German fiction -- Translations into English; Germany -- Fiction; Sin -- Fiction
He brought the oars out of the water with all his might, so that behind
him gurgling whirlpools of foam dug the stream's depths.
Ulrich's peace; Ulrich's happiness. That was a goal for which he need
not be ashamed to strive.
A few minutes later, when he looked round, he saw that the wall of fog
behind the keel was split in two by a dark urn-shaped shadow standing
up like a tower.
His heart began to beat with violent thumps against his breast. "You
are behaving just as if you were still in love with her," he said,
trying to laugh at himself.
The boat crunched on to the sand of the landing-place, the only one
that the island boasted, the bank of which, half washed away by the
encroachments of the stream, rose steeply from the water with nothing
to protect it but a tangle of lichen-covered roots.
Here a brook, that divided the island into two halves, had hollowed out
a sheltered little cove, whose calm waters could provide accommodation
for three boats at least.
A small gleaming white sandbank, shaded by a huge canopy of alder
branches, formed a charming nook, above which the brook murmured and
babbled as it came tumbling down to join the water of the bay in a
circle of foam.
Leo's first glance fell on the snow-white boat, which a long, polished
chain, stretching over the sand, fastened to an alder-stump.
So she was waiting for him. The clouds of mist that floated about
between the dripping boughs of the trees, and became immovable veils
around their trunks, wrapped the interior of the island in impenetrable
grey. Not a sign of the temple even was visible.
He walked slowly by moss-covered stepping-stones along the brookside up
the incline. The undergrowth was quite a wilderness of shrubs and
thickets, through which a long irregular path had been pierced. A
blue-silk scarf hung on one of the branches. Instinctively he put it in
his pocket. It became lighter, and the mist lifted. The blackberry
bushes that hitherto had densely covered the floor of the wood with
their thorny brambles, now sent forth arms like heralds in the
direction of the lawn, which was set in the midst of the shrubs on the
highest point of the island. The ripening berries, blue-black and
rose-red, glistened through the leaves, and big drops hung on the
thorns.
Not far from the edge of the clearing lay the old sacrificial stone. He
paused beside it and drew a deep breath, stroking with a trembling hand
the shattered surface, to the hollows of which scarlet creepers clung,
looking like streams of spilt blood.
His eye sought the temple, that resembled somewhat a beroofed
tombstone, with its two pillars and the statue-group between, rising
out of the mist.
The shivering figure of a woman cowered on the steps. She was leaning
against the pedestal, and at his approach slowly raised her head,
which, after a quick, melancholy shy glance, sank again into the
upturned palms of her hands.
But that one brief glance was enough. "She is the same as ever," he
thought.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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