Slowly the sun was darkened, and plaintive murmurings pulsed through the wood. The oppression and fear of the swamp redoubled in Mary Taylor.
Zora gave no sign of having seen her. She stood tall and still, and the little golden-haired girl still sobbed in her gown. Mary Taylor looked up into Zora's face, then paused in awe. It was a face she did not know; it was neither the beautifully mischievous face of the girl, nor the pain-stricken face of the woman. It was a face cold and mask-like, regular and comely; clothed in a mighty calm, yet subtly, masterfully veiling behind itself depths of unfathomed misery and wild revolt. All this lay in its darkness.
"Good-morning, Miss Taylor."
Mary, who was wont to teach this woman--so lately a child--searched in vain for words to address her now. She stood bare-haired and hesitating in the pale green light of the darkened morning. It seemed fit that a deep groan of pain should gather itself from the mysterious depths of the swamp, and drop like a pall on the black portal of the cabin. But it brought Mary Taylor back to a sense of things, and under a sudden impulse she spoke.
"Is--is anything the matter?" she asked nervously.
"Elspeth is sick," replied Zora.
"Is she very sick?"
"Yes--she has been called," solemnly returned the dark young woman.
Mary was puzzled. "Called?" she repeated vaguely.
"We heard the great cry in the night, and Elspeth says it is the End."
It did not occur to Mary Taylor to question this mysticism; she all at once understood--perhaps read the riddle in the dark, melancholy eyes that so steadily regarded her.
"Then you can leave the place, Zora?" she exclaimed gladly.
"Yes, I could leave."
"And you will."
"I don't know."
"But the place looks--evil."
"It is evil."
"And yet you will stay?"
Zora's eyes were now fixed far above the woman's head, and she saw a human face forming itself in the vast rafters of the forest. Its eyes were wet with pain and anger.
"Perhaps," she answered.
The child furtively uncovered her face and looked at the stranger. She was blue-eyed and golden-haired.
"Whose child is this?" queried Mary, curiously.
Zora looked coldly down upon the child.
"It is Bertie's. Her mother is bad. She is gone. I sent her. She and the others like her."
"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.