There was the dense clump of ferns under which they had slept: how low it looked!
"Windekind!" he cried. But the sound of his own voice startled him.
"Windekind?" It sounded like a human voice! A frightened night-bird flew up with a scream.
There was no one under the ferns. Johannes could see nothing.
The blue lights had vanished. It was cold, and impenetrably dark all around him. Up above, he saw the black, spectral tree-tops against the starlight.
Once more he called. He dared not again. His voice seemed a profanation of the stillness, and Windekind's name a mocking sound.
Then poor little Johannes fell to the ground, and sobbed in contrite sorrow.
VII
The morning was cold and grey. The black, glimmering boughs, all stripped by the storm, were weeping in the mist. Little Johannes ran hurriedly on over the wet, down-beaten grass—staring before him toward the edge of the woods where it was lighter, as if that were the end in view. His eyes were red from crying, and strained with fear and misery. He had been running back and forth the whole night, looking for the light. It had always been safe and home-like with Windekind. Now, in every dark spot lurked the ghost of forlornness, and he dared not look around.