A marvellous picture of unearthly beauty before which the old fortune-teller daily said her curious prayers, prayers to a God who had no form, but who lived in every breath of the wind, and who filled her weary old soul with the hope of coming peace.
They wandered slowly from land to land, amidst scenes of beauty, and often also through countries bleak and joyless; but the heart of the painter was always yearning for a far-off desolate plain where he had planted his shining sword over the face of his love.
When at night he closed his lids over his eyes heavy with unshed tears, that wilderness always rose before him, cold and lonely, filling him with a haunting dread that the sword might be slowly descending to pierce her innocent heart. That vision would suddenly awake him out of his sleep, and horror would stand at the foot of his wretched bed, till he could bear it no more and would rush wildly out into the night.
Zorka knew all his suffering, and bowed her head always lower to the ground.
When spring was covering the earth with a new smile of youth, Zorka felt that the moment she dreaded had come, and that the loved wanderer would soon leave her to go his way.
She had heard him speak of a wonderful picture he was one day to finish in the palace of a mighty king. With her seer's certainty she knew that the time was close at hand—had he not found the face of love,—and slowly the desire must strengthen within him to terminate the work he had begun.
She accepted the coming of this final suffering as one who knows that her days are surely numbered.
One morning Eric Gundian, the last joy of her eyes, stood tall and slim before her dimmed sight.
"Mother Zorka, I feel I must go. I thank thee for all thy bounteous kindness, and I want thy blessing as once the dear master gave me his!"
He knelt down as a little child might have done, and laid the frosted gold of his locks amongst the folds of her earth-coloured rags. She placed her trembling hands upon his head and raised her quavering voice: