The island was silent, as if spell-bound. And in the spell their looks met timidly.
Time rested for an instant, then continued its flight.
The laughing face of Martha Illey peeped out of the dense leaves. She waved a bunch of wild flowers over her head. Christopher had picked them for her and she had arranged them so deftly that the very fields could not have done better.
Anne looked at the nosegay. Then she cast her eyes down on her bosom: she would have liked to wear a nosegay there, to take it home ... but Thomas Illey gave her no flowers.
Around them the bushes entangled themselves into an impenetrable wilderness. The path became mossy, reached some steps and disappeared. Beneath, the worn-out centuries-old stairs; in the overgrown hollow, gentle sacred ruins. Among the stones a gothic window. Green, cold church walls; the ancient monastery of St. Margaret.
A low-flying bird was startled out of the princess’s cell. From the road along the water voices became audible. There were people beyond the ruins.
Anne recognised the chocolate-coloured umbrella of Mrs. Müller, the chemist’s wife. It was an umbrella with a spring and was now tilted to the side like a round fan. The old-fashioned beaver of Gárdos, the proto-medicus, was visible too. So was Mrs. Gál’s chequered shawl and the Miss Münsters’ forget-me-not hats.
“There they are!” said Anne. Christopher caught hold of her arm and pulled her back.
On the road the excursionists walked in couples, panting, hot, as if doing hard work.
Next to Ignace Hold his wife walked tired and weary. Sophie had become ugly. Only her eyes were like of old, those beautiful soft eyes.