And Ailsa went on, breathing out the opening beauty of Timrod's "Ethnogenesis": "Now come what may, whose favour need we court?
And, under God, whose thunder need we fear ?" She stopped short, considering the printed page.

Then, doubtfully: "And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have wrought, In their own treachery caught, By their own fears made bold, And leagued with him of old Who long since, in the limits of the North, Set up his evil throne, and warred with God-- What if, both mad and blinded in their rage Our foes should fling us down the mortal gauge, And with a hostile horde profane our sod!" The girl reddened, sat breathing a little faster, eyes on the page; then: "Nor would we shun the battleground!.

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The winds in our defence Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend Their firmness and their calm, And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend The strength of pine and palm! Call up the clashing elements around And test the right and wrong! On one side creeds that dare to preach What Christ and Paul refused to teach----" "Oh!" she broke off with a sharp intake of breath; "Do they believe such things of us in the South, Celia ?" The pink fire deepened in Celia Craig's cheeks; her lips unclosed, tightened, as though a quick retort had been quickly reconsidered.
She meditated.