During this first part of the Streak's swift rush from Carrytown to The Camp a tranquil silence came over them. Lee, I think, was searching her heart with questions. But she had no doubt of her love for Renier; she doubted only her capacity to be to him exactly the wife he needed. And I know that Renier just sat, brazening the critical glances of George and Charley, and adored her with his eyes.
And what were his thoughts? Would you give a penny for them? He leaned closer to her, and in a whisper that thrilled them both to the bone, he quoted from Poe:
"And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."
And a little later he said:
"I never knew till to-day what poetry is for. I thought people who wrote it were just a little simple and that people who read and quoted it were perfect jackasses."
"And what is poetry for?" asked Lee, smiling.
"Poetry," he said, "is for you."
As they neared the camp the sentiment in their hearts yielded a little to excitement.
"When we tell 'em," said Lee, "it's going to be just like a bomb going off. And everybody will be terribly envious."