The fairy fingers of the artist had stopped here, suddenly; before the final accomplishment, which was to have crowned his whole masterpiece, Eric's brush had failed him. In his dreams he had seen the face he wanted, the eyes that haunted him; but the moment he woke his vision paled, and no effort of will could call back the look of those eyes which he needed for the woman on the throne. So Eric--the Eric whom every one loved, who had been the stern King's joy--had gone mad because of the desire for those eyes of his dream. The light began to fail in the great hall; still King Wanda stood gazing at the figure on the throne which had no face. Great rage seized him because of his helplessness, and a great longing for the fair-haired youth who had been his joy and pride. Little Oona came up to where he stood, and slipped her cool hand into his, laying her curly head against his arm. He turned to her with a deep sigh, and together they passed out into the flowering garden. The wanderer sped along the endless road always farther and farther from the palace of the King. His shoes were covered with dust, and when his steps began to lag he would take from his pocket the flute upon which he played that sad little tune with the questioning notes at the end. It was mid-day--Eric had already walked many miles, and now the sun beat down with great force on his head. He wondered where he was, but only vaguely, because since his dream he seemed to have another head on his shoulders, and none of the tidy thoughts of other days would come to him. He had no notion where he was going; he only knew that he could not rest until he found that face he needed for his picture, and above all those great eyes that haunted his dreams.