Where the rose-tree had stood there was a plot covered with yellow Oenotheras staring heedlessly at the sky. Johannes questioned them, and the mullein too; but they were much too proud, for their tall stems rose far above his head; so he asked the little three-coloured pansies on the sandy ground. However, no one knew anything of the wild rose. They were all new-comers this summer, even the mullein, arrogant and tall as it was.
'Oh! where is it? where is it?'
'Have you too deceived me?' cried Wistik. 'I expected it; it is always so with men.'
And he let himself slip down from Johannes's shoulder, and ran away among the broom. Johannes looked about him in despair—there stood a tiny wild rose-bush.
'Where is the big rose-bush?' asked Johannes; 'the big one which used to stand here?'
'We never talk with human creatures,' said the shrub.
That was the last thing he heard; everything remained silent. Only the broom-shrubs sighed in the light evening breeze.
'Am I then a man?' thought Johannes. 'No! it cannot be, it cannot be! I will not be a man! I hate men!'
He was tired and sick at heart. He lay down at the edge of the meadow, on the soft grey moss which gave out a strong, damp scent.
'Now I cannot find my way back, and shall never see Robinetta again. Shall I not die if I have not Robinetta? Shall I live and grow to be a man—a man like those others who laughed at me?'