"H-how about Worthington?" he persisted. "Just friends with him?"
"I won't talk about Mr. Worthington," cried Cynthia, desperately, and retreated toward the lantern again.
"J-just friends with Worthington?"
"Why?" she asked, her words barely heard above the gust, "why do you want to know?"
He came after her. It was as if she had summoned some unseen, uncontrollable power, only to be appalled by it, and the mountain-storm without seemed the symbol of it. His very voice seemed to partake of its strength.
"Cynthy," he said, "if you'd took him, I'd have killed him. Cynthy, I love you—I want you to be my woman—"
"Your woman!"
He caught her, struggling wildly, terror-stricken, in his arms, beat down her hands, flung back her hood, and kissed her forehead—her hair, blown by the wind—her lips. In that moment she felt the mystery of heaven and hell, of all kinds of power. In that moment she was like a seed flying in the storm above the mountain spruces whither, she knew not, cared not. There was one thought that drifted across the chaos like a blue light of the spirit: Could she control the storm? Could she say whither the winds might blow, where the seed might be planted? Then she found herself listening, struggling no longer, for he held her powerless. Strangest of all, most hopeful of all, his own mind was working, though his soul rocked with passion.
"Cynthy—ever since we stopped that day on the road in Northcutt's woods, I've thought of nothin' but to marry you—m-marry you. Then you give me that book—I hain't had much education, but it come across me if you was to help me that way—And when I seed you with Worthington, I could have killed him easy as breakin' bark."
"Hush, Jethro."