Johannes looked hopelessly around. There stood a small rose-bush.
"Where is the big rose?" asked Johannes, "the big one that used to stand here?"
"We do not speak to human beings," said the little bush.
That was the last sound he heard. Every living thing kept silence. Only, the reeds rustled in the soft, evening wind.
"Am I a human being?" thought Johannes. "No, that cannot—cannot be. I will not be a human being. I hate human beings."
He was tired and faint-hearted, and went to the border of the little field to lie down upon the soft, grey moss with its humid, heavy fragrance.
"I cannot turn back now, nor ever see Robinetta again. Shall I not die without her? Shall I keep on living, and be a man—a man like those who laughed at me?"
Then, all at once, he saw again the two white butterflies that flew up to him from the way of the setting sun. In suspense, he followed their flight. Would they show him the way? They hovered above his head—then floated apart to return again—whirling about in fickle play. Little by little they left the sun, and finally fluttered beyond the border of the dunes—away to the woods. There, only the highest tips were still touched by the evening glow that shone out red and vivid from under the long files of sombre clouds.
Johannes followed the butterflies. But when they had flown above the nearest trees, he saw a dark shadow swoop toward them in noiseless flight, and then hover over them. It pursued and overtook them. The next moment they had vanished. The black shadow darted swiftly up to him, and he covered his face with his hands, in terror.
"Well, little friend, why do you sit here, crying?" rang a sharp, taunting voice close beside him.