“Yes, our great hope, our wonderful idea.”
They continue their climbing, still holding each other’s hands, but rarely speaking. Sometimes she stumbles, but he holds her up. The larks are singing now, and the young lambs on John Corlett’s farm are bleating. Far down, on the seaward side, sheltering in the arms of its red cliffs, is the little white town of Peel. It is beginning to smoke for breakfast.
“Oskar, do you still think that when all this is over, and the hatred and bitterness have died out of people’s hearts, they will make war on each other no longer?”
“Yes, in the years to come, perhaps—or they must wipe themselves off the earth, Mona.”
“And do you think that God will accept our sacrifice?”
“I’m sure He will—because we shall have died for love and given up all.”
“Yes, we shall have died for love and given up all,” says Mona, and after that she liberates her hand and walks on firmly.
As they approach the crest of the hill the deep murmur of the sea comes over to them, and when they reach the top its salt breath smites their faces. There it lies in a broad half-circle, stretching from east to west, cold and grey and cruel.
Mona trembles, and the revulsion which comes to the strongest souls at the first sight of death seizes her for an instant. In a faltering voice she says:
“It won’t be long, will it, Oskar?”