He waved his hat gleefully. Myrrha watched him and smiled.
The place where they stood was a high, steep rock in the middle of the woods. From this flat summit with its fringe of nut-trees and little stunted oaks they could see, over the wooded slopes, the tops of the pines bathed in a purple mist, and the long ribbon of the Rhine in the blue valley. Not a bird called. Not a voice. Not a breath of air. A still, calm winter's day, its chilliness faintly warmed by the pale beams of a misty sun. Now and then in the distance there came the sharp whistle of a train in the valley. Christophe stood at the edge of the rock and looked down at the countryside. Myrrha watched Christophe.
He turned to her amiably:
"Well! The lazy things. I told them so!… Well: we must wait for them…."
He lay stretched out in the sun on the cracked earth.
"Yes. Let us wait…." said Myrrha, taking off her hat.
In her voice there was something so quizzical that he raised his head and looked at her.
"What is it?" she asked quietly.
"What did you say?"
"I said: Let us wait. It was no use making me run so fast."