PART III (continued 4)

At that moment the door opened, and Markus stood at the threshold of the little hall.

"Hurrah!" cried Johannes; and the others, who had just before been shouting; "Hurrah for Golgotha!" now shouted "Hurrah for Markus!" They were all greatly excited and glad to see him free.

"Good-evening," said Markus, without giving token, himself, of being particularly glad. He wore again his customary workman's suit. From all sides hands were held out to him.

"I hadn't thought it," said Jan, "that they'd let you out of their clutches again. How did you manage it?"

"Let 'im have something to eat, first," said Vrouw Roodhuis. "Aren't you hungry, man? You couldn't have been in clover there."

"I shouldn't have had any appetite with all those mad folks about," remarked another woman. "And then, too, when they wanted to poison you!"

"Yes, I am hungry," said Markus. And then bread and milk were given him.

"Why did you come here again?" asked Marjon.

Markus replied simply, "I had something more to say."

After he had eaten, he asked, "Is there a meeting to-night? Who called it?"

"The politicians," replied the young typographer.

"Felbeck wants to be President of the Republic," said the man in brown.

"Is there to be a debate?" asked Markus.

"Listen! Hakkema is coming, too. Oh, there'll be a racket!" said Jan.

"You might say a little something, too, Markus," said Roodhuis. "You must give that confounded military set a good thrashing, just such as you give the pious."

"I never have given the pious a 'thrashing,'" said Markus.

"That's a damn shame!" said the man with the sandals. "Religion is the root of all evil."

"No, it's militarism," said Roodhuis.

"No, alcohol," said the young typographer.

"Neither of them! It's eating meat that does it," said a pale, slim little woman, not yet twenty. "First you slaughter animals, then you eat them, then you drink, and then you murder and steal. One thing leads to another."

"So long, I say, as the people let themselves be taxed and fleeced by kings and priests, so long as they bow to a boss—whether they call him patron or God makes no difference—so long shall we remain in misery."

"Now, Markus," said Jan, "put in an oar yourself. You know better how to pull than the rest of 'em, I should say."

"Well, I will tell you a story," said Markus, "if you will promise to remember it, and not ask an explanation."

"Why not an explanation?" asked the man in brown. "What does that mean? Is it a riddle?"

"I would just as soon be silent," said Markus.

"Come, now, Markus, pitch in! We won't ask you any more than you want to tell us."

"Listen, then," said Markus; and he began his story in a tone which constrained them all to silence.

"Once there were some field-laborers who were very poor—so poor that when they were asked how, with all their children, they could make both ends meet, they replied, 'The churchyard helps us out.'

"They had a rich landlord, and there was an abundance of land. But they were obliged to work so long every day, and so many days in succession, that they had no time to learn anything—not even the best way to plow and sow and reap. They did only the work they were bidden to do. So they remained dull because they were poor, and poor because they were dull. It seemed as if it would stay thus until eternity.

"But the landlord grew richer and richer, through the toil of his many laborers, and according to the increase of his wealth did he become more covetous and dissolute and indolent. And he demanded that his laborers work still harder because his desires were greater.

"But that they could not do. And the help of the churchyard was so very great that they were filled with fear.

"Then, through their great need, there came to one of them a little spark of light, and he said to the others: 'Brothers, this is all wrong. At this rate we shall very soon perish ourselves. We have hungered long enough. Let us slay him and seize the treasure we have collected for him.'

"That seemed to the others a good plan, and they wondered they had not thought of it before. Thereupon they slew the rich landlord, and divided his wealth. But, because he had lived a prodigal life, and since they themselves knew not the best way to plow, to sow, and to reap, they were in a short time still poorer than before.

"Then the son of the landlord, who had escaped, returned to them, and said:

"'You see it was stupid of you to kill your master, for now you are bound to starve, because you cannot manage for yourselves.'

"Then they replied: 'Be to us then a better master, and we will let you live.'

"And the son of the landlord, who had the knowledge of his father, directed their work. And he became rich, and they remained poor—so poor that the churchyard had to help, although not to the former extent. Yet was there land in abundance.

"But the spark of knowledge which that extreme need had awakened continued to shine, and that one laborer said to his fellow-workers: 'Brothers, still is it not well, for, although we do not yet die ourselves from want, our children die. And although it is not right to slay one's lord, why should it be right to make him so rich that he becomes idle and lewd and wanton? We labor hard, and our toil enriches him. But he saves nothing. When we struck down his father we did not find enough to feed us for a week. We must not suffer this, for our wives and children can live upon what he wastes.'

"Then said another: 'We have no need of the landlord, but of his knowledge. For when we had slain our lord we found ourselves no richer. Nor had we the skill to create new wealth. Therefore are we even more miserable than before.'

"At that, a third one said: 'Lacking our labor, must he die; but without his knowledge we must starve. Let us go to him, and say that we will not give him our labor unless he give us his knowledge. If he refuse, then we shall die with him; if he assent, then we shall all live.'

"This the laborers did. And the young landlord, fearful lest he die, taught all who asked him with what they must fertilize the land, and what to sow, and how to irrigate, and all the secrets of tilling the soil, so that they might live. And he also gave to every one that asked it some land to cultivate, and a handful of grain. 'For my forefathers also began with no more than this,' said he.

"Then some of them took the handful of grain and ate it up, because they were so poor and so greedy. And they squandered away their piece of land, and asked not for the knowledge wherewith to till it.

"But others, accepting the knowledge, cultivated their piece of land with the mouthful of grain. But because they had for so long suffered a scarcity they were overjoyed at the harvest. And those—the first—who had again become poor, they pressed into their service. So each became a landlord, and they each gave to the first landlord a share of what was theirs. Thus the first landlord remained very rich, while the others were even richer, and the very poorest remained as miserable as before. All that resulted was the renewal of slothfulness, prodigality, and killing. And the churchyard had to keep on helping.

"But the spark of knowledge, once lighted, continued to burn, and one laborer said to the others: 'Brothers, still it is not well, for we remain unhappy beings. The rich are unhappy through their over-abundance, and the poor through their poverty. What, then, shall be done that it be otherwise?'

"Then said another: 'Brothers, we have taken away from our landlord both his power and his knowledge. We have no further need of him. But what master is it then of whom we have need? For we are as miserable as before.'

"Then said another: 'Brothers, we still need a master, but one who will teach us wisdom and charity; for is it not ignorance through which some have eaten up their seed-grain; and a lack of charity that has caused others to waste all their harvest, and compelled the poorest to serve them?'

"Then they chose a master who taught them wisdom and charity, and that master said: 'You shall not give full possession of the land, for it is lent to all; and of your harvest shall you not—you and your household—consume more than is good for your health. And all the surplus shall you sow again; for there is land enough. And no man shall work for another who can himself work and yet does not.'

"And they did according to this command. And under that master they founded a realm of plenty that was called 'Freedom.'"

Markus was silent, and so for a while were his listeners. At last, the man in the brown suit said:

"Well, now, but they might have done that just as well without master or mandate."

"Say, Markus," said Jan van Tijn, "if you happen to know of such a gentleman, just quietly set me down on the waiting list. My word for it, if he's boss, I'll not go on a strike."

"Well, heaven help us! Are you an anarchist?" asked the other. "You throw the whole principle overboard."

Jan just glanced at him. "I don't hear anything fall yet," said he, drily. And then, looking to right and left at his neighbors:

"D'ye hear anything?"

The company laughed. Markus, looking earnestly at him, said:

"You can at once enter that service, Jan, as can every one."

"What a silly gull!" said he in the brown suit.

XIX

On the way to the Assembly-room they passed the Royal Residence. The windows were a blaze of light, for another banquet had just been held, and the marriage was thus brought a step nearer. The lackeys looked down at the thronging multitude, and smiled disdainfully. In front of the palace, erect upon their horses, their carbines at their hips, sat the hussars. The people shouted. They wanted to see the bridal pair do some more bowing.

And, verily, after a while, open flew the balcony doors, and out came the King and Queen—for all the world like the cuckoo of a clock at the stroke of the hour; and there they bowed and bowed—many times more than the hours that were struck by the clock. Thus the crowd had its will, and shouted to hearts' content. At the same time Johannes also felt, distinctly, a thrill of enthusiasm, although it was mingled with pity; for it did seem as if the crowd found delight in keeping those two poor people bowing, without asking if they had the least desire to do so, so soon after dinner, and after a busy day.

At the indignation meeting it was very warm and crowded. People stood packed at the entrance. Inside, above a haze of tobacco smoke, Dr. Felbeck could be seen sitting at a table covered with green. In front of him were a black hammer, a carafe, and glasses. The table stood on a little stage between side-scenes that represented a forest by moonlight.

There was a great deal of bustle and noise in the hall. Above the clamor rose the cries of the colporteurs reiterating the virtues of their weeklies and pamphlets: "Buy the Pathfinder—three cents!" "Throne, Exchange and Altar; or the Robber Conspiracy Unmasked—one cent!" "Hypocrisy; or the Source of all Depravity—one cent!" "Who are the Murderers?—two cents!"

Dr. Felbeck looked around the hall, casting piercing, frowning glances, like a general surveying the field of battle. At times he chatted with the associate chairman who sat beside him, apparently about this or that advocate or opponent whom he observed in the hall. At times, also, he nodded smilingly to some one in the audience.

The doors were closed, and no one else was permitted to enter. A few helmeted policemen took their stand at the entrance.

