Parts of the building were very old, especially the section away to our left where a great rounded tower was falling into ruins. The building had been added to at various periods and though it was all constructed of tuftstone it presented a scattered, haphazard appearance which was enhanced by the fact that the stone varied in colour according to the extent to which it was worn. There was a chapel with some fine stained glass and a line of outhouses ran out in a long arm. Smoke still curled up from one of the chimneys here and even in the sulphurous atmosphere I could detect a smell of burnt bread. Evidently the eruption had started whilst they were in the middle of baking.
‘ I bet Hacket has the full guide-book history of the place,’ I said. I had to say something to cover my disappointment, for the windows were all as blank as those in the courtyard. ‘Better try the side nearest the lava.’ I was just turning away when Hilda caught my arm.
‘What is that?’ She was pointing towards the great rounded tower. There were no windows in this ruined keep, only narrow slits. And from the topmost slit something hung limp. In that unnatural twilight it was impossible to see what it was. It looked like a piece of old rag.
‘Did you have a look at that tower when you searched the monastery buildings?’ I asked her.
She shook her head. ‘No. I did not find it.”
I pushed my way through some azaleas, skirted a sewage pond and reached the base of the tower by a footpath that ran through coarse grass. There was a. garbage heap there and the flies buzzed and crawled amongst broken bottles, rotting casks and all the refuse thrown out by the monks. Looking up I could just see that the piece of rag was clean and new and bright blue. I remembered then that Racket had been wearing a blue silk shirt. I cupped my hands round my mouth and called up, ‘Max! Max! Zina! Racket!’ I called all their names. But when I stood listening, all I could hear was the sifting, spilling sound of the lava, punctuated by the rumbling crash of falling buildings.
‘Can you hear anything?’
Hilda shook her head.
I called again. In the silence that followed my shouts I could hear the lava move nearer. I glanced back across the huge, buzzing pile of the rubbish heap to the brown line of the outhouses. Reared up above them was the advancing wall of the lava.
Hilda suddenly gripped my arm. ‘Look!’ She was pointing upwards to the slit. The piece of cloth was moving. It waved gently to and fro and then suddenly seemed to take on life as though the end of it were being violently shaken. Sleeves fell out towards us. ‘It is Hacket’s shirt,’ I cried. Then cupping my hands I shouted up, ‘How do we get to you?’