Johannes looked at his friend in indescribable anguish.
"Wistik, what is this? Where are we? What is happening?—Wistik!"
But Wistik shook his head, lifted up his swollen eyes toward the sky, and, in mute anguish, clenched his fists.
Above the roar of wind and sea could still be heard the deep-toned sound, like the report of cannon or the booming of bells. Johannes looked around. Behind him rose the mountains—black and menacing—their proud, heaven-high heads confronting the rushing swirl of clouds that were piled up, miles high, into a rounded black mass. At times it lightened vividly and then followed a frightful peal of thunder. And when one of the highest peaks was freed from its mantle of mists, Johannes saw that it was afire with a steady, orange-colored glow which grew ever fiercer and whiter.
The tolling of bells came from every direction, as if thousands on thousands of cathedral bells were ringing in unison.
Then Wistik and Johannes took their way inland, clambering over the jagged rocks, clinging to each other in the wild wind. The sea thundered still louder, and the wind whistled as if in utter frenzy—like an imprisoned maniac tugging at his bars.
"It is no use," wailed Wistik. "It is no use. He is dead, dead, dead!"
Then Johannes heard the winds speaking as he had formerly heard the flowers and animals talk.
"He shall live!" shrieked the Wind; "I will not let him die!"
And the Sea spoke: "Them that menace him shall I destroy—his enemies devour. The hills shall I grind to powder, and all animals o'erwhelm."