The chairman—a spruce young gentleman—after straightening his eye-glasses, grasped with his left hand the old speaker's hammer, rapped upon the table with it, and spoke a few words. Gradually it grew more still. Then Dr. Felbeck stood up, resting upon the table with both hands—his head between his shoulders like a cat about to make a spring. Then, rising to his full height, and glancing several times at his audience—challenging, and certain of success—he began: "Comrades!"

The speech lasted an hour and a half. What he said accorded very well with that which Johannes had heard him say when they first met. The downtrodden proletarian must in the end gird himself against the oppressor—against the rotten civic society, against the gentry of the safety-box, who are supported by the soldiers, assisted by priests, and represented by the Crown. The people must become conscious of their power, for the people are the source of all wealth, and to the people belongs the future. If only the laborers would act in unison, they would be able to make the laws. They were by far the majority. They might compose the Parliament, command the military, possess the collective wealth. Then they could make better laws, and could take from the rich their unmerited privileges. Then would come a time of real liberty and fraternity.

Thereupon Dr. Felbeck made an estimate of the number of guldens a minute that the King had to spend; adding the statement that whole families of laboring men must live for a week upon no more. He showed how many people must work hard, continually, to pay for all that festivity and magnificence. He showed in detail how the rich live, and what splendor was theirs; and he claimed that such beauty and pleasure were the right of each and all. And with tears in his voice, he told them how, with his meagre wages, the poor wage-earner must make both ends meet.

He said the laborer must learn to hate his enemy, and not let himself be deluded by oily-tongued preachers of peace who were paid by the rich; for then he would surely remain in his misery. And yet, in the end, they must certainly have a share of the pleasure—they who had heretofore always come out of the little end of the horn.

All that Dr. Felbeck said was listened to with avidity. The listeners grew more and more attentive, and the speaker more and more vehement. There were frequent outbursts of laughter from the audience, and the hall trembled with the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands. Sometimes there was cheering to the echo. And when the speaker ended—with a fiery, well-turned clause in which all were urged to join the International Social Democratic Labor-Party—Grand Army of Laborers—there followed such an uproar that Johannes lost all sense of sight and hearing.

His duty done, the speaker sat down, yet he looked around with some anxiety at the succeeding speakers.

Again the hammer sounded: "Would any one like to add a few words?"

Three—four—hands went up.

"Hakkema has the Boor."

"Oh, indeed!" said Jan. "Now for a Punch-and-Judy session!"

Hakkema was a small, stocky man, with long hair combed straight back to his neck. His voice was rough and harsh from much speaking, and as he spoke he dropped his head back, in such a way that his shaggy beard stuck out in front. He began very softly, almost hesitatingly—apparently to flatter the former speaker. But very speedily the audience observed—what every one had expected—that he was deriding him. His deep voice grew steadily louder and rougher, and his jokes tarter and tougher. Part of the audience, carried away, and agog for fresh taunts, burst out in loud, insulting laughter, while another part enlivened itself by hissing and whistling, and by shouts of derision.

The irony chiefly concerned the fact that the former speaker termed himself a proletarian, while at the same time he owned a villa at Driebergen, and had a son preparing to be a lawyer. Of course, he appeared to be quite disinterested and would fight for the people, if only the people would be so good as to send him to the House of Representatives, with a salary of forty guldens a week. Certainly, if the King should make Dr. Felbeck Minister to-morrow, with a salary of eight thousand guldens, Dr. Felbeck would accept it out of sheer self-sacrificing devotion to the people. And then the laborer could demand audience of Dr. Felbeck, and ask why the portion on the table of the laborer should still remain so small, and also when the general national distribution would begin.

After a half-hour of such talk, the speaker ended with a stimulating appeal for a purified class struggle in which no little lords among the proletarians should be tolerated, and in which—pointing at Dr. Felbeck, who, smiling scornfully, sat sharpening a lead-pencil—the wolves in sheeps' clothing should be restrained; a struggle in which war should be declared, not only against all tyranny, all coercion, but also against the despotism of party; a struggle in which there should be strife until men had a free society where each might take what he pleased, without lords, without bosses, without safety-boxes, without gods, and without laws.

The applause for this speaker was none the less thundering, mingled, however, with shrill whistlings, and cries of "Throw him out!"

But Felbeck was a match for the man. With furious gestures and banging of his fists on the green-covered table, he called his opponent a deceiver of the people, a man without judgment or conscience, an enemy of the laborer, a sower of discord who would never bring anything to pass save disorder and confusion.

The audience grew more and more excited. Ten, twenty speakers at once, stood up in their places. Angry words were shouted back and forth. Everybody thought it time to say something. The women grew nervous, and the policemen looked at their chief as if only awaiting a signal to put an end to the row.

All this time, Markus, without having made a sign either of approval or of censure, had been sitting between Marjon and Johannes, with the family of Van Tijn.

"Have you been listening, Markus?" asked Marjon, for it seemed to her as if his thoughts were elsewhere. But he nodded "Yes."

"Say something, then," said Marjon.

"Yes, do," urged Johannes. "Tell them which one is right."

"Speak out, Markus. The one who knows ought to tell," said Van Tijn.

"That is not easy to do," said Markus. Then he stood up.

His figure now, as always, riveted attention, and the adroit leader of a tumultuous meeting felt instantly to whom he must yield the floor in order to re-establish calm.

Thus Markus' first words rang out, amid the lessening uproar, as in a subsiding storm. And as he spoke it finally grew very still. But there was no sign either of assent or of disagreement.

"There are fathers and mothers here," said Markus, "who know what spoiled children are. The spoiled child that is always coaxed and indulged, like the one that is always constrained, becomes at last capricious, malicious, and sickly.

"Shall we then treat one another as we may not our children? People are flattered by undue praise of their power and influence—are carried away by the sweetness of fine words concerning the injustice they have too long endured and concerning their right to property and to happiness. You all listen to that eagerly, do you not?

"But that to which one listens most eagerly, it is not always best to say. There are things hard to hear, which must, however, be said and be listened to.

"I know that you are not going to applaud me, as yon did those two others; but yet I am a better friend to you than they are.

"Among you there are those who suffer injustice. Yet you must not exalt yourselves. You should be ashamed of it. For whoever continues to suffer injustice is too weak, too stupid, or too indifferent to overcome it.

"You must not ask, 'Why is it done to me?' but, 'Why cannot I overcome it?'

"The answer to that question is, Weakness, stupidity, and indifference.

"I do not blame you; but I say, blame not others, only yourselves. That is the sole way to betterment.

"Is there one here—a single one—who dares assure me, solemnly, that if an honorable place were offered him by his master, on account of his good work and his good judgment, with higher pay than that of his comrades—that he would, in such case, reply, 'No, my master, I will not accept; for that would be treachery to my comrades, and desertion to your party.' Is there one such? If so, let him stand up."

But no one stirred, and the silence remained unbroken.

"Well, then," continued Markus, "neither is there here a single one who has the right to rail at the rich whom he would hate and supplant. For each of you in their place would do what the rich do. The affairs of the world would be no better conducted were you, not they, at the helm.

"How you delude and flatter and fawn upon one another! You continually hear that you are the innocent, downtrodden ones who have so much to suffer; who are worthy of so much better things; who are so good and so powerful; who would rule the world so well; whose turn it now is to have ease and luxury.

"Men, even if this were so, would it be well that you should always be told it? Would it not make of you conceited fools? Would not the reality revenge itself frightfully upon yourselves, and upon those fawners and flatterers?

"It is, instead, falsehood and conceit.

"You would not rule the world better—you have neither the wisdom nor the charity to do so. You are no more worthy of pity than are your oppressors, for when they injure your bodies they injure also their own souls. The rich are in paths more perilous than are the poor, and it is always better to suffer wrong than to commit it.

"The good things of the earth do not yet belong to you, for you would make the same misuse of them as do those against whom you are being incited.

"Wage war, and desist not until death; but the war of the righteous against the unrighteous, of the wise and charitable against the stupid and sensual. And question not whence come your companions in arms, for you are not the only unhappy ones, you are not alone merciful among men, and good-will and uprightness are not the exclusive possessions of the poor."

Although it seemed to Johannes that Markus' voice was not so wonderfully impressive as at other times, the people had become very attentive. And when he stopped, and sat down without having made a particularly oratorical or cumulative close, they all were still for many seconds. But not a foot stamped, not a hand stirred.

And this very silence made Dr. Felbeck angry.

"Comrades," he began, in his most scornful manner, with an envious, nasal twang in his voice, "we do net need to ask whence the wind blows. This is one more of that obsolete little band of old-fashioned, bourgeois idealists who wish to reform the world with tracts and sermons, and to keep the toilers content in subjection and resignation. Laborers, have you not, I ask, practised patience long enough? Have you, then, no right to the pleasures of life? Must you fill the hungry stomachs of your little ones with palaver about wisdom and charity?"

"No, no!" roared the crowd, freed instantly from the spell of respect under which for a moment they had been held.

"Do not let yourselves be befogged by those tedious maunderings that would reason away the strife of the classes. Oh, true! To such the gentlemen of the safety-box listen eagerly enough, for they are, oh, so afraid of the War of the Classes! But if they were to hear this gentleman talk, they would shout their approval. Take notice, this gentleman will do much to further it. Of course, they have his medal all ready for him."

"And a pension," said Hakkema, while the audience laughed.

