He saw Marette, an enrapturing vision of loveliness, floating before his eyes in that sacred and mysterious vestment of which he had stolen a half-frightened glimpse.

In white--the white, cobwebby thing of laces and embroidery that had hung straight before his eyes--in white--with her glorious black hair, her violet eyes, her-- And then it was that the incongruity of the thing, the almost sheer impossibility of it, clashed in upon his vision.

Yet his faith was not shaken.

Marette Radisson was of the North.

He could not disbelieve that, even in the face of these amazing things that confronted him.
Suddenly he heard a sound that was like the explosion of a gun under his feet.