She stepped back, scandalized.
“Can it be, Bles Alwyn,” she said, “that you don’t know the sort of girl she is?”
He raised his hands and warded off her words, dumbly, as she turned to go, almost frightened at the havoc she saw. The heavens flamed scarlet in his eyes and he screamed.
“It’s a lie! It’s a damned lie!” He wheeled about and tore into the swamp.
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a damned lie!‚Äù he shouted to the trees. ‚ÄúIs it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîis it?‚Äù chirped the birds. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a cruel falsehood!‚Äù he moaned. ‚ÄúIs it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîis it?‚Äù whispered the devils within.
It seemed to him as though suddenly the world was staggering and faltering about him. The trees bent curiously and strange breathings were upon the breezes. He unbuttoned his collar that he might get more air. A thousand things he had forgotten surged suddenly to life. Slower and slower he ran, more and more the thoughts crowded his head. He thought of that first red night and the yelling and singing and wild dancing; he thought of Cresswell’s bitter words; he thought of Zora telling how she stayed out nights; he thought of the little bower that he had built her in the cotton field. A wild fear struggled with his anger, but he kept repeating, “No, no,” and then, “At any rate, she will tell me the truth.” She had never lied to him; she would not dare; he clenched his hands, murder in his heart.
Slowly and more slowly he ran. He knew where she was‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere she must be, waiting. And yet as he drew near huge hands held him back, and heavy weights clogged his feet. His heart said: ‚ÄúOn! quick! She will tell the truth, and all will be well.‚Äù His mind said: ‚ÄúSlow, slow; this is the end.‚Äù He hurled the thought aside, and crashed through the barrier.