"He is an unfrocked priest," said he in the Manchester suit.

"Damn ye, are ye a workman?" cried a voice at the back of the hall. "And do ye mean to say it's my fault that my children perish with hunger, and not the fault of those cursed blood-suckers? You 're a God-forsaken hypocrite, no laborer!"

Markus sat very still, gazing straight before him into the flame of a gas-jet. But Johannes saw that he was deathly pale, and that his eyes seemed to sink deeper into their sockets. Beads of perspiration were standing on his temples.

Hakkema stood up.

"Now I chance to know, fellow-laborers, that this man has escaped from a madhouse. That is a mitigating circumstance. Otherwise," Hakkema went on, drawing his clenched hand from his pocket, and thrusting it out in front of him, "otherwise I would have my fist at his jaw, and ask him if he had no feeling at all in his accursed carcass, that he begrudged the laborer his pittance of the good things of life. It's an enormous amount of pleasure, isn't it—glorious pleasure—you've been able to get on two hundred cents a day!"

"You cad!" cried the young typographer, to Markus—the very same youth who had recited the poem about Golgotha.

"I'll invite you sometime to my home—with my six children, and a seventh one coming, and the clothes in the pawn-shop, and no warm food for three days—then you can see what a fine time of it the laborer has."

"Vile, hateful traitor!" "Hireling socialist!" "I'll ring yer neck for ye!" "I'll guzzle yer blood, ye hateful cur!" Such cries as these rang from various sides, and the uproar steadily increased.

The man in the brown suit shrieked invectives without cessation—"Cad! Carrion! Thief!" and the worst ones he could think of; while, in his excitement, the tears ran down his pale, drawn cheeks.

The din was deafening.

Johannes clenched his fists, and stared at the pale, passionate faces with their evil, flashing glances, which threatened them on every side. He saw Marjon beside him, her eyes distended with terror. Markus sat immovable. The drops of moisture were so thick upon his forehead and cheeks that Johannes took his handkerchief and wiped them away.

Jan van Tijn stood up, but he felt he could do nothing to stem that tide. He began, "Say, are you people—" But he was shouted down, with threats of a broken head; and already fists and chairs were upraised.

Then the chief gave the signal, for which the police had so long waited, and declared in a hard, impartial voice that the place must be vacated. And this work was expedited, with the calm satisfaction of officials who had indeed hoped that matters would end thus—as usual.

The Roodhuis family and the Van Tijns remained with Markus, while Johannes and Marjon were a little in the rear. Roodhuis and Van Tijn wished, they said, to protect Markus if he should need their help. Markus said, "No need."

"Please, Markus," pleaded Van Tijn, "don't think it means so much. I know the workmen. They fly off the handle so easily, but by morning they'll shriek something else. They're not so bad—only a bit rough, you know—sort o' half wild yet. Will ye believe me, Markus, and not despise 'em for't, nor turn yer back on 'em for't, Markus?"

"No, Jan, surely not, if only I have the strength," said Markus, in a hoarse, unsteady voice.

XX

One chilly autumn day, the three sat together in a gloomy bar-room, just as formerly they had done in the small mining town. And, also, the fourth one was there, but in a pitiable condition.

Keesje lay in Markus' lap, under a covering of faded, old red baize. His little black face was as full of folds as an old shoe, his body wasted away, and he was panting and gasping for breath. A hairy little arm came out from under the red baize, and a long, slim black hand clasped Markus' thumb; and whenever Markus had occasion to use his hand, one could see the little black monkey-hand stretch out and feel around, while the brown eyes looked restlessly backward, as if now all safety were gone.

They were in the total-abstainers' coffee-house, for Roodhuis continued to proffer hospitality to Markus, although this did not help his business. After that indignation meeting Markus' stay with Roodhuis was made an excuse by all his friends for their avoidance of the coffee-house. Except Van Tijn and a few other independent ones, none of the old customers returned; but Roodhuis would not permit Markus to go away on that account.

"Now, you must never again lower yourself for that rabble that doesn't understand you, anyway, and isn't worth the trouble," said Marjon, with the pride of one who knows what takes place in high circles, and esteems one's self of better origin.

"Tell me, Johannes, what you would do," said Markus, kindly, while he warmed Keesje's little hand in his own.

"I do not know, Markus," replied Johannes. "It was a wretched evening, for I could not endure that it should cost you so dearly. But if they had done it to me I would not have cared."

"That is right," said Markus. "And now, my dear Johannes, do not think that I am less submissive than yourself. Did you indeed fancy it?"

Johannes shook his head.

"Well, then, it is not scorn which humiliates, but the doing of unworthy deeds. And those people are not less worthy of my help than they were before. Evil inclinations are good inclinations gone astray."

"Then are there not any wicked people?" asked Marjon.

"Ay, ay! Because there is not a black light, is there therefore no night? Calmly call a villain a villain, but take care that you are not one yourself, Marjon."

"But are there not, for the Father, any evil-doers?" asked Johannes.

"Why should there not be for the Father what there is for us? But He knows—what we do not know—the why and the wherefore."

"But, Markus, I saw what you endured that wretched evening. And it must not be. Must you, then, let what is high and noble be so misunderstood and defiled?"

Markus bowed his head in silence over the coughing monkey. Then he said gently:

"I have suffered, my two dear ones, because my Father has not given me strength enough. Did you not see how they listened to me, and trusted, for an instant? But then my Father, in His own way, which is beyond our comprehension, gave power again to the Evil One. Had I more wisdom I should have been able so to speak that they would have understood me. Thus I suffered doubly: on account of their dulness and wickedness, and from shame, not of them, but because of my own weakness. And this I say, Johannes, that you may know what weakness also there is in one who is stronger than you yourself will ever be."

Johannes, his chin upon his clasped hands, looked at him long and thoughtfully, and then whispered:

"Dear Brother, I believe I understand."

In this way they lived together for some time, and saw one another frequently. Johannes and Marjon performed their daily tasks in the boarding-house, and Markus went out every day to look for work. But Johannes was sad and troubled to see that Markus looked more pale and weary than formerly; and as Johannes lay awake in the night, he heard his brother, who slept beside him, sigh often, and softly moan.

One morning Markus did not go out, for Keesje lay still, looking, and could neither get up nor eat. When Markus took away his hand Keesje began to whine; and this brought on a paroxysm of coughing. Markus set him in a patch of sunshine that fell upon the counter from an upper window. There he brightened up a bit, and looked at the flies that, chilled with the cold, crept over the counter near his head. But toward night, when Marjon came, it was all over with Keesje.

He was all shriveled up, and as light as a handful of straw. They put him into a cigar box, and the trio buried him at night, by the light of a lantern, in the bit of soggy, black ground between the foul fences that had to represent a garden, and where shavings and papers supplied the place of flowers and trees.

Marjon and Johannes tried to control themselves, but did not succeed. First one and then the other began to cry.

"Truly, it is silly," said Johannes, "sobbing over such a creature, when so many thousands of people are starving every day."

Said Markus, "There are thousands starving here, and infinitely many more in all parts of my Father's world, but yet none cry a tear too much who cry as you do now. The tears that the angels will shed for Johannes, he will need as much as Keesje needs these tears of his."

XXI

At last they had had enough of smiling, of dining, and of bowing, and the King and Queen were actually to be married in the Cathedral, at eleven o'clock in the morning. Furthermore, it was to be a great feast day, with brilliant illuminations at night, in all the towns of the good Netherlands.

What Hakkema had said of Markus—that he had escaped from an asylum—was not true. He had simply been released because he was not considered dangerous, and because, nowadays, the asylums, especially those of the working-class, are already too crowded.

But he had been warned sternly that a watch would be kept over him, and that he would be rearrested at the slightest disturbance of the peace.

Since the indignation meeting, the police had been a number of times to see Roodhuis, to inquire after Markus. It was further said that he had been advised not to speak in public, because such speaking might furnish a pretext for his immediate arrest.

Markus had not again spoken in public, but had been seeking work. Sometimes he went afoot to neighboring towns, many hours' distant—but always fruitlessly. He did not always lodge with Roodhuis, but sometimes with a kind-hearted and trusted friend, at another place. Johannes noticed that Markus was very poor, for he was obliged to live upon what his friends gave him, and they could spare but little.

"Why do we not travel together, we three," asked Johannes, "just as we used to? We could surely earn our living."

"Yes, those were good times," said Marjon. "And if Markus would go with us, we would have still better ones. He makes even better music than ours. We shall earn money."

But Markus shook his head.

"No, dear children, for us three those good times will not come again. My singing-time is passed, and I must remain here, for my task is not yet done. But it soon will be."

"And then shall we go together?" asked Marjon.

"No; then I shall go alone," replied Markus, briefly.

"Why alone?" asked Johannes and Marjon, almost in the same breath. And there followed a silence of some moments' duration.

Then said Markus: "You will be faithful and remember me and my words, and act as if I were with you, will you not?"

They sighed, and thereafter their words were few and brief; nor did they sing.

But on the morning of that festal day, when the bells of all the Netherlands were ringing, Markus came into the little tavern with a face more joyful than Johannes had ever seen him wear. His eyes shone, and a smile was on his lips.

"Do you hear the bells, Johannes?" asked he. "It is a holiday."

Johannes had entirely forgotten about the holiday.

"How splendid, Markus, to have you so glad. Has something good happened?"

"Have you struck it?" asked Juffrouw Roodhuis. "Happy man!"

