She seemed to see no one; but other visions more beautiful than earthly eyes could conceive filled her gaze. The two palms of her hands were pressed down at her side in a strained attitude, as one who is half afraid, or perhaps awakening to some astounding knowledge. But her eyes was the spot within which Eric Gundian had concentrated all his inimitable art: they were the most marvellous wells of light and shade that had ever been painted by mortal hand. They were a mighty realization of his eternal dream--that dream that had led him through distant countries and deadly dangers to the very fount of love. Eric now lived only sustained by his feverish desire to leave those eyes, he had so loved, for ever upon that frieze that would be a living incorporation of his one great aim. But behind those shut doors he was wasting away; he was but a spirit whose body was an overcome burden, living by the soul alone, only a breath of that human life he had spent in the eternal effort to reach his glorious dream. Near by sat the snow-white hawk, who would never leave his side except for short moments when Eric opened the window, upon the beauties of spring, letting the bird out to search for its daily food. Eric himself seemed to dread the light of the sun; neither would he eat of the royal dishes that were brought him; he sipped from time to time a little water, otherwise he lived sustained by the love of his work. Eric Gundian--Eric of the golden locks--was now but a wavering breath, kept alive by the desire to finish his wonderful picture. One morning, when all had been stiller than usual behind those silent walls, King Wanda, with anxious face, opened the heavy door--and there, upon the ground, stretched all his length before his finished masterpiece, lay Eric Gundian, the dreamer of dreams, his wet brush still clasped in his hand. Near him, as always, sat the strange white bird watchfully motionless, but this time there were actually tears in its piercing eyes. The lids of the dreamer were closed for ever, as one, dead-tired, who mercifully has found rest at last.... But on the golden throne of the picture sat a woman more beautiful than any brain can conceive,--within the expression of her eyes lay a world of joy and sorrow, that had blended into a look of unearthly glory impossible to describe. King Wanda stood staring, unable to move, overcome with a sorrow too deep for words; yet he had the feeling that whoso had been able to accomplish such a miracle could only die at the moment of attainment, because such a marvel must verily be paid for by the life of the one who thus was allowed to create it. All the courtiers now came trooping together and stood in awe behind their King, staring and whispering, hushed by the dark mystery they could not understand. Then a murmur went from lip to lip. "Oh, why has the marvellous woman a crown of thorns upon her head? Why, oh why did he paint the face of Love crowned with a wreath of thorns?"