have carried Krista far away with no one by—carried her away wherever he chose, free from the curious gaze of the inquisitive and where he might vent the anguish of his soul alone.
But in all that multitude sorrow was but a forced unnatural plant. It was but the mere semblance of sorrow and struck no deep root.
That was soon apparent. By the time the procession reached the barriers of the city all but a very few of the mourners had slunk away and ere the earth was wellnigh shovelled over the coffin all were gone but he and two or three grave-diggers. Then even the grave-diggers departed and Venik remained alone. And here beside the grave it seemed as if he talked once more with Krista, as if the bonds of sorrow were loosened and as if even in the midst of bitter anguish he was himself once more.
He stayed long beside the grave and paid his sad court there several days—its living monument. And at evening he went to Krista’s previous dwelling and looked long and wistfully at the yet open casement. But from that casement no one now looked forth either into the street or toward the sky or toward the star.
Then it seemed to Venik as though the book of fate was closed and all was accomplished, he quitted Prague, aimed straight for home, and came one evening to the hill-side, beneath which flowed the river and on which stood the hollow tree at the outskirts of the old oak-wood.
CHAPTER VII
IN the old oak-tree was yet strewed the couch of moss and leaves. He laid himself down to rest upon it and was utterly alone. And now even his thoughts had no basis in reality. He began to smile vacantly at everything just as Krista had.
And a strange numbness stole upon him, and though it was a warm summer’s evening, winter seemed to close in around him.
And the birds sang now no more their carol of the spring, the tuneful stream was stayed, the full-voiced choir was hushed, only from time to time they piped a dreary call-note as if to tell the world they still were there. And then when Venik took into his hand his violin it seemed as though, like the song of those birds, the melody had vanished from its strings. The tale he had to tell upon them was already told, his joy had throbbed itself out upon them, his grief had sobbed itself to rest upon them, and now he