"The worst is over," said Markus. "Yes, Juffrouw, to-day I'll 'strike it', and it is well."

After eating some bread, said he: "Johannes, go to the Van Tijns and ask if Marjon may go with us. If you would like to, we will go to see the King and Queen."

"Where?" asked Johannes.

"In the church, Johannes. The sexton is a good friend of mine, and has promised me a place for you both, near the singers."

I shall not tell you in detail of the ceremony, for you may read all about it in the papers: how the church was crammed with the stateliest and most distinguished citizens of the Netherlands, all of them beautifully dressed; how the floral decorations were furnished by a certain firm; how people stood at the door all night that they might be the first to enter in the morning; how the bridal pair came in to the music of Mendelssohn's wedding march; how charming the bride looked, although a little pale; how an impressive train of brilliantly decorated military men and magistrates followed the royal pair, and grouped themselves about them, till the church interior seemed truly magnificent; how respectfully the people stood, and how stirred they all were; how the Minister made a brief but touching speech, that affected all profoundly; how finely, during the customary formalities, the King carried himself, and how winsomely the Queen; how the Queen, moreover, said "Yes" in a voice that thrilled all present; how the King then spoke a few words, in which he promised to consecrate all his powers to the good of his beloved people, and invoked the blessing-of God upon his difficult but exalted task; and how, finally, a thundering "Long live the King!" and "Long live the Queen!" burst forth, making the whole vast edifice resound.

With all of this the papers have accurately acquainted you. But you might perhaps recall that a number of journals had something to say of a slight disturbance caused by the appearance of one who probably was not quite right in his head. The incident, however—so the papers averred—had no significance whatever, and was speedily forgotten; such instances often occurring at ceremonies attended by great crowds.

The disturber of the peace—so the papers stated—was one whom the police had long held under surveillance, on account of his peculiar behavior. He was, therefore, promptly taken into custody, the police, indeed, having had no little difficulty in protecting him from the fury of the populace. The royal pair, not in the least agitated by the occurrence, drove home through the enthusiastic rejoicings of the people, greeting all with friendly smiles.

This, then, was the information imparted by some few of the newspapers—not all of them. But now I will tell you what actually took place. I know well, because Johannes and Marjon—for whom the sexton had secured a fine place with the singers in the church choir, and who, therefore, witnessed everything—told me all about it.

In the nave of the cathedral, above the arches of the aisles, and running beneath the high windows, is a very narrow gallery having a stone balustrade. The only way to this gallery is through small doorways called "Monks' Holes." They are so named because from them, in olden times, the friars could witness the church rites below.

When the King had ended his brief speech, and all present, being deeply impressed, held respectful silence, there appeared up above, through one of these openings, a man in a spacious, dun-grey mantle, with a white cloth about his neck. And suddenly, in the deep silence, the voice of this man—much fuller and more powerful than that of the King—cried out, so that they echoed and re-echoed from every corner of the great temple, these words:

"King of men!"

At once everybody looked up, including the King and Queen, who were directly opposite.

But the man was not looking at them. He held his head a little backward, and his dark hair fell down in curls over the white linen. His eyes, beneath their half-closed lids, were gazing into the light of the arched windows opposite him as if to screen the inner vision from the too fierce outer light. His figure was tall and erect. One hand rested on the white balustrade, the other was raised to the height of his head, in a strange and majestic posture of authority.

Again he cried:

"Hail to thee, King of men!"

The master of ceremonies with his white staff, the generals, stiff with gold, the diplomats and magistrates, all looked with something of wonder, by turns at the speaker, at one another, and at the royal pair, not knowing but that it was a special addition to the program, of which there was no official mention. But since it had made an impression, and seemed to befit the temper and spirit of the assembly, all continued to listen. And the conductor of the choir of children, whose turn it now was to take part, waited and listened as well. And quite without hindrance, Markus spoke the following:

"Hail to him who should be called the King of men!-Blessed is he who merits that name.

"For he is crowned by the grace of God, which is wisdom. His sceptre is love, and his seat is righteousness.

"Among the millions who wander and complain, he is the strong and wise one, who goes before and lights the way.

"Blessed is his progress, for without effort he leads the multitude.

"Blessed are his thoughts, for beyond all others he fore-sees the marvels of the Father.

"Blessed is his word, for he is the poet who fashions worlds after the pattern of the Father. God's mouthpiece he is.

"Joyful is he in the midst of sadness and happy in all adversity; for wherever he goes he dwells in the shadow of the Eternal, and hears His wings above him.

"Among the countless lame and maimed, in the multitude of the defective and infirm, he is the only perfect one, showing what it is possible for man to be.

"Strong is he, and beautiful in person; proud and unpretentious; daring and patient; wise in great, and sagacious in lesser, things; stern in deed, yet tender-hearted; unlimited in love; gentle, but never weak.

"For he is the only hale flower of perfect bloom in a full field of the pale and the deformed. Honor be to him! Elect him, and encompass him with care and with homage; for in him exists the future and the entire race.

"He is the director of the ways of men, and bears with ease the burden of their sorrow and their care, for he knows the issue and the solution.

"He is the maker and maintainer of order in human relations, because he knows and comprehends, and beholds in his mind, like an accurate map, the longings and emotions of men.

"He operates not through pressure of fear or force, but through the superiority of his mind, which must be perceptible to all.

"He is the regulator of the labor of men, teaching them how to bring forth and to distribute in such manner that none may have overflow while others suffer scarcity; and also that none may be idle while others overwork. He plans and confirms the bond through which each finds his place in the great family, so that life becomes fine and orderly and easy, like the figures of a well-drilled dance.

"Such is the King of men. His power is given him, not through the unreasoning, capricious fancy of the undeveloped who are the slaves of custom and of idle, impressionable fear, but through the reasonable views of the multitude who follow and honor, in him, their own best self.

"He moves not in the splendor of external pomp, neither wears he a golden crown; but around his head streams, visible to all, the grace of God, which is wisdom, love, and beauty."

When Markus had said this, people here and there began to be restless. The master of ceremonies indicated that enough had been said, and sent one lackey to the choir-conductor to ask why, according to regulations, there was no singing, and another lackey to the door to see if the carriages were in waiting.

But the carriages were not yet there, and the children who were to sing the chorus now in order, remained, with perplexed faces and open mouths, gazing at that strange figure speaking as if out of the sky in such a marvelous voice. The conductor failed to attract their attention, and realized that all his painstaking, studious preparations for the song were useless.

Markus paid not the slightest heed to the increasing unrest and nervousness, nor to the commanding gestures of the irritated master of ceremonies that he cease speaking; instead, he now raised his voice until it reverberated from the high vaultings:

"Where is he, that King of men?

"Where is the people's King? Where is the people's Queen—his peer—who supports and supplements him?

"Seek them, ye unhappy ones! Never so much as now have you had need of them.

"Seek them in every land; for misery and ugliness and barrenness and confusion are not much longer to be endured.

"Seek them in the city and in the country. Seek them also in the alleys and in the hovels. Yes, seek them in the prisons and in the places of execution. For even so great is your confusion."

Then, bending his head toward the royal pair below, and fastening upon them and the surrounding group of splendid notables his flashing glance, Markus shouted in vehement, resounding tones:

"But seek them not here. Has the light of the grace of God pointed hither?

"Has the grace of God become here evident to all, like a shining aureole of wisdom and love and beauty?

"What children and mischief-makers you are—you there, with your robes of state, and your badges of dignity,—that you think to create a king without the manifestation of the grace of God!

"Deluded by an empty sound, by a dynastic name, you in your ignorance would proclaim, 'Here is a king, and here therefore must God's grace be manifested, for even so we wish it to be.'

"Would you, like mischief-makers and frivolous bugle-blowers, dictate to your God, and show Him where to bestow His grace?

"Who has beheld in this pair of wretched human beings the wisdom, beauty, love, and power which are the visible tokens of God's elect?

"Do you not tremble, then, at the fearful responsibility you take upon yourselves, and put also upon these two pitiable people, by this blasphemous child's-play?"

The excitement now became more serious. That the King and Queen, counts and barons, generals, court marshals, state counselors and ministers should be called mischief-makers and frivolous bugle-blowers, was not to be tolerated.

The King grew red, coughed in his glove, and looked angrily at the master of ceremonies. The Queen, on the contrary, grew pale, and nervously fingered the folds of her heavy, white-satin train. Half turning round, a quick-witted courtier beckoned to the organist, and shouted: "Music!" A general—Johannes recognized him as one of the "Pleiades"—in an attempt at guarding his Rulers, cried out with all the dramatic importance and bluffness of a war-charge:

"Silence, miscreant!"

But it had to be admitted that this sounded more ridiculous than impressive. And not one of the courtiers, officers, or magistrates felt individually powerful enough to set himself by voice and bearing against that forceful speaker. Each felt that he would appear theatrical. And the man in the grey cloak, up above there, was not that. Besides, the assembly gave no countenance to such effort, and was, like every great gathering of people, under the influence of the most powerful personality.

At last, the organist comprehended what was desired of him in this critical situation, and drawing out all the stops he sent forth a heavy peal of trembling sound. In the meantime, two policemen were despatched aloft to silence the undesirable speaker.

But the majestic music rang out upon the words of Markus as if in solemn confirmation. So at least it seemed to Johannes, and to many others in the church. Markus ceased speaking, and appeared to be listening, pensively.

