“But where have you sent them?”
“To Hell!”
Mary Taylor started under the shock. Impulsively she moved forward with hands that wanted to stretch themselves in appeal.
“Zora! Zora! You mustn’t go, too!”
But the black girl drew proudly back.
“I am there,” she returned, with unmistakable simplicity of absolute conviction.
The white woman shrank back. Her heart was wrung; she wanted to say more‚ÅÝ‚Äîto explain, to ask to help; there came welling to her lips a flood of things that she would know. But Zora‚Äôs face again was masked.
“I must go,” she said, before Mary could speak. “Goodbye.” And the dark groaning depths of the cabin swallowed her.
With a satisfied smile, Harry Cresswell had seen the Northern girl disappear toward the swamp; for it is significant when maidens run from lovers. But maidens should also come back, and when, after the lapse of many minutes, Mary did not reappear, he followed her footsteps to the swamp.
He frowned as he noted the footprints pointing to Elspeth‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat did Mary Taylor want there? A fear started within him, and something else. He was suddenly aware that he wanted this woman, intensely; at the moment he would have turned Heaven and earth to get her. He strode forward and the wood rose darkly green above him. A long, low, distant moan seemed to sound upon the breeze, and after it came Mary Taylor.