borne when he had closed them with his lips.

This sketch he kept jealously hidden beneath all the others, and it was never shown—not even Zorka had the right to cast a glance upon that expression which was too holy for mortal to look upon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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