THE QUEST OF THE SILVER FLEECE ***

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THE QUEST OF THE SILVER FLEECE

_A Novel_

W.E.B. DU BOIS

1911

A.C. McClurg & Co.

_Contents_

THE QUEST OF THE SILVER FLEECE

_Note from the Author_ 3

_One_: DREAMS 5

_Two_: THE SCHOOL 12

_Three_: MISS MARY TAYLOR 16

_Four_: TOWN 23

_Five_: ZORA 33

_Six_: COTTON 42

_Seven_: THE PLACE OF DREAMS 53

_Eight_: MR. HARRY CRESSWELL 66

_Nine_: THE PLANTING 74

_Ten_: MR. TAYLOR CALLS 84

_Eleven_: THE FLOWERING OF THE FLEECE 99

_Twelve_: THE PROMISE 108

_Thirteen_: MRS. GREY GIVES A DINNER 122

_Fourteen_: LOVE 128

_Fifteen_: REVELATION 134

_Sixteen_: THE GREAT REFUSAL 146

_Seventeen_: THE RAPE OF THE FLEECE 154

_Eighteen_: THE COTTON CORNER 162

_Nineteen_: THE DYING OF ELSPETH 171

_Twenty_: THE WEAVING OF THE SILVER FLEECE 182

_Twenty-one_: THE MARRIAGE MORNING 191

_Twenty-two_: MISS CAROLINE WYNN 199

_Twenty-three_: THE TRAINING OF ZORA 210

_Twenty-four_: THE EDUCATION OF ALWYN 218

_Twenty-five_: THE CAMPAIGN 230

_Twenty-six_: CONGRESSMAN CRESSWELL 244

_Twenty-seven_: THE VISION OF ZORA 254

_Twenty-eight_: THE ANNUNCIATION 263

_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

THE QUEST OF THE SILVER FLEECE

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.

NEW YORK CITY

_August 15, 1911_

THE AUTHOR

_One_

DREAMS

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.

Then of a sudden up from the darkness came music. It was human music, but of a wildness and a weirdness that startled the boy as it fluttered and danced across the dull red waters of the swamp. He hesitated, then impelled by some strange power, left the highway and slipped into the forest of the swamp, shrinking, yet following the song hungrily and half forgetting his fear. A harsher, shriller note struck in as of many and ruder voices; but above it flew the first sweet music, birdlike, abandoned, and the boy crept closer.

The cabin crouched ragged and black at the edge of black waters. An old chimney leaned drunkenly against it, raging