Twenty-nine: A MASTER OF FATE
271
Thirty: THE RETURN OF ZORA
283
Thirty-one: A PARTING OF WAYS
293
Thirty-two: ZORA’S WAY
309
Thirty-three: THE BUYING OF THE SWAMP
316
Thirty-four: THE RETURN OF ALWYN
328
Thirty-five: THE COTTON MILL
339
Thirty-six: THE LAND
350
Thirty-seven: THE MOB
364
Thirty-eight: ATONEMENT
371
TO ONE
whose name may not be written but to whose tireless
faith the shaping of these cruder thoughts to forms
more fitly perfect is
doubtless due, this
finished
work is herewith dedicated
Note
He who would tell a tale must look toward three ideals:
to tell it well, to tell it beautifully, and to tell
the truth.
The first is the Gift of God, the second is the Vision
of Genius, but the third is the Reward of Honesty.
In The Quest of the Silver Fleece there is
little, I ween, divine or ingenious; but, at least,
I have been honest. In no fact or picture have
I consciously set down aught the counterpart of which
I have not seen or known; and whatever the finished
picture may lack of completeness, this lack is due
now to the story-teller, now to the artist, but never
to the herald of the Truth.
August 15, 1911
One
Night fell. The red waters of the swamp grew
sinister and sullen. The tall pines lost their
slimness and stood in wide blurred blotches all across
the way, and a great shadowy bird arose, wheeled and
melted, murmuring, into the black-green sky.
The boy wearily dropped his heavy bundle and stood
still, listening as the voice of crickets split the
shadows and made the silence audible. A tear
wandered down his brown cheek. They were at supper
now, he whispered—the father and old mother,
away back yonder beyond the night. They were
far away; they would never be as near as once they
had been, for he had stepped into the world.
And the cat and Old Billy—ah, but the world
was a lonely thing, so wide and tall and empty!
And so bare, so bitter bare! Somehow he had never
dreamed of the world as lonely before; he had fared
forth to beckoning hands and luring, and to the eager
hum of human voices, as of some great, swelling music.
Yet now he was alone; the empty night was closing
all about him here in a strange land, and he was afraid.
The bundle with his earthly treasure had hung heavy
and heavier on his shoulder; his little horde of money
was tightly wadded in his sock, and the school lay
hidden somewhere far away in the shadows. He
wondered how far it was; he looked and harkened, starting
at his own heartbeats, and fearing more and more the
long dark fingers of the night.
