"Then it is long till again we look up. Our hair is bleached, our backs are bent, our eyes are dim, and faltering our step; but gradually we see all things as they were meant to be—we have left hope far behind, all that shone and was sweet knows us no more; our way is without either light or shade, it is grey and smooth like the ocean after the storm has gone by.
"We believe that its colour will never be anything but grey; but one day a faint light spreads very far over the most distant horizon and our tired brain begins to perceive that that light is coming slowly towards us, slowly—slowly—till it reaches our heart ... and that light means peace that passeth all human understanding; peace, the ultimate promise of that God we had cast away; peace, the blessing of our snow-white hair, the last hope of our ended pilgrimage. But, my boy, wilt thou do as I bid, and create with thy hands the face thou lovest so well?"
"I cannot, I cannot," sobbed Eric, his face all convulsed with pain; "I have lost my art and lost my belief. I am now only one consuming passionate desire."
"Dear one that I love," answered sadly the old nomad, "for what hast thou climbed so high if thou now wilt not look up? I tell thee that if thou wilt grasp the talent that belongs to thee thou shalt find a relief beyond all thou darest to hope.
"I have been reading the signs out of the wind-swept clouds, and I know that thus help will come to thee."
"Ah, but, Mother Zorka, tell me, will she ever look at me with eyes that see?"
"Her eyes do see, my son, and although thy face be the fairest my old brain has ever conceived, canst thou know if the vision her mind is for ever adoring is not of a beauty far beyond our dreams?
"Certain flowers are not there to be plucked.
"Why the great Being of the skies has brought thee through pain and danger, drawn thee into this distant land, to dash the full cup from thy thirsty lips, after having smilingly led thee so far—is a mystery I cannot explain.
"But dost realize what it would be if thou shouldst pluck the flower too soon and thy touch be too rough, and the petals fall fading to the ground; dost know how empty then thy hands would be?