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!"