When they came to Johannes' own dunes, he felt deeply moved, and he whispered again and again: "Windekind! Windekind!"
There was the rabbit-hole, and the slope against which he had once slept. The grey reindeer-moss was tender and moist, and did not crackle beneath his feet. The roses were withered, and the yellow primroses with their faint, languid fragrance held up their cups by hundreds. Higher still rose the tall, proud torch-plants, with their thick, velvety leaves.
Johannes tried to trace the delicate, brownish leaves of the wild-rose.
"Where is it, Wistik? I do not see it."
"I know nothing about it," said Wistik. "You hid the key—I didn't."
The field where the rose had blossomed was full of primroses, staring vacantly. Johannes questioned them, and also the torch-plants. They were much too proud, however, for their tall flower-clusters reached far up above him; so he asked the small, tri-colored violets on the sandy ground.
But no one knew anything of the wild-rose. They all were newly-come flowers—even the arrogant torch-plant, tall though it was.
"Oh! where is it? Where is it?"
"Have you, too, served me a trick?" cried Wistik. "I expected it—that is always the way with human beings!"
He slipped down from Johannes' shoulder, and ran away into the tall grass.