Over the sombre expanse that lay beyond, a faint mist mounted, like fleecy wool, giving each object the appearance of floating over the earth. The tents, the gypsies that moved about, the tethered horses, the slinking dogs, all seemed to have lost their bases and to be floating in the air.
Zorka was weary, too tired to think. She was only allowing her mind to wander slowly through the past.
The fire, that young hands always built up beside her venerable grey head, leapt and sprang like restless spirits eternally striving after unattainable heights, casting fantastic lights upon her crouching form. It was a picture of old age, in all its forlorn, colourless sadness, from which all else has been taken except the weary comfort of looking back.
Zorka was remembering the distant years when she, too, had known wild love and scorching hate; when the day had been a long smile of promise, when for her also young hearts had beaten with passionate desire.
She remembered many faces that rose like ghosts out of the past, calling to her with long-forgotten voices that once she had loved. She remembered hours of triumph when the ultimate dream of happiness had arisen and wrapped her around with its burning flame.
But she had also lived through the long deadly years when nothing more was laid at her feet, when youth had carelessly trodden upon the heart that once had seemed to others a treasure impossible to obtain.
Past—past—all past; but forgotten? Dear God! ah no! But old age, weary old age from which all flee, whose breath lies like white snow upon the bended head, contains also the balm and benediction of a frosty peace that resembles the face of the night, unstarred and moonless, covering over the glaring joys and gloomy sorrows of yore!
As she was thus wandering on distant shores of her youth, a shadow crossed the space before her and she looked up. It took her a little time before she could come back to cold reality, till her brain realized that in truth she was now but Zorka the wise old witch.
Eric stood at her side; the flames flared and hissed, covering him with changing jets of light.
Between his hands he held a finished picture. Zorka gave a low cry of surprise, and rose trembling to her feet; there in the unsteady glow of the restless flames she looked upon a face the like of which human hand had never before fixed upon canvas or paper.