Windekind's words were ended, but it seemed as though the choral-song continued. Out of the remote distance it seemed to be floating on—solemn and regular—above the rushing and soughing of the wind—peaceful as the moonlight shining between the driving clouds.
Windekind stretched out his arms, and Johannes slept upon his bosom, protected by the little blue mantle.
Yet in the night he waked up. A stillness had suddenly and imperceptibly come over the earth, and the moon had sunk below the horizon. The wearied leaves hung motionless, and silent darkness filled the forest.
Then those questions came back to Johannes' head again—in swift, ghostly succession—driving out the very recent trustfulness. Why were human beings as they were? Why must he leave them—forego their love? Why must the winter come? Why must the leaves fall, and the flowers die? Why?—Why?
There were the blue lights again—dancing in the depths of the underwood. They came and went. Johannes gazed after them expectantly. He saw the big, bright light shining on the dark tree-trunk. Windekind lay very still, and fast asleep.
"Just one question more," thought Johannes, and he slipped out from under the blue mantle.
"Here you are again!" said Wistik, nodding in a friendly way. "That gives me a great deal of pleasure. Where is your friend?"
"Over yonder. I only wanted to ask you one more question. Will you answer it?"
"You have been among human beings, have you not? Is it my secret you have come for?"
"Who will find that book, Wistik?"