The rain was sweeping down in great thick winding sheets. The wind
screamed in the ancient Cresswell oaks and swirled across the swamp in
loud, wild gusts. The waters roared and gurgled in the streams, and
along the roadside. Then, when the wind fell murmuring away, the clouds
grew blacker and blacker and rain in long slim columns fell straight
from Heaven to earth digging itself into the land and throwing back the
red mud in angry flashes.

So it rained for one long week, and so for seven endless days Bles
watched it with leaden heart. He knew the Silver Fleece--his and
Zora's--must be ruined. It was the first great sorrow of his life; it
was not so much the loss of the cotton itself--but the fantasy, the
hopes, the dreams built around it. If it failed, would not they fail?
Was not this angry beating rain, this dull spiritless drizzle, this wild
war of air and earth, but foretaste and prophecy of ruin and
discouragement, of the utter futility of striving? But if his own
despair was great his pain at the plight of Zora made it almost
unbearable. He did not see her in these seven days. He pictured her
huddled there in the swamp in the cheerless leaky cabin with worse than
no companions. Ah! the swamp, the cruel swamp! It was a fearful place in
the rain. Its oozing mud and fetid vapors, its clinging slimy
draperies,--how they twined about the bones of its victims and chilled
their hearts. Yet here his Zora,--his poor disappointed child--was
imprisoned.

Child? He had always called her child--but now in the inward
illumination of these dark days he knew her as neither child nor sister
nor friend, but as the One Woman. The revelation of his love lighted and