'Father, father!' whispered Johannes.
Outside, the sun filled the whole atmosphere with a cloud of glittering golden fire. Every leaf was motionless, and all was still in the solemn, holy sunshine.
A low sighing chant came down on the sun's rays; it was as though they were singing: 'Child of the Sun—Child of the Sun!'
Johannes raised his head and listened. It was in his ears, 'Child of the Sun—Child of the Sun!'
It was like Windekind's voice. No one else had ever called him so. Was it he who called him now? But he looked at the face before him; he would listen no more.
'Poor, dear father!' he murmured.
But suddenly it sounded again close to him, on every side of him, so loud, so urgent, that he thrilled with strange excitement—
'Child of the Sun—Child of the Sun!'
Johannes rose and looked out. What radiance! What a glory of light! It flooded the leafy tree-tops, it sparkled in the grass, and danced even in the dappled shadows. The whole air was full of it, high up towards the blue sky where the first soft clouds of evening were beginning to gather.
Beyond the meadows, between the green trees and shrubs, he could see the sand-hills. They were crowned with glowing gold, and the blue of heaven hung in their dells.