ff, which he had dropped when
Pleasure had first tempted him, and he grieved that it was gone; and he
felt in the folds of his mantle, hoping that he might still have the book
of light within it; for he had too often thrust it there at the beginning
of his journey; but he could not find it. Then he strove to get some
light from his little lamp; for, hurt as it was, he had it still in his
hand, and he thought there was just a little blue light playing most
faintly within it; but this was not enough to direct him on his way,
rather did it make his way more dark. Then at last he bethought him of
the golden vial. Few were there of those near him but had lost theirs
altogether, and his hung only by a single thread. But it was not gone;
and when he had striven long, he just drew from it a single drop of oil,
and he trimmed his lamp, and it yielded forth a little trembling light,
just enough to shew that it was not altogether dead. With the help of
this light he saw that when he had dropped his book of fire, one single
leaf had been torn from it, and stuck to his mantle; so he seized it
eagerly, and strove to draw light from it; but all that it would yield
was red and angry-looking light, and all that he could read was, "the way
of transgressors is hard."

Poor Irrgeist! he sat down almost in despair, and wept as if his heart
would break. "O, that I had never trusted Pleasure;" "O, that I had
never left the path;" "O, that I had my book of light, and my lamp's
former brightness, and my goodly stick;" "O, that one would lighten my
darkness."

Then did it seem to me as if in the murmur of the air around him two
voices were speaking to the boy. One was like the gentle voice of the
man whom I had seen at the porch of the valley; and it seemed to whisper,
"return," "return;" "mercy," and "forgiveness." And as he listened,
something like hope mixed with the bitter tears which ran down the face
of the wanderer. But then would sound the other voice, harsh, and loud,
and threatening; and it said, "too late," "too late," "despair,"
"despair."

So the poor boy was sadly torn and scattered in his thoughts by these two
different voices; but methought, as he guarded his golden vial, and
strove to trim his dying lamp, that the gentle voice became more
constant, and the voice of terror more dull and distant.

Then, as I was watching him, all at once the boy sprang up, and he seemed
to see a light before him, so straight on did he