The sun sank behind the hills. Anne started and gazed after it.
“It is going....”
On the cool, glasslike sky the silver sickle of the new moon appeared.
They turned back, but they searched in vain for the excursionists. Near the farm scraps of paper and empty long-necked bottles lay on the downtrodden lawn.
The ferryman was waiting for them among the boughs. Christopher was tired, weary of the rôle he had supported so long. He knew now that he could do the trick if such were his pleasure. The magic of the ancient name of Illey had worn off; he ceased to be impressed by the fact that a bearer of it had once been Assistant Viceroy and talking to Illey gave him no more satisfaction than talking to any of his usual club friends.
Since they had got into the boat, Anne too had become silent. It was the evening of a holiday and to-morrow would be a workaday again.... The bright smile died off her lips. She glanced back to the receding island and, taking her gloves off, put a hand into the water as if to caress the river. The ripple lapped at her hand.
Illey sat on the prow and looked into the water. In the faint, silvery moonlight the rings glittered on Anne’s bony, boyish little hands. A sapphire: a blue spark; a ruby: a drop of blood. The river could not wash them off the girl’s finger.
“How the current draws,” said Anne. Half unconsciously Illey also touched the water. And the Danube, the common master of the destinies of remote German forests and great Hungarian plains, seemed for an instant to try and sweep the hands of their children together.
The boat reached the shore.