The Quest of the Silver Fleece | Page 3

her in surprise, but she seemed matter-of-fact.
"It's away over yonder," he answered.
"Behind where the sun comes up?"
"Oh, no!"
"Then it ain't so far," she declared. "I knows where the sun rises, and I
knows where it sets." She looked up at its gleaming splendor glinting
through the leaves, and, noting its height, announced abruptly:
"I'se hungry."
"So'm I," answered the boy, fumbling at his bundle; and then, timidly:
"Will you eat with me?"
"Yes," she said, and watched him with eager eyes.
Untying the strips of cloth, he opened his box, and disclosed chicken
and biscuits, ham and corn-bread. She clapped her hands in glee.
"Is there any water near?" he asked.
Without a word, she bounded up and flitted off like a brown bird,

gleaming dull-golden in the sun, glancing in and out among the trees,
till she paused above a tiny black pool, and then came tripping and
swaying back with hands held cupwise and dripping with cool water.
"Drink," she cried. Obediently he bent over the little hands that seemed
so soft and thin. He took a deep draught; and then to drain the last drop,
his hands touched hers and the shock of flesh first meeting flesh
startled them both, while the water rained through. A moment their
eyes looked deep into each other's--a timid, startled gleam in hers; a
wonder in his. Then she said dreamily:
"We'se known us all our lives, and--before, ain't we?"
He hesitated.
"Ye--es--I reckon," he slowly returned. And then, brightening, he asked
gayly: "And we'll be friends always, won't we?"
"Yes," she said at last, slowly and solemnly, and another brief moment
they stood still.
Then the mischief danced in her eyes, and a song bubbled on her lips.
She hopped to the tree.
"Come--eat!" she cried. And they nestled together amid the big black
roots of the oak, laughing and talking while they ate.
"What's over there?" he asked pointing northward.
"Cresswell's big house."
"And yonder to the west?"
"The school."
He started joyfully.
"The school! What school?"

"Old Miss' School."
"Miss Smith's school?"
"Yes." The tone was disdainful.
"Why, that's where I'm going. I was a-feared it was a long way off; I
must have passed it in the night."
"I hate it!" cried the girl, her lips tense.
"But I'll be so near," he explained. "And why do you hate it?"
"Yes--you'll be near," she admitted; "that'll be nice; but--" she glanced
westward, and the fierce look faded. Soft joy crept to her face again,
and she sat once more dreaming.
"Yon way's nicest," she said.
"Why, what's there?"
"The swamp," she said mysteriously.
"And what's beyond the swamp?"
She crouched beside him and whispered in eager, tense tones:
"Dreams!"
He looked at her, puzzled.
"Dreams?" vaguely--"dreams? Why, dreams ain't--nothing."
"Oh, yes they is!" she insisted, her eyes flaming in misty radiance as
she sat staring beyond the shadows of the swamp. "Yes they is! There
ain't nothing but dreams--that is, nothing much.
"And over yonder behind the swamps is great fields full of dreams,
piled high and burning; and right amongst them the sun, when he's tired
o' night, whispers and drops red things, 'cept when devils make 'em

black."
The boy stared at her; he knew not whether to jeer or wonder.
"How you know?" he asked at last, skeptically.
"Promise you won't tell?"
"Yes," he answered.
She cuddled into a little heap, nursing her knees, and answered slowly.
"I goes there sometimes. I creeps in 'mongst the dreams; they hangs
there like big flowers, dripping dew and sugar and blood--red, red
blood. And there's little fairies there that hop about and sing, and
devils--great, ugly devils that grabs at you and roasts and eats you if
they gits you; but they don't git me. Some devils is big and white, like
ha'nts; some is long and shiny, like creepy, slippery snakes; and some is
little and broad and black, and they yells--"
The boy was listening in incredulous curiosity, half minded to laugh,
half minded to edge away from the black-red radiance of yonder dusky
swamp. He glanced furtively backward, and his heart gave a great
bound.
"Some is little and broad and black, and they yells--" chanted the girl.
And as she chanted, deep, harsh tones came booming through the
forest:
"_Zo-ra! Zo-ra!_ O--o--oh, Zora!"
He saw far behind him, toward the shadows of the swamp, an old
woman--short, broad, black and wrinkled, with fangs and pendulous
lips and red, wicked eyes. His heart bounded in sudden fear; he
wheeled toward the girl, and caught only the uncertain flash of her
garments--the wood was silent, and he was alone.
He arose, startled, quickly gathered his bundle, and looked around him.
The sun was strong and high, the morning fresh and vigorous.

Stamping one foot