Johannes had sat waiting for a long time. The air was chill, and heavy
clouds swept over the scene in endless succession. They spread a dark
grey mantle in wide folds, and lifted their proud heads to the bright
light which shone above them. Sunshine and shadow chased each other with
wonderful swiftness across the trees, like a fitfully blazing fire.
Johannes was uneasy in his mind; he was thinking of the Book, not really
believing that he should ever find it. Between the clouds very, very
high up, he saw the clear, deep blue strewn with fleecy white clouds,
soft and feathery, floating in calm and motionless rest.
'It must be like that!' thought he. 'So high, so bright, so still!'
Then came Robinetta. Her bird was not with her.
'It is all right, Johannes!' she cried out. 'You may come and see the
Book.'
'Where is Robin Redbreast?' said Johannes doubtfully.
'He did not come; as we are not going for a walk.'
So he went with her, still thinking to himself: 'It cannot be.--It will
not be like this,--it must be quite different.' However, he followed the
shining golden hair which lighted up the way.
* * * * *
Alas! Sad things now befell little Johannes. I wish that his history
ended here. Did you ever have a beautiful dream of an enchanted garden,
with flowers and beasts who loved you and talked to you? And have you in
your dream had the consciousness that you would presently awake, and all
the glory of it vanish? Then you try with all your might to hold it
fast, and not to see the cold light of morning.
Johannes had just such a feeling as he followed Robinetta.
She led him into the big house, into a passage where his steps echoed.
He could smell the scent of clothes and food; he thought of the long
days when he had been kept indoors--of his school-days--and of
everything in his life which had been cold and gloomy.
They went into a room full of men and women; how many, he could not see.
They were talking, but as he went in they were silent. He noticed that
the carpet had a pattern of huge, impossible flowers in gaudy colours.
They were as strange and monstrous as those on the curtains in his
bedroom at home.
'So that is the gardener's little boy?' said a voice opposite him. 'Come
here, my little friend; there is nothing to be afraid of.'