The policemen returned without having attained their object. The gallery could only be reached by climbing over a great beam, having broken and decayed supports, one hundred feet above the floor. The officers, becoming dizzy, lost their zest for the affair, and the firemen had to be sent for.

The music stopped again, and yet there was no continuance of the ceremonies. Markus still stood calmly in his elevated place, looking down upon the throng below with that sad expression of countenance which Johannes knew so well. And yet again, softer, but with keen and cutting penetration:

"Oh, ye poor, poor people! Slaves of the devil, called custom!

"You know no better, and cannot do otherwise. You mean to perform your duty, and to reach that which is good and holy.

"How would you possibly find your King? And how would you maintain order—holy order—without these two people; without him whom you happen to have named your king, as you might have named some foundling?

"But notwithstanding you have felt, every one of you, that I spoke the truth just now, you yet will continue this unblushing lie because you dare not do otherwise, and because you know no other way.

"But bethink yourselves, unhappy beings! Cowardice and weakness shall not excuse you, if, knowing the lie, you adhere to it, and, seeing the truth, you accept it not.

"What you endure is indeed terrible. I esteem you still more worthy of pity than the neglected people out of whose misery you have extracted your splendor.

"You have burdened this poor pair of human beings with royalty—a power befitting only the strongest and the wisest among men.

"Thus do you crush their weak spirits under a weight which only the strongest can bear. You desecrate the name of King—you blaspheme against God, whose grace is not subject to your command.

"You dazzle your bewildered people with a blinding glare, as if they truly had a king. But it is an idle puppet-show, to comply with a hollow peace and a defective method. There is none among you who has the wisdom and the might to lead this people into righteousness; and yet you bear all the responsibility for their confusion, their ignorance, their crudeness, and their misery.

"And they are the least guilty, because, in working for your luxury, they miss the opportunity to learn.

"But you pride yourselves upon your knowledge and your refinement. You know how the industrious lack food, and the rich have the privilege of idleness. You know how an over-abundance flows to you from the deprivations of the neglected. You know the injustice of all this, and yet permit it. And on these two unfortunates you impose the responsibility and the lie.

"But you know—and you shall not be justified!

"And you, two unfortunates, corrupted by the burden of your imposed greatness—poor man, poor, poor little woman! The superhuman power to break the spell of lies round about you will not be yours. May the Good Father, who hath not poured out His grace upon you, encompass you with His compassion."

Just then an excited young adjutant drew out a revolver, and cried, "He insults the Queen!"

A more moderate diplomat, fearing a panic, held back his hand. The cry "He insults the Queen!" was repeated at the entrance to the church. And an uproar was heard outside, for, at the coming of the firemen, the waiting crowds had overheard something about a murderer, or a madman, who was in the upper part of the church.

The helmeted men now appeared in the small gallery, and dragged Markus aside. They immediately bound him with strong cords, fearing he might throw them down below. Then one of them first made his way over the big beam, and ordered Markus to come to him. After that, the other cautiously followed.

The assembly could not see this, because it took place in the dark ridge of the aisle; but all breathed freely once more, now that the powerful voice up above was silent. Again the organ pealed forth, and the royal pair, ceremoniously preceded by the court official, at last proceeded toward the exit, for the carriages were now ready. The singing by the children was omitted. Everything else went just as the daily papers have recorded it for you.

Markus, tightly bound, was led out through a side door, yet not so secretly but that the crowd became aware thereof, and a riotous mob soon encircled the firemen and their prisoner.

"The Queen insulted!" they shrieked. "Kill him! Orange forever!" And they pressed closer and closer.

When Johannes and Marjon, hurried and breathless, had forced their way out through the disorderly throng, they saw, in the distance, above the encircling crowds, the shining helmets, swaying and undulating as they gradually moved farther and farther away. Hands, hats, walking-sticks, and umbrellas could be seen, now uplifted and then lowered.

The two followed on, in extreme anxiety, but they were not so fortunate as to get close by. They saw the red, angry faces of men and women, and heard the shouts of, "Orange forever!" and "Kill him!" At last, to their relief, they saw approaching a long file of policemen, who forced their way through the crowd. The people now pressed closely about the entrance to a narrow alley in which was the police-station. Then Johannes saw a man take up a large iron ash-can that stood on a stoop at the corner of the alley, and toss it so that it came down in the middle of the clamoring crowd where Markus was. A great cloud of yellow-white ashes flew from it, and the rabble laughed and cheered. The police cleared the alley, and the mob slowly scattered, with the triumphant shout: "Orange forever!"

When Johannes peered into the alley, between the policemen who would not let him through, he saw Markus—no longer walking, but only an inert body under the weight of which the firemen were moving with shuffling feet.

Marjon and Johannes waited patiently during what seemed an hour. It might have been only fifteen minutes. Then they obtained permission to pass through, and to see their brother in the station-house.

When questioned, an officer, who was sitting at the entrance, pointed over his shoulder with his pipe-stem to a dark corner.

There, upon the wooden floor, unconscious, lay Markus. His clothing was torn to rags; his hair, his beard, his eyebrows and lashes, were white with ashes; and over all were dark red clots and streaks of coagulated blood. He breathed heavily and painfully. There was no one close beside him, and he lay unwashed and uncared for, with the rope still around his wrists.

Johannes and Marjon asked for water, but were not permitted to do anything. They had to wait until the municipal doctor came. Tightly clasping each other's hand, they waited, watching their friend. At last the doctor came, and cut away the rope. It was not a mortal hurt, he said.

They saw the ambulance, with its white awning come, and saw Markus laid therein. Then, hand in hand, they walked behind to the door of the hospital, without speaking a word.

That evening there were great rejoicings and brilliant illuminations in all the towns and villages of the dear Netherlands. Everywhere there were flaming torches and exploding fireworks, and on all sides rang strains of "Wilhelmus!" and "Orange forever!"

The King and Queen were glad when at last the day was ended.

XXII

Johannes and Marjon both held out bravely until night, doing their daily work as well as they could, and telling briefly, to the few faithful friends of Markus, what had occurred.

But when the lonesome night was come, and they were about to part for several hours, Johannes said:

"No, do not go away from me! How can I endure it—alone with my thoughts—without you!"

They were in the little kitchen where Marjon slept. A small lamp, without a shade, stood burning on the table beside an untidy coffee-set.

When Johannes said this, Marjon looked at him with puzzled, half-closed eyes, as if she did not understand and was trying to think it out. Then she threw herself forward upon her pillow, her face in her hands, and began to cry piteously.

At that Johannes also broke down, and kneeling beside her poor, rickety little iron bed, he cried with her like one in desperation.

Then said Johannes: "What shall we do without him, Marjon?"

Marjon made no reply.

"Do you remember that he said he should soon go away from us?"

"If only I could nurse him," she said.

"Is he going to die?" asked Johannes.

"He can die as well as we. Is he not flesh and blood?"

"He will never really die, though."

"Nor will we, Jo. But what does that avail us? I can't do without him."

And she sobbed again, hopelessly.

"Perhaps it is not so had," said Johannes. "We will call in the morning, and they surely will let us see him."

And so they talked on for a time. Then Johannes said:

"Let me stay with you, Marjon. It really seems as if I never again could go away from you."

Marjon looked at him through her tears, and even smiled.

"But, Jo, we cannot do as we used to. We are no longer children. I am already eighteen, and are you not that also?"

"Then let us become husband and wife, so that we can remain together," said Johannes.

"Then you no longer love that other one more than me?"

"I think not, Marjon; for she would understand nothing of this, and certainly would not join us in our sorrow."

"But, dear boy, we are far too young to become husband and wife."

"I do not understand, Marjon. First you find us too old to stay together, and then you find us too young. And yet I want to remain with you. How can it be done?"

"Listen, Jo. Formerly you said to me, 'No foolishness,' and that hurt me for I cared much more for you than you did for me. Why were you never more kind to me then?"

"Because I was forced to remember that ugly, dark woman, your sister. I cannot bear the thought of her."

Marjon reflected a while, and then said:

"But that is no reason for you to be hard toward me, Jo. I am not low, like her."

Johannes was silent. Then she resumed:

"But then I know what, Jo: you may stay here. But now I shall say 'No foolishness,' and remain unyielding until you shall have forgotten that ugly woman. Will that do?"

"Yes, Marjon," replied Johannes. Then a pillow and some covering were given him, and he lay on the hard floor of the little kitchen the entire night. And now and then, as one of them became aware that the other was still awake, they would talk together, softly, about their poor friend, each trying to comfort the other.

And thus it happened, as I told you it would, that, before the ending of the book, they became husband and wife.

But when Johannes forgot the ugly, dark woman Marjon's sister I do not tell you; for that does not concern others.

XXIII

The humble little kitchen, in the first pale, glimmering light that passed through the unwashed, uncurtained window; two rush-bottomed chairs; the unpainted table with the oil-lamp and the untidy coffee-set; Marjon's narrow iron bed, which quaked if she merely stirred; her breathing, now deep and regular, for at last she slept; the first chirping of the sparrows out-of-doors; continually before Johannes' mental vision the pale face of his kind Brother, befouled with blood and ashes; in his ears the powerful voice resounding through the arches of the church; the howling of the mob; and then—his own body, stiff and sore, on the hard, wooden boards....

Then, all at once, light! Bright, golden sunlight, a mild, refreshingly fragrant air, all pain away, an elastic, feather-light body—and the majestic sound of the sea.

