42 THE MARKHOR 



And meanwhile the garden becomes darker and 

 darker, whilst the moon shines all the more brightly. 

 Like a resounding echo one can hear the last caress- 

 ing whispers of the flowers and the butterflies as 

 they breathe them into the sweet-scented and flattery- 

 laden air of the silvery night. 



Farewell, sweet flowers ! 



