As the wind swayed the bordering pine-branches flecks of light came and went through the shadowy circle of scintillating water. Around the shallow border the glint and tint of glossy stone and delicate shell lighted the mosaic curtain of shadows with the fire of a living iris. Deep and dark and clear was the mystical center. A tall, slender fringe of grasses around the edge softened and deepened the whole liquid beauty before him like the lashes of a sentient eye.
A feathery cloud floated by overhead. Its reflection brushed the surface like a breath of fancy, a mere passing thought. The opalescent gold of the sunshine sank down, down, down, until, transmuted into a look of love in unfathomed consciousness its glow was diffused through the limpid depths.
Beyond the beauty of the lake was the infinite calm, the untouched purity and the perfect peace.
The atmosphere was filled with restfulness. From the lighted depths came an answering look to his eager eyes. The soul of the lake speaks to him in lingering softness and silence; and oh, how serene it is! The iridescent picture of a flying bird falls into the clear water, a song in color. He sees his own face bathed in a tender light.
He will seize this mysterious beauty of a living calm and hold it forever. It shall reflect only his face, he thought, jealous of the very sky. "This treasure is for me, for me alone," he said, as his eyes followed the shafts of light that illumined the shadowy depths. "For me," plunging in and stretching out greedy hands.
The first footstep broke the mirror of light into troubled waters. The soil and sand rose beneath the desecrating feet in a sorrowful cloud that hid the glory in advance and around him. "The peace lies deeper yet," he thought, watching the center and pushing on. But ever before him rose the obscuring cloud of his own creation. He can no longer wade, but strikes out boldly, greedily, to plunder the lake of its secret. He finds that no physical force or finesse can touch the delicate beauty he desires; and after vainly striving to grasp the fine lines of soul-sense, he returns to the shore, weary, disappointed, and bitter.
"It is all illusion," he railed. "No other Hunter excels me in strength or skill; yet when this promised happiness is almost within my grasp, it fades and disappears. There is no reality behind the dissolving pictures of a deceitful world."
The Dreamer looked from the fair strength of the Hunter on the bank to the cloudy, restless water. There he saw reflected his own figure—a dusky, broken image with the pessimistic poise. Then the light which he had longed for shone full upon his mind. He was the Traveler whose rude selfishness had despoiled the trusting Rose. He was the Hunter of Happiness. Around him were the rejected trophies of his skill—sweet-voiced birds and creatures fleet of foot and quick of eye. Too well they vouched for his unerring aim with bloody breast and broken limb and dull, unseeing eyes. He had wasted the life that gave these things their joy and beauty. Only the pitiful, unlovely forms were his possessions; from these his wearied senses turned in sick distaste.
The Dreamer's eyes fell before the luminous scene in which the Hunter was the one dark stain. How worse than blind his whole career had been. His life was but a crowded list of failures. How fair were Nature's pictures everywhere before he marred them with greedy, sordid touch. Now he saw that the world was alive with a wondrous reality for those who sought it unselfishly.
"The fault is all my own," he groaned in bitter shame. "That is mine, indeed, all mine. Oh, for a chance to redeem this wretched past!" he cried, pierced with so keen a heartache that he awoke.