Where was he? Where—where!

Oh, he knew; he felt in himself where he was.

He recognized the feeling of self-consciousness, although he had not recalled his surroundings.

But he heard the ocean—heard it roaring grandly as only it roars on a level, sandy coast; and he heard the whistling of wind in the rushes. And he watched the play of the grey-green waves as they came rolling in—their long lines of shining breakers crested with combing white, dashing and splashing and foaming over the flat stretches of sand.

He had seen it all for years, and every day it was the same, from age to age.

And when he glanced round to see if his little friend Wistik, whom he hoped to find, was also here, he saw, close beside him, a bright little figure sitting quite still and gazing out over the sea.

It was not Wistik. No, for this one had the large, gauzy wings of a dragon-fly, and a little mantle of delicate blue waving gently in the sea-breeze.

"Windekind!" exclaimed Johannes.

Then the bright being looked at him, and he recognized the dear, enigmatical eyes, and the exquisite hair—a bloom-like blonde like the mere sheen of gold—with its flower-crown of green and white.

"Here we are again," said Windekind.

"Then did you not die with Father Pan?" asked Johannes, in astonishment.

"I live forever," said Windekind.

Johannes thought this over. He was tranquil again, as he always was here. Life, so rude and painful, seemed now very far away. He felt only calmness and contentment, although he well knew that his body still lay on the hard floor.

Then he asked, "Does not that bore you?"

Windekind laughed, and held out in front of him his flower, which he used as a staff. It was not an iris, but a strange, splendid blossom—a lily or an orchid—blue, striped with white and gold.

"Silly boy!" said he. "To be bored is to be no longer able to enjoy anything. I am not a human being, that gets bored after a few years. I am not weary of happiness."

"Never?" asked Johannes.

"That I do not know," answered Windekind; "but not yet. If life were to bore me, then I should die and return to my Father. He can never grow weary."

"And have you grown still wiser?"

Windekind looked tenderly and very seriously at Johannes.

"Do you see my flower?" he asked. "This is not my old iris. This is much more beautiful. Oh, Mother Earth is greatly changed; and so am I."

Johannes looked about him. But everything appeared as before: the long lines of delicate green dunes; the sky, all mottled with white clouds; the graceful sea-gulls rocking in the wind, with their cry of grand and lonely liberty. But on the water not a sail was to be seen, nor on the strand a person.

"How good it is to see you again," said Johannes. "I have been so sorry about Father Pan. And now I am very anxious about my poor Brother."

But as Johannes said this he felt quite calm and peaceful; and this puzzled him.

Windekind looked at him, and smiled mysteriously.

"That was a long time ago," he said.

And when Johannes gazed at him in amazement, he repeated:

"Long ago—quite a thousand years."

"A thousand years?" murmured Johannes, mistrustfully.

"Yes, truly a thousand years," said Windekind, positively. "I have grown old, although you cannot see it in me. But the longer those of my race live, the younger they grow, in nature and appearance. Learn that yourself, Johannes—it is well to. I have grown stronger with the centuries, and more elastic—wiser and more loving. That's the way. I have not now an enemy upon earth. I have made up with that small goblin Wistik. He is a right good fellow, after all."

"Is he not?" exclaimed Johannes, delighted. "I too have noticed that."

"Yes," said Windekind, "when he has a leader. I have also become reconciled to human beings."

"Oh, splendid, splendid!" cried Johannes. "I know who has done that!"

"Right!" said Windekind, nodding. "Your good Brother did it."

Then Johannes saw great numbers of sea-gulls flocking together from all sides, wheeling and screaming because of something in the distance that was drawing nearer from out over the sea. It was like a large bird soaring on vast, silently outspread wings. The fierce sunlight fell upon it, making it flash like burnished gold, or like some shining metal. As it came nearer Johannes saw that it had the pretty colors of a swallow, steel-blue, brown and white, but with gilded beak and claws, and that long, variegated feathers, or ribbons, were streaming out behind, because of its rapid flight. The exquisite white of the circling, screaming sea-gulls was in sharp contrast with the huge, dark-colored hulk. A soft, clear sound came from above, as of clinking glass attuned like bells.

"What is that immense creature?" asked Johannes; for the shadow of it moved over the sea like that of a cloud.

"That is not a creature," replied Windekind. "There are human beings in it, but they are not at all ugly now, nor ridiculous. Only look!"

And Johannes saw, from its immobility, that it was not a bird, but a colossal air-ship in the form of a bird. And also he could see, clearly, that lightly dressed figures were moving to and fro along the decks, tossing crumbs to the sea-gulls that, fluttering, and crying caught them up.

Then the great shining wings altered their course, and with a graceful movement the colossus dipped gently downward, skimming the level sandy beach for the distance of a hundred yards.

At last it was still, and Johannes could admire the splendid structure: the glittering gold, the gleaming steel-blue decorations, and the bright-hued banners and pennants with gold-lettered mottoes that fluttered in the breeze.

"Climb up," cried Windekind, "it is going away again. It will not stay a great while."

"Are you going along?" asked Johannes.

"Yes," replied Windekind. "I am at home with these people. But remember they cannot see us yet, any more than could those a thousand years ago. They are still only human beings."

Johannes, his hand in Windekind's, floated up to the air-ship, and nestled in the golden crown upon the head of the bird. Secluded there, they could see what the people were doing.

The people were strong and handsome, like those in the realms of Father Pan; but their hair was darker, and their faces, with thoughtful eyes, were more earnest. And they all resembled Johannes' Brother—as if they were all one large family, and akin to him.

The garments of all of them were much alike—exceedingly simple. They were of unfigured material, similar to linen, with the pretty, sober coloring of some birds—the wood-dove and the peregrine; and all were bordered with fine, bright-colored embroidery. Almost without exception the passengers carried flowers. And festoons of flowers hung in every part of the ship; but these were wilted, and diffused the sweet, keen fragrance of roses.

All went with heads uncovered, and their waving hair was thick, but not long. There was little to distinguish the dress of the men from that of the women; but the men all wore full beards, and the women braids of hair wound about their heads.

Now, leaving their vessel for a short time, they raced along the beach, laughing merrily, and glad of the exercise. Johannes saw that they wore sandals—just like the man in brown at Roodhuis'; and he had to laugh at the recollection. The younger ones were barefooted.

After they had bathed and played, they climbed into the ship again; and, taking their places, all facing the sea, they sang a song. Although Johannes did not understand the words, he knew the meaning of them. It sounded like a psalm, but was more fine and earnest than any he had ever heard.

"That is the song of thanks they always sing after a safe passage over the great water," said Windekind. "Yes, they mean it, for they all know the Father. See how they mean it."

And Johannes saw the deep emotion in their earnest faces, and the tears that glistened beneath the eyes of the younger women. And he heard the quiver of feeling in their full, pure voices.

Then the magnificent great bird, with a strange clatter of unfolding wings, with the whirring of unseen wheels, and the klink-klank of glass bells, rose slowly, and pointed its golden beak and its fixed, crystal eyes toward the land.

"But how does it move?" asked Johannes.

"Could you have explained to your forefathers how an electric vehicle of your own time was propelled?" asked Windekind. "Then do not ask that question, but rather, take a look at your native country, and see how beautiful it has become."

The long line of coast was visible as they ascended, and Johannes could see extending into the ocean at regular distances great dikes of dark-grey stone, over which the white foam of the waves was splashing.

"They are not handsome, but necessary," said Windekind. "But here are our dunes."

And behold! They were as fair and free as in the olden days—a wide, open wilderness without hedge or fence, without shavings or paper. The hollows were full of little green groves; and there the white hawthorn blossomed, and the singing of hundreds of nightingales ascended to their high position. Johannes saw, as of old, the little white tails of thousands of rabbits, flipping over the grey-green stretches of moss. And also he saw people—sometimes by twos or threes, then in large groups. But they did not disturb the harmony of the peaceful scene, and their delicate grey, soft brown, and subdued green clothing was quite in keeping with the tender tints of the landscape.

After that came the verdant country. And how excited Johannes was when, in his flight, he saw it looking like one great, flowery, tree-filled park!

The bright green fields were there, the straight ditches and canals; but everywhere were trees. Sometimes they stood alone—mighty giants casting broad shadows; sometimes in great forests, each one vast expanse of foliage, cool and rustling, where the wood-doves cooed, and golden thrushes whistled. Gorgeous blossoms and thickly flowered shrubs, such as Johannes had seen only in gardens, were everywhere—growing wild in such masses that, from above, they sometimes looked like carpets of glowing red or deepest blue.

And the small white houses of the people, looking as if some giant had sawed them out with supple hand, were dotted about in the midst of the verdure and flowers. But on the borders of the water, by lakes and rivers and canals, were they strewn most thickly. The shining blue waters appeared to be the magnet which had attracted the little square blocks.

"You see, indeed, Johannes," said Windekind, "it was their own fault that human beings seemed out of place in Nature. They had no reverence for her, and harmed her in their stupidity. They have now learned from Nature how beautiful and like unto her they themselves may be, and they have made friends with her. They have taught their children, from their earliest infancy, to do no needless damage to flower or leaf, and to kill no creature ruthlessly; taught them also to desire to be worthy of their place in the midst of all those beautiful and charming objects. Sacred reverence for all that is beautiful, and for everything that has life, is now strictly enjoined. Thus is peace preserved between man and Nature, and they live in intimate relations, neither annoying the other."

