It was a relief to them both when they were allowed to go into a walled orchard at the back of the house, where, for the first time since the memorable evening in the cave, by the many-chambered cavern, before the reading of Patrick’s letter, they were once more alone together.
They discussed their mysterious purchasers in low tones, but could arrive at no clear conclusion. Of one thing, however, they felt more and more clear, from what Dewi had told them, from chance words that had dropped from the other sailors, and the recurrence of the magic name “Roma,” as the only intelligible word in the conversation of their hosts—they were on their way to Rome.
They slept the sound sleep of youth on the clean straw couches spread for them in one of the sleeping-chambers. When they awoke it had long been daylight, and their hosts were sitting in the eating-room, again elaborately doing nothing, with a seriousness which made Ethne and Baithene feel the immobility and stillness in some mysterious way part of a sacred ritual. Their only occupation was the reading aloud of their host from a manuscript wrapped in silken covers, with occasional responses from their hostess.
They were courteously bidden to take their places at the meal set on their own table. But when they had finished they felt they would be better out of the way in the orchard, to which they gladly retired, enjoying the sunshine and rest.
Whilst they were there, from within the house came frequently the sound of the monotonous reading or chanting, in that same strange language, with its deep guttural or nasal sounds.
“Are we not in a Christian country?” said Baithene at last; “and can this be our sacred day, Sunday, the day of our Lord?”
They tried to count back from that day to the day when they had heard the bell from the cavern, and had seen the Christian congregation gather and disperse at the little church on the sandy hill. But they could not make the sevens count right. They seemed always landed in the last day before the sacred first day of the week.
“And there are no bells,” said Ethne meditatively. “Perhaps we are not in a Christian country after all.”
“There seem to be so many kinds of men and races and languages in the world,” replied Baithene; “and also,” he added, “so many kinds of Christians; it is very difficult to understand.”
At eventide there was another ceremonial, which seemed to close the day, as the lighting of the lamps had begun it.