Johannes himself longed to rise and fly as he had done long ago, in his dreams. But the earth held his feet, and his steps were heavy on the grassy ground. He was obliged to pick his way painfully through the bushes—their foliage rustling and scratching along his clothes—their branches brushing across his face. Panting with weariness he had to climb the mossy slopes of the dunes. Yet he followed untiringly—his eye never turned from Windekind's radiant apparition—from what was gleaming in the upraised hand.
There he was, in the middle of the dunes. The wild-roses, with their thousands of pale yellow cups, were blossoming in the glowing valleys, and gazing at the sunlight. And many other flowers were blooming there—bright blue, yellow, and purple. A sultry heat filled the little hollows, cherishing the fragrant herbs. Strong, resinous odors hung in the air. Johannes smelled them as he went—he smelled the wild thyme, and the dry reindeer-moss which crackled under his feet. It was intoxicatingly delightful.
And he saw mottled field-moths fluttering in front of the lovely image he was following; also little black and red butterflies, and the sand-eye—the merry little moth with satiny wings of the most delicate blue.
Golden beetles that live on the wild-rose whirred around his head, and big bumblebees danced and hummed all about in the dry, scorched grass. How delightful it was! How happy he would be if only he were with Windekind.
But Windekind swept farther and farther away. He followed breathlessly. The big, pale-leaved thorn-bushes held him back, and hurt him with their briars. The fuzzy, silvery torch-plants shook their tall heads as he pushed them aside from his course. He scrambled up the sandy barriers, and wounded his hands with the prickly broom.
He pushed on through the low birch-wood where the grass was knee-high, and the water-birds flew up from the little pools which glistened among the shrubs. Dense, white-flowered hawthorns mingled their fragrance with that of the birch-leaves and the mint, which grew in great profusion in the swampy soil.
But there came an end to woods, and verdure, and fragrant flowers. Only the singular, pale blue sea-holly, growing amid the sear, colorless heath-grass.
On the top of the last high swell of the dunes Johannes saw Windekind's form. There was a blinding glitter from his upraised hand. Borne over from the other side by a cool breeze, a great, unceasing roar sounded mysteriously alluring. It was the sea. Johannes felt that he was nearing it, and he slowly climbed the last ascent. At the top, he fell on his knees and gazed upon the ocean.
As he got above the ridge, a rosy glow illumined him. The sunset clouds had drawn apart from the central light. Like a wide ring of welded blocks of stone, with glowing red edges, they surrounded the sinking sun. Upon the sea was a broad path of living, crimson fire—a flaming, sparkling path leading to the distant gates of heaven.
Behind the sun, which could not yet be looked upon—in the depths of the light-grotto—were exquisite tints of intermingled blue and rose. Outside, the whole wide sky was lighted up with blood-red streaks, and dashes and fleckings of streaming fire.