"But, Windekind, where are the cities? I see only scattered houses and churches. And where are the iron railways and their sooty stations? And where are the factories, with their tall chimneys and dirty smoke?"

"My dear Johannes, ought ugly things to be retained any longer than extreme need for them demands?"

"Are not, then, railroads and cities and factories necessities?"

"There are still factories, but they do not have to be ugly. There they are—finer than many palaces of a thousand years ago. And why tracks of iron, when the broad ways of the air are open and free to all? And why swarm in cramped quarters, high over one another, so long as there is dwelling-room amid the flowers and the verdure? Men were not so stupid but that they found a way to dispense with all that ugliness, and to drive their engines without the burning of dusty, deeply buried coal. But still some roads remain. Look!"

And Johannes saw that all the dwellings were connected by roads—some of them fourfold and broad, of a dark russet color; others like narrow white ribbons winding through the grass from house to house. And people were passing over them, afoot, or in small, swiftly moving vehicles.

"It is a holiday," said Windekind. "Such days are now really happy and holy days, without the deadly dreariness of the former ones."

Everywhere Johannes saw little churches having pointed spires in the old Dutch style; but now they were full of statuary and ornament. The doors stood open, and people were passing through. And now Johannes heard the sound of music coming out of those little churches—as pure and as fine as the best he had ever heard.

"Oh, Windekind, how I should love to go in and listen to that splendid music! I do so want to," said Johannes.

But Windekind put his finger to his lips, and said:

"Hush! We are going to hear still better. Our voyagers are going to a much larger church, where most beautiful music can be heard. They are pilgrims, such as go from all countries every year, at this time, to celebrate the great festival."

"Do I not see another air-ship, Windekind? And there—still another?" asked Johannes.

"Yes; perhaps, indeed, one may be going along with us," said Windekind. "That will make it lively."

And very soon there actually came a second air-ship—a big brother-bird, that flew up to them. Then the flags dipped, and wide dark-blue banners, bearing silver-lettered mottoes, were unfurled to the breeze. The people waved, and shouted aloud. And when the twin birds were so close together that the tips of their great bright wings nearly touched, the people on Johannes' ship struck up an anthem—a full and powerful song—that was immediately responded to by an antistrophe from the other ship. And thus they took turns, first one, then the other, for quite a time.

Johannes' heart was warmed by this sweet understanding among peoples wholly unknown to one another.

"Do all men now speak the same language?" he asked his friend.

"Do you not hear what they are singing? All people have chosen that language as the most beautiful and the most natural. It is Greek."

"I do not know Greek," said Johannes, regretfully.

"But just look at that pennant, then, on the other ship. What does it say?"

"That is Dutch, Windekind—ordinary Dutch," cried Johannes. And he read: "There is no Death," and "Gladness only endures." And he also read the name of the ship, "he Heron."

Then his own ship dropped down again, upon a level meadow close beside some large buildings of grey freestone, charmingly sculptured, and there, for some mysterious reason, the vessel lay a long while—to get up power, thought Johannes. And the pilgrims took advantage of the delay to dance over the meadows with graceful steps, and also to replace with fresh flowers the wilted festoons.

Then they rose again, and whizzed through the still, summer air toward the south. Johannes noticed that not much more than half the land was devoted to field and orchard and vegetable-garden, and that all the rest was forest and park and flower-garden; that there were no hedges nor fences, nor any walls, except those against which grapes and peaches were growing. He did indeed still see brown and white sails on lake and river—that beautiful and ever charming spectacle—but there were no more of the tall four-armed windmills. And that was a pity.

"One cannot demand everything," said Windekind.

Johannes saw colossal wheels, like anchored paddle-wheels, glistening in the sunlight—turning constantly, and moved by some mysterious force. That certainly was better than smoking chimneys.

And nowhere was it dirty, nowhere was there wan poverty, nowhere the deathly ugliness and monotonous melancholy of the cities. He saw no ragged nor wretched people, no unsightly regions of refuse and lumber. In the places where he knew the cities to have been, there were now verdant tracts vocal with the songs of birds, and fruitful, well-tilled fields and gardens.

"The housekeeping of the world is revolutionized, dear Johannes," said Windekind. "It lasted quite a while, and cost considerable bickering; but that is all over now, and everything is according to method. I myself take real pleasure in it."

And from his golden seat he gazed over the country, like a tiny pretty king, who, proud and well-satisfied, rules his domain with a floral sceptre.

"Watch, now: we are going higher. We have to fly over the mountains."

And the ship rose until the people below were no longer visible, and at last even the houses disappeared. It grew chilly as they cut through the white mists of the great clouds; and, as of old, Windekind threw his little blue mantle about Johannes. Thus they went on for hours, in fog and mist, and the mighty vessel quivered with the speed of its flight. The voyagers were still, and stayed, snug and safe, inside. On they rushed, through rain and through snow, catching occasional glimpses of wide tempestuous landscapes, with green fields, foaming rivers, snow-capped mountains, glaciers, and lakes of gleaming blue.

"Is the whole world as beautiful now, and as well cared for, as my own country?" asked Johannes.

"The work of men is never complete," replied Windekind, "and that is good for them, else they would become too proud. Asia and Africa are a long way yet from being in trim, possibly they never will be. But then it is all very well as it is—very well. A thousand years ago one could not have said that."

How long they had been speeding thus, Johannes could not say. It seemed to him many hours. Then the great billows of cloud grew more and more transparent, and again the green land beneath them became visible, and also a deep, deep blue sea.

"Is it Italy?" asked Johannes. Windekind nodded, and Johannes hoped they would stay still a while so that he might see the beautiful country of which the priest had told him. Then the ship descended until people and houses could again be distinguished, and Johannes saw a scene so grand, so rich, so overwhelming, that he was startled and almost speechless. He could only say, thinking of Marjon, "Oh, how shall I describe all this?"

For the scene was exhibited with a fulness and variety that left no time for close observation. It was a landscape and a world-city in one—an extraordinary valley, down which the vessel now drifted, full of trees, verdure, flowers, buildings, statues, and people. Just before him he saw a gigantic azalea-tree covered with red flowers; farther on, a long arcade, overgrown with ivy, extending down to the foot of the vale. Then a temple with tall, slender, white pillars, also overgrown with ivy. In the middle of the valley stood a colossal piece of sculpture—simply a head. Johannes saw the sun shining upon it. And farther on there were structures unending, and thousands and thousands of people. Altogether, it gave him an impression of happiness and of beauty indescribable. Johannes could only cry, "How splendid! How splendid!" doing his utmost to take in everything, that he might remember and describe it to Marjon. But he felt that it would be beyond his powers, and so deeply moved was he by the beauty of the scene that he cried out, "It is too glorious! I cannot bear it!" And he wondered if the ship was going to stop there.

It did not stop, but floated farther on—not far now from the ground—and followed the rocky coast. Johannes remembered the red rocks and the coast where he and Wistik had sat when the Devil appeared. This country, also, looked well-tilled and inhabited, after the manner of his own country.

Then they put out again, over the blue, deep sea, and observed how it was navigated by large, swift vessels, without either sail or steam. They seemed to glide over the water as sledges over the snow, and the white foam flew high up over the bows.

Then after a long voyage there loomed from the sea, like a violet shadow, a large island; and, although it was broad daylight, it seemed as if above that island a bright yellow-white star were sparkling.

"That is our goal," said Windekind. "Take heed, now, you are going to see something fine."

And when they came nearer, Johannes could not tell what it was: whether the island was Nature's work, or some marvel wrought by the hand of man.

For that whole great island, that from a distance had looked like a mountain, appeared, when approached, to be entirely covered with buildings—a piling up of pillars and roofs that soared one above another, and converged to an awe-inspiring dome. That crowning dome sparkled in the clear, sunlit air like an arrested cloud—with the silvery, light green, and dark blue splendor of a glacier covered with thousands of beautifully sculptured, inverted icicles; and upon the top shone the yellow-white light which, even in broad daylight, seemed to be a star.

So immense and so numerous were the structures, that one could not tell what the natural form of the island had been, nor what had been made by human hands.

Coming still nearer, one could see green masses of foliage filling all the spaces between the buildings, up to the very top. The whole island seemed a miracle of art and nature; of columns of pure white, of silver and silver-blue; of cupolas, bronze-green or golden; while amidst them all was the dark green of the dense groves and the shrubbery, above which rose the tufted palms on their slender, slightly curved stems.

"Oh, Windekind," cried Johannes, "is this a story?"

"This is a story," said Windekind, "as fine as any I ever told you. But this one is true. Human beings first heard of it through me, and then they resolved to build it as soon as they could find time, and housekeeping was systematized. It could have been somewhat finer, but still it came out very nicely, especially when you reflect that they have had merely a hundred years in which to work out the plan; considering, also, that, when half completed, an earthquake destroyed it."

"What is it that glitters on that high dome at the summit of the island? It looks like a distant star. Is it fire?"

"That is not fire, Johannes, but metal—a golden flame. It is a piece of gilded metal, that always glow's in the sunlight as if it were burning. By means of that flame the people wish to indicate their ardent love."

"Love for whom, Windekind—for one another, or for God?"

"They know no difference, Johannes," said Windekind.

With radiant faces the pilgrims stood gazing at the spectacle; and, shouting their joy, they sang again. Only a few of the older ones appeared to have seen the island before.

