Windekind stretched out his arms, and Johannes slept upon his bosom, protected by the little blue mantle. Yet in the night he waked up. A stillness had suddenly and imperceptibly come over the earth, and the moon had sunk below the horizon. The wearied leaves hung motionless, and silent darkness filled the forest. Then those questions came back to Johannes' head again--in swift, ghostly succession--driving out the very recent trustfulness. Why were human beings as they were? Why must he leave them--forego their love? Why must the winter come? Why must the leaves fall, and the flowers die? Why?--Why? There were the blue lights again--dancing in the depths of the underwood. They came and went. Johannes gazed after them expectantly. He saw the big, bright light shining on the dark tree-trunk. Windekind lay very still, and fast asleep. "Just one question more," thought Johannes, and he slipped out from under the blue mantle. "Here you are again!" said Wistik, nodding in a friendly way. "That gives me a great deal of pleasure. Where is your friend?" "Over yonder. I only wanted to ask you one more question. Will you answer it?" "You have been among human beings, have you not? Is it my secret you have come for?" "Who will find that book, Wistik?" "Ah, yes. That's it; that's it! Will you help me if I tell you?" "If I can, certainly." "Listen then, Johannes." Wistik opened his eyes amazingly wide, and lifted his eyebrows higher than ever. Then he whispered along the back of his little hand: "Human beings have the golden chest, fairies have the golden key. The foe of fairies finds it not; fairies' friend only, opens it. A springtime night is the proper time, and Robin Redbreast knows the way." "Is that true, really true?" cried Johannes, as he thought of his little key. "Yes," said Wistik. "Why, then, has no one yet found it?" asked Johannes. "So many people are seeking it!" "I have told no human being what I have confided to you, I have never yet found the fairies' friend." "I have it, Wistik! I can help you!" cried Johannes, clapping his hands. "I will ask Windekind." Away he flew, over moss and dry leaves. Still, he stumbled now and then, and his step was heavy. Thick branches cracked under his feet where before not a grass-blade had bent. There was the dense clump of ferns under which they had slept: how low it looked! "Windekind!" he cried. But the sound of his own voice startled him. "Windekind?" It sounded like a human voice! A frightened night-bird flew up with a scream. There was no one under the ferns. Johannes could see nothing. The blue lights had vanished. It was cold, and impenetrably dark all around him. Up above, he saw the black, spectral tree-tops against the starlight. Once more he called. He dared not again. His voice seemed a profanation of the stillness, and Windekind's name a mocking sound. Then poor little Johannes fell to the ground, and sobbed in contrite sorrow. VII