“And do the people believe that?” she asked in consternation.
‚ÄúThey just don‚Äôt know what to say. They don‚Äôt ‚Äôzactly believe it, but they has to ‚Äôlow that you didn‚Äôt say much ‚Äôbout religion when you talked. You ain‚Äôt been near Big Meetin‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚Äîand‚ÅÝ‚Äîand‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou ain‚Äôt saved.‚Äù He hurried on.
Zora leaned her head back wearily, watching the laced black branches where the starlight flickered through‚ÅÝ‚Äîas coldly still and immovable as she had watched them from those gnarled roots all her life‚ÅÝ‚Äîand she murmured bitterly the world-old question of despair: ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs the use?‚Äù It seemed to her that every breeze and branch was instinct with sympathy, and murmuring, ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs the use?‚Äù She wondered vaguely why, and as she wondered, she knew.
For yonder where the black earth of the swamp heaved in a formless mound she felt the black arms of Elspeth rising from the sod‚ÅÝ‚Äîgigantic, mighty.
They stole toward her with stealthy hands and claw-like talons. They clutched at her skirts. She froze and could not move.
Down, down she slipped toward the black slime of the swamp, and the air about was horror‚ÅÝ‚Äîdown, down, till the chilly waters stung her knees; and then with one grip she seized the oak, while the great hand of Elspeth twisted and tore her soul.
Faint, afar, nearer and nearer and ever mightier, rose a song of mystic melody. She heard its human voice and sought to cry aloud. She strove again and again with that gripping, twisting pain‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat awful hand‚ÅÝ‚Äîuntil the shriek came and she awoke.