The sea was now covered with large white vessels speeding to and fro, and one could also see air-ships flying thither from all points of the compass, like herons to their nesting-place.

Then Johannes vessel settled down upon a great grassy plain close to the shore, and the pilgrims alighted. They were embarrassed and bewildered now by all that surrounded them—by the multitude of air-ships, and also by the people, among whom they felt shy and strange.

Hundreds of these ships were now at rest—a brilliant spectacle, all differently rigged and adorned, and patterned after various birds. There were hawks and eagles, and giant beetles, entirely of bronze, looking like gold. There were moths of green-reflecting metal; and dragon-flies with wings of iridescent glass; wasps with bodies ringed with black and yellow; butterflies having enormous yellow wings, marked with peacock-eyes of blue, from which long pennants, black and red, streamed out behind.

There was now considerable commotion throughout the grassy plain, among those who, just arrived, were trying to find their way.

On the coast, around the whole island, was an almost unbroken series of cool terraces beneath white colonnades shaded by the light lavender flowers of the glycine; and behind them were small, white-stuccoed recesses overlooking the sea. There the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who annually came to the feast were lodged and fed.

Johannes saw them sitting at long tables on which were bread, fruit, and flowers. And above the sound of the foaming surf, as the crystalline blue water broke in white spray over the dull red rocks, cheerful talking and laughing could be heard, and also the music of guitars.

Higher up, the island was clear and open. Here were sunny parks with low flowering shrubs, and now and then a tall palm, and everywhere temples and buildings for various purposes.

With his hand in Windekind's, Johannes glided over this, unable to note all of the many things that met his gaze. He saw, beneath him, close to the shore, large arenas for the games and the races; also long buildings, with thousands of columns, for the display of useful and ingenious articles and implements.

A little higher were gardens with plants and animals, museums, observatories, immense libraries, and covered colonnades and assembly-rooms for scholars. After that came theatres, in Hellenic form—semicircular—with white marble seats. And every place was thronged with people, in their tasteful, charming dress. The brown and the yellow races were represented; also the very dark-colored ones, with their flashing eyes, haughty bearing, and vigorous frames. These wore brightly-colored silken garments, green and red, embroidered with gold; but all who were white or fair were soberly clad in soft, refined colors.

Still higher were collections of statues, marble and gilded—many of them outside in the park, among the flowers, the aloes, and the plashing fountains; others, beneath long porticoes; and in large, low buildings there were sketches and paintings, or statuettes wrought in metal or carved in wood.

Finally, still higher up the incline, close beside the great middle temple which was the crown of the island, surrounded by the serious silences of dark laurel and myrtle groves, were the temples of music.

There was a variety of them. Some were lighter and more ornamental—of brighter stone, and with steep, golden roofs; others, massive and strong, of quiet grey limestone, with green and red granite pillars, and arched roofs of bronze.

Windekind pointed out that each temple was dedicated exclusively to one composer; and Johannes heard with joy names that were well known to him in his own day.

"Which one shall we choose?" asked Windekind. "Nowhere else upon earth can their works be heard as in any one of these temples."

While he hesitated, with the name Beethoven on his lips, Johannes saw coming over the grassy path between the rose-colored flowering oleanders, a group of five majestic persons. They were tall, powerful figures—four men and a woman. The men were all elderly, one of them having silver-white, the others thick grey hair. The woman was younger, and indescribably noble and beautiful. They each wore a mantle of the same amaranthine red, and upon the head a small wreath of green myrtle, and each one held a flower.

They walked slowly and with dignity, and wherever they went the people all greeted them. Those who had been chatting were respectfully silent; those sitting or lying down stood up; and those who were in their path hastily stepped aside.

"Who are those five people, Windekind?"

"They are the five kings. Do you not see that they carry my flower in their hands? It is the blue, white, and gold Lily of the Kings, which the people have evolved. Formerly it did not exist. These are the noblest, wisest, strongest, the purest and most worthy among human beings. In them are united, in most perfect harmony, all of the human faculties. They are poets, masters of speech, and sages, that purify and elevate morals. They are regulators of labor, directors in business, in taste, and in science. Not all are equally excellent, nor are there always so many. The best are sought for and elevated. But they bear no rank—they have no court, no palace, no army, no realm. Their throne is where they seat themselves; their kingdom is the whole world. Their power consists in the beauty of their words, in their wisdom, and in the love of their fellowmen. See how they are revered! Look at those adoring women—doing obeisance as ever. There are still the very same foolish ones among the young women."

And Windekind called Johannes' attention to the fair enthusiasts who attempted not only to kiss the hands of the Five, but also to touch them with their flowers, which, thereby made sacred as relics, were later to be cherished as mementoes. But the sages smilingly motioned these aside, and entered the largest of the music-temples—a mighty structure of smooth, cream-white marble, without ornament, but pure in line, and nobly harmonious in its proportions. It was round in form, having a bronze roof without side-windows, and lighted only from above. Over the entrance, in large gold letters, was the name "Bach."[1] When the Five came in all the people stood up, and waited until they were seated in the chairs reserved for them.

And then Johannes heard exceedingly fine music. And Windekind said, "This fountain is not yet exhausted, nor will it be for ages to come."

When they were again out-of-doors, and Johannes saw the happiness of all those beautiful people, and the mood of solemn devotion into which the music had put them, he suddenly became depressed, and said: "Oh, Windekind, now that I have seen all this, and know what it is possible for people to be if only they are wise and good, what avails it all when I have to return to that pitiful land of ugliness and folly and injustice? And, alas, of what advantage is it to all those poor people who are perhaps preparing for this lovely life, but who yet are never to see it?"

Johannes looked imploringly at his friend, who was silently meditating while they slowly drifted still higher along a dense grove of dark laurel, through which the happy, high spirited people were proceeding to the great, the loftiest temple.

Said Windekind: "You do not yet comprehend the unity of life, Johannes. However beautiful all this appears to you, it is only a short step in advance. These are yet, and will continue to be, human beings—subject to illness and death, to quarrels and misunderstandings, to superstition and injustice. All that now seems to you elevated and marvelous is but a wisp of straw compared with the magnificence of the Father to whom we all return. The victory is not here, but higher. And whoever has made preparation, however humble, shall have his rightful part in the final triumph."

Johannes did not fully understand, but eagerly drank in the comfort of these mysterious words. Still musing upon them, he stepped out of the dark, leafy woods upon an extraordinary plain, and saw before him the great middle temple that formed the summit of the island.

The sight of it was overwhelming, for it was almost frightfully and oppressively grand; and he saw all the oncoming people stop, as though turned to stone. None ventured to speak unless in whispers.

The plain was so large that those who had just reached the border of the woods could not distinguish the hands nor the heads of those who were entering the temple. The plain was utterly bare—upon it was neither plant nor statue. It was the leveled top of the natural rock—a reddish-grey granite, smoothly polished, and rising gradually by low flights of steps each twelve paces wide and one foot high.

The base of the temple was sombrely grand. Its shape was oblong, the greatest length being from north to south, showing an endless series of massive lotus-columns, close together, and all of the same reddish-grey stone. The eye was bewildered by them, as if in a dark forest of pillars. The steady stream of dot-like human forms appeared to be engulfed in their shade.

These mighty columns, resting on straight and flat string-courses, supported a broad terrace that surrounded the entire temple. Upon this terrace was a layer of earth, whence sprang a luxuriant growth of trees and shrubs, wide-spreading sycamores, towering cypresses, and slender palms—all overgrown and bound together by a veil of flowers and leafy vines.

Then succeeded, higher up, a second series of pillars, supporting another terrace covered with smaller shrubs. And above that, still a third, whose columns were of brighter stone—light-green and grey. The topmost row was of pure white, against which the green of the plants was in clear relief.

And above these, delicate and daring, soared a convergence of groinings, with a maze of exquisite spires and pinnacles, resembling a forest of stalagmites. Together they formed an oval whose chief colors—steel-blue, dark and sparkling, light-grey, and silver—resembled a cloud or a glacier; yet all harmoniously fashioned by human hands. Above, on a colossal tripod, glowed the emblem of love and life—the Golden Flame!

Although thousands of people from every side were ceaselessly pouring into the temple, and disappearing amid the dark columns, it was very still there—so still that above the sound of moving feet one could distinctly hear the babbling of the brooks that, coursing through the verdant terraces, flowed thence to the four corners of the plain.

Johannes tried to follow the soft speech of the people, but he did not understand the language. Then Windekind, calling his attention to a trio of persons—a vigorous father about fifty years of age, and his two sons, slender, fine fellows not far from twenty—said, "Listen to them!" It was Dutch they were speaking—pure, mellifluous Dutch.

The father said: "Look, Gerbrand; the lowest columns are so large that ten men could not encircle them. But within the temple, in the great oval centre, there are a hundred columns, far larger, that reach to the floor of the third terrace. On the groined arches resting upon those columns stand twice as many smaller pillars, which, rising somewhat higher than the gallery of the third terrace, are attached thereto by a system of buttresses. On these two hundred smaller pillars rests the enormous middle dome which over-arches the oval hall. The dome is entirely of metal. The dark blue is steel; the grey, aluminium; the bright green, bronze. The pinnacles, arches, and ornamentations are all of silver or silver-plated steel. In the four corner-spaces, between square and oval, stand four towers, having small gold-covered cupolas. Within these, elevators move up and down, and through them the water also is raised for the terraces.