Markus, regarding him attentively, with an earnest expression, as if to urge upon him a deeper reflection, said:
"But, Johannes, do you not remember the story of that little seed—the most diminutive of all seeds? It falls to the ground—is trodden under foot—no one sees it—it appears to be completely lost and dead. But in good time it begins to germinate, and grows to be a plant. And the plant bears new seeds, which are scattered by the wind. And the new seeds become new plants, and the whole terrestrial globe becomes too small for the might of what proceeds from that insignificant seed. Has Johannes forgotten me and my words?"
Johannes shook his head.
"Well, then, Johannes and Marjon are not the only ones with ears to hear, are they? The spark has fallen, and shines in secret. The seed lies in the dark ground, and waits its time."
Gradually the ward began to fill with visitors. Relatives were now sitting beside each bed. There were wives and mothers with children, little and big, and some had babes at the breast. A subdued murmuring filled the place, where the smell of old and long-worn clothing mingled with the sharp scent of the disinfectants.
"Stay with me, children, as long as is permitted. The instrument is broken, and will soon cease to sound. Listen to it so long; as it vibrates."
"Are you going to leave us, Markus?" asked Johannes, setting his teeth to keep command of himself.
"I have performed my task," said Markus.
"Already? Already?" they both asked. "We cannot spare you. We might for a little while, but not for always."
"Where is your memory, Johannes? You possess me always, and some time I shall be still closer to you than I now am."