He sat very still at the edge of the road where he had thrown himself. He closed his eyes, and the moment he did so those he was seeking were before him, great and luminous, with an expression he had never seen in any other look. How clear they were, and how steadfastly they rested upon him with never a droop of the eyelids. It did not strike him that he might be on a fool's errand, he had no doubts and no fears; the great genius had become like to a little child, confident and with no thoughts of failure. He had no plan, he simply meant to travel all the world over till he found what he was seeking; God would care for him as He did for the birds of the air, and time did not count. He wiped his damp brow, and then looked about him; all was very still, the air was laden with the sweet perfumes of summer flowers; the sky was blue, and not a leaf stirred on the trees. Eric smiled to himself, and played on his flute; he liked to listen to his own little tunes; they were very sweet to him, and he quite forgot everything whilst he piped away like a bird. He began many different melodies, but they always ended on the same questioning notes. He never remarked that each of his little tunes had the same ending; to him they were infinitely varied. And intensely sweet they were, with a haunting sound like human sighs mixed with the laughter of little children. And now the clearest bird notes rang out, and then again the sob of a nightingale or the trickling sound of running water, clear and crystalline, as if a little source were bubbling forth close by. He was completely absorbed by the music, and more than one passer-by had stopped a moment to listen; but Eric had only nodded and smiled as if each one had been a personal acquaintance. Then he rose and wandered onwards, always keeping straight along the road that stretched before him, never inquiring his way, serenely confident that all would go well with him if he only held his one great aim in view. Before the King's palace Oona, flitting hither and thither, like a gay butterfly, played with her golden balls in the sunshine, occasionally tripping over her too royal apparel, her clear laugh sounding through the summer-laden air. But within the still, white palace sat King Wanda, and all the time his eyes beheld a small cloud of dust, raised by the feet of a golden-haired youth, who had been the joy of his days, leaving him and all his kingly splendour to follow a vision which the grey-haired man could never understand,--and it seemed to him that the little cloud of dust became always smaller and smaller till he could see it no more. III From my heart comes out and dances before me the image of my desire. TAGORE.