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CHAPTER VII.
N 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 scarcely knew what had come over them. Already they held but empty tones, already their melody had ceased to speak.
