‚ÄúEmma? But I don‚Äôt love Emma. I love‚ÅÝ‚Äîsomeone else.‚Äù
Her heart bounded and again was still. It was that Washington girl then. She answered dully, groping for words, for she was tired:
“Who is it?”
“The best woman in all the world, Zora.”
‚ÄúAnd is‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe struggled at the word madly‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúis she pure?‚Äù
“She is more than pure.”
“Then you must marry her, Bles.”
“I am not worthy of her,” he answered, sinking before her.
Then at last illumination dawned upon her blindness. She stood very still and lifted up her eyes.
The swamp was living, vibrant, tremulous. There where the first long note of night lay shot with burning crimson, burst in sudden radiance the wide beauty of the moon. There pulsed a glory in the air.
Her little hands groped and wandered over his close-curled hair, and she sobbed, deep voiced:
‚ÄúWill you‚ÅÝ‚Äîmarry me, Bles?‚Äù