Timar walked silently beside Noémi; the girl's hand rested in his; suddenly she stood still. Michael did so too, and looked in her eyes. "You want to ask me something?" he said. The girl thought awhile, then she said, "No; nothing." Timar had learned to read her eyes; he guessed her thoughts. Noémi wanted to ask him, "Tell me, my beloved, my all; what has become of the white-faced girl who once came with you to the island, and was called Timéa?"
But she said nothing, only walked on silently with his hand in hers.
Michael's heart was heavy when they said good-bye. When Noémi gave him his gun she whispered to him, "Take care of yourself, that no harm may come to you;" and when she pressed his hand, she looked at him once more with those heavenly blue and soulful eyes, and said, with a voice of entreaty, "You will return?"
Michael was fascinated by the entreating voice. He pressed the child to him and murmured—"Why don't you say 'Wilt not thou return?' Why am I never to hear thou?"
The girl cast down her eyes and gently shook her head. "Do say 'thou,'" he begged once more. She hid her face on Michael's breast, but would not do his will.
"So you can not, or will not, call me 'thou?'—one single word—are you afraid?" The maiden covered her face with both hands, and was silent. "Noémi, I beg of thee say that one little word and make me happy. Do not let me go without it."
But she shook her head silently and could not utter it.
"Then farewell to you, dear Noémi," faltered Michael, and sprung into his boat. The rushes of the marsh soon hid the island from his gaze. But as long as he could distinguish its woods, he still saw the girl leaning on an acacia-tree, sadly gazing out with her head on her hand; but she did not call after him the desired word.