“I couldn’t get back; I was shut up.”
“Shut up. Where?”
“Where I couldn’t get out, and only for a kind little lady I would stayed there.”
“Ah, ha! you fool, why didn’t you look out for that?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Well, I can look out for you, so make yourself ready.”
The girl stood patiently awaiting the old woman’s decision, and as she arose from the ground Zula drew from her pocket a silver dollar and gave it to her without uttering a word.
“Here, Crisp, come and give the lazy thing a dozen good, stout lashes.”
A young man about eighteen, and closely resembling the old woman, approached Zula with a horsewhip, knotted at the end. As he neared the place where Zula stood she raised her eyes and looked searchingly at Crisp, and not even when the lash descended with full force on her quivering shoulders did she withdraw her gaze or exhibit the least sign of fear. One by one the blows fell, bringing no sound from the girl’s lips until the last blow descended, when the look of bitter hatred that gleamed in her eyes was terrible to see, and in a voice trembling with rage she said:
“Crisp, I hate you, and if I can ever do anything to make you cry I’ll do it, just remember it!”