Another blow descended upon the young girl’s shoulders with such force that a groan escaped her.
“Oh, I thought I’d bring tears; your gypsy pride is coming down a little, ain’t it?”
“No,” she answered, firmly, “you can’t make me cry, and I’ll let you know it.”
“Well, if I can’t make you cry I can make you smart.”
“I hate you, and I always will!”
The whip was laid down and Crisp moved away. His snake-like eyes, so deeply shaded by shaggy black brows, were turned toward the ground, as though he feared the searching gaze of his suffering and wronged sister, on whom he had ever looked with a jealous eye.
“Take yourself off to your tent and stay there till to-morrow night, and not a mouthful will you get till you know how to behave yourself,” said old Meg, as she gave her a rude push.
Zula obeyed, and, lying down on her straw bed, wept long and bitterly.
“Oh, how I hate him!” she said; “if he is my brother, I hate him, and I hate her, too; I could kill them both. Oh, how those lashes hurt! I know I could kill Crisp. I don’t believe that is wicked. Oh, I wish I was dead. I don’t believe that sweet little girl ever gets whipped. How happy she is, as happy as the little birds that fly around out here in the trees. She is out riding in a nice carriage this beautiful morning, and I must stay in this dirty old tent two whole days!”