The woman of mystery and her cavalier struck into a sloping path immediately in front of her, leading to the first terrace beneath the mule-path, where they were screened from the sight of people passing on the ridge, but not from the eyes of Ermengarde, whose reclining-place was behind a myrtle, through the stems of which she saw without being seen. The olives on this first terrace were gnarled and hoary, like those bordering the mule-path; the sunshot, lavender mist of their drooping boughs gave the same air of mystery and magic. The two figures actually standing on the grass, vivid with anemone and dark with violet, seemed less real than those of her dream. She was too little interested to reflect that they were unaware of her presence, and might not wish to be seen. They kept close to the turfed wall behind them, and were screened by the massive olive-trunk in front, but only the thin myrtle-boughs came between her drowsy eyes and a full side-view of them. But they were too far off for anything more than confused murmurs of their conversation to reach her. It suddenly struck her that Agatha might be the Anarchist's wife, or even daughter, though she was undoubtedly English. An English wife might be very useful in all these "treasons, stratagems, and spoils" of his, though what but sudden and probably temporary insanity could have induced any Christian female to marry that hairy, unwashed Orson of a man was unimaginable to any sane observer. Two red admirals fluttered past, one over the other, in pure joy of life; a lizard darted across the path at her feet. She saw the rosy bloom of a peach-tree far down on the last olive-terrace, and then became aware that the woman of mystery was agitated and the Anarchist silent and interested. There followed a brief bass murmur, and then something suddenly flashed in the sunlight, making Ermengarde's heart jump into her mouth.