"My God, sir!" he whispered.

"Oh, my God!" McLean tightened his clasp a second longer, then he rode down the trail.
Freckles lifted his hat and faced the sky.

The harvest moon looked down, sheeting the swamp in silver glory.

The Limberlost sang her night song.
The swale softly rustled in the wind.

Winged things of night brushed his face; and still Freckles gazed upward, trying to fathom these things that had come to him.