There seemed no end to that path. It wound all through the bottom of the ravine, following the brook--sometimes crossing it by a couple of stepping-stones, and thence again continuing to the other bank. And it grew stiller in the mountains. The blue sky above could seldom be seen, and the sunlight sifted only dimly through the leaves of the mountain ash and the hazel tree. Tall digitalis, with its rows of red and yellow bells, looked down upon Johannes out of the shadowy depths of the thicket with venomous regard, as if threatening him. Where was he? An agitation, half anxious, half delightful, took possession of him. It was like Windekind's wonderland here! He went on and on, wondering how much farther he could go without there being a change. He grew very tired, and then quite distressed. Out of the general stillness a vague, indefinable sound now proceeded. At first it seemed to be the throbbing and rushing of his blood, and the heart-beats in his ears; but it was stronger and more distinct--a roaring, with an undertone of melancholy moaning like continuous thunder or ocean surf, constant and regular, and, also, a higher note sounding by fits and starts, like the ringing of bells borne by a high wind. And listen! A sound loud as the report of a cannon, making the ground tremble! Johannes ran about in his agitation, looking on all sides. But there was no wind--every leaflet, every blade of grass, was still as death. The sound of water, alone--the rush of water--grew louder! Then he saw, in front of him, the small cascade which caused the sound. The brook was flowing over the face of a rock, down amid the ferns. The path seemed to come to an end, and lose itself in the darkness. Behind the waterfall, hidden by the foaming flow as by a veil, was a grotto, and the path entered it. And now Johannes heard the sounds clearly--as if they were coming out of the earth: the deep resounding, the short intermittent thunderclaps, and the ringing of bells--incessant and regular. He sat down beside the path much agitated, and panting from his rapid movement, and gazed through the veil of water into the cool, dark grotto. He sat there a long time, listening, hesitating, not knowing whether to venture farther or to turn back. And slowly--slowly--a great mysterious sadness began to steal over him. He saw, too, that the mists were still rising from the valley, and that a mass of dark grey clouds was silently taking the place of the glad sunlight. Then he heard near him a slight sound--a soft, sad sighing--a slight, gentle wailing--a helpless sobbing. And, sitting on the rock next to him he saw his little friend Wistik. He was looking straight at Wistik's little bald head, with its thin grey hair. The poor fellow had taken off his little red cap, and was holding it, with both hands, up to his face. He was sobbing and sniveling into it as if his heart would break, and the tears were trickling down his long, pointed beard to the ground.