alone was in that enchantment. Would to heaven it were only enchantment!
At the first touch, when he saw, heard, and recognised Krista, he felt only unembittered delight. Delight—to see her so beautiful, and to hear her so touchingly powerful, that she seemed like a superior being. As though she had got wings and flown to the stars. It was Krista, but a heaven-descended Krista. It was a different Krista from the one he had known, but it had grown out of the old Krista.
He smiled and the tears stood in his eyes. So near he was to her, so far away he was from her. From the hollow tree hither the road was one which had taken three years to traverse, and he had reached the goal at last. Through a whole world, through an eternity he had to go, through nights of waking and debauchery, through a whole river of teers, and through many sighs that path had led—and how he had reached the gaol at last. And now he seemed to be on a bed of roses, and to hear the song of the nightingale. And it was all Krista.
His heart now beat so audibly that he fancied everyone heard it, that even Krista heard it. But no one heard it, all eyes were turned to her, and Krista never heard it: at least she never thought of running to his side.
When her song was at an end they clapped and shouted; Venik did not clap nor applaud, but he was greatly delighted. If he had clapped, perhaps
