A deep rustic voice said:
“Our master has come home.”
The crowd opened a way for the metal coffin, carried by four stalwart youths to a cart. They placed it on a pile of oak boughs, then all started behind it. At the cross roads the cart turned towards the chapel. The carriage took the road through the row of poplars.
Anne’s eyes followed the cart. The wheels were invisible under the branches hanging down from it. Rich green life carried death. The crown of the oak carried Thomas Illey towards the cemetery.
The bell of the chapel called gently to heaven. The churches of the villages responded in the distance. One told the other all over the country, that the master of Ille had come home.
Along both sides of the road the poplars stood erect like a guard of honour, full of old traditions. The carriage turned another corner and pebbles flew up under the wheels. There, surrounded by oaks, stood the old manor house of Ille, and in the cool white-washed hall steps resounded under the portraits of ancient lords of Ille.
Anne started wearily, then suddenly stopped, deeply shocked. As though the house had been prepared for a gay festival ... it was all decked with flowers. Her eyes were hurt by the glare of the bright colours and her pent-up sorrow moaned within her. She pressed her hands to her bosom ... the flowers pained her.
“Why did you do it? Why? Just now?”
The old housekeeper left the row of women servants.
“It was the order of our good master. It was his will that every flower should be picked when our mistress came home.”