'Then listen, Johannes.' Wistik opened his eyes astonishingly wide, and raised his eyebrows higher than ever. Then he whispered behind his little hand. 'Men have the golden casket; elves have the golden key; the foe of the elves can never find it, the friend of men alone can open it. The first night of Spring is the right time, and Robin Redbreast knows the way.' 'Is that true, quite true?' cried Johannes, remembering his little key. 'Yes,' said Wistik. 'How is it that no one has found it yet?' asked Johannes, 'so many men are seeking for it.' 'I have never confided to any man, never to any man, what I have told you. I never before knew a friend of the Elves.' 'I have it, Wistik, I can help you!' Johannes leaped and clapped his hands. 'I will ask Windekind about it.' Away he flew over the moss and dry leaves. But he stumbled now and then and his feet were heavy. Stout twigs snapped under his tread, while before, it had not even bent the blades of grass. There was the shady fern under which they had been sleeping. Their bed was empty. 'Windekind!' he called. But he started at the sound of his own voice. 'Windekind!' It sounded like a human voice. A scared night-bird flew up with a shriek. There was no one under the fern. Johannes could see no one. The blue lights had vanished. It was very cold and perfectly dark on all sides. Overhead, he saw the black tree-tops against the starry sky. Once more he called. Then he dared no more; his voice was an insult to the silence, and Windekind's name a mockery. Poor Johannes fell on the ground and sobbed in helpless grief. [Footnote 1: 'Wistik' means, Could I but know.] VII The morning was cold and grey. The black shining boughs, swept bare by the storm, dripped in the fog. Little Johannes ran as fast as he could over the wet, down-beaten grass, looking before him in the distance where the wood was thinnest, as though he had some goal beyond. His eyes were red with crying, and dazed with fear and grief. He had been wandering about all night, seeking some light,--the feeling of being safe and at home had vanished with Windekind. The spirit of loneliness lurked in every dark corner; he dared not look round. At last he came out of the wood; he looked over a meadowland, and fine close rain was pouring steadily. A horse was standing out in the rain close to a bare willow tree. It stood motionless, with bowed head, and the water trickled slowly off its shining flanks and plaited mane. Johannes ran on, along the skirt of the wood. He looked with dim, timid eyes at the lonely beast, and the grey drizzle, and he softly groaned. 'Now it is all over,' thought he. 'Now the sun will never come again. Now everything will always look the same to me as it does here.'