In a neighbouring wood a cuckoo cuckooed. Krista looked at Venik, then yielded to tears, laid her head on Venik’s bosom and sobbed aloud. Venik stroked her hair, stroked her face, and was like one distraught. Atter this Krista ceased to weep, rose, went to the streamlet, gathered at it “fishes eyes,” and entwined them with her hair, and when Venik saw her it seemed to him that he could go mad with love of her—so dear she was to him.
Then they rose, went forward, and conversed. Venik felt that the previous burden had fallen from him, that his words were once more unfettered, and that he could breathe freely.
Only he still could not say the particular thing he wanted to say; and several times as he thought about it his words again became more constrained. But on the whole they felt freer. Already they could not say that they were going each by himself. Already they almost tripped along together.
So the next time they sat themselves down, under pretence of resting a little, Krista did not again fling herself weeping on to Venik’s bosom, but none the less did Venik take her head in his hands, none the less did he lay her on his bosom, stroke her hair and face, and wipe her eyes, although they were no longer bedimmed with tears.
It drew towards evening as they approached the
