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As Dion looked at her now, he simply could not see the beautiful schoolgirl of sixteen, the blonde gipsy who had bent forward, cigarette in mouth, to his match, who had leaned back and blown rings to the moon above Drouva. Had she ever set the butt of a gun against her shoulder? Something in this woman's eyes made him suddenly feel as if he ought to leave her alone.
"Well, I'm !" But he went. He left the two figures together, and presently saw them both from a distance against the vastness of the gold. Bushes and shrubs, and two or three giant pine trees, between the summit of Drouva and the plain, showed black, and the figures of woman and child were almost ebon. Dion watched them. He could not see any features.
She took away her arm from the olive tree and sighed. "Oh, Dion, I shall hate going away, leaving the tent and Drouva and him. But I believe whenever I think of Olympia I shall feel the peace that, thank God, doesn't pass all understanding." They went down to the valley that day to pay their final visit to the Hermes.
The prospect from the hill of Drouva above Olympia is very great, and all Rosamund's inclination to merriment died out of her as she looked upon it. Even her joy in the camp was forgotten for a moment. Upon their plateau, sole guests of the bareness, stood two small olive trees, not distorted by winds.
It will mean a lot to us afterwards in England, in our regular humdrum life. Not that life's ever humdrum. We must take Drouva to England, and Marathon, and the view from the Acropolis, and the columns of the Parthenon above all those, and the tombs." "But they're sad." "We must take them.
And she remembered what it was she had first loved in Dion, the thing which had made him different from other men; she remembered the days and the nights in Greece. She saw two lovers in a morning land descending the path from the hill of Drouva, going down into the green recesses of quiet Elis. She saw Hermes and the child. All that night she lay awake.
Thus she cared for her little house with a sort of joyous devotion and energy, but because it was "my little house" and deserved every care she could give it. Rather as she had spoken of the small olive tree on Drouva, of the Hermes of Olympia, even of Athens, she spoke of it, with a sort of protective affection, as if she thought of it as a living thing confided to her keeping.
"Let's just be quiet, and give ourselves up to the hill of Drouva, and Greece, and the night, and and what surrounds and permeates us and all this."
She was the beautiful fair Englishwoman who had camped on the hill of Drouva not so many years ago, who had gone out shooting with that young rascal, Dirmikis, and who had spent solitary hours wrapt in contemplation of the statue whose fame doubtless had brought her to Elis. Not so many years ago!
Even the silver of the river seemed immobile, as if its journeyings were now stilled by an afternoon spell. "It's as empty as the plain of Marathon, but how much greater!" she said at last. "At Marathon there was the child." "Yes, and here there's not even a child." She sighed. "I wonder what one would learn to be if one lived on the hill of Drouva?" she said.
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