Zula pushed the rich velvet sleeve back and, pointing to a long scar, said:
“You see I still carry the mark of the lash.”
“It’s a lie, it’s a lie,” shouted Crisp, “and if you don’t get more marks it will be because Crisp don’t live.”
Zula drew from her pocket the same little pistol which she had carried in her childhood days, and pointing it upward, she said in a clear, firm voice:
“Do not threaten me, Crisp; you see I carry something besides marks.”
“Keep still, Crisp, keep still,” old Meg said, in a frightened whisper.
Scott Wilmer arose to his feet. His attitude commanded the most profound silence. Old Meg sank cowering in her chair, while Crisp dared not so much as raise his eyes.
“Meg,” Scott said, “if you were a man instead of an aged woman, I should deal with you as you deserve and the law would show you no mercy. I shall make of you one request; and if you fail to comply I shall use harsher means. I have promised you five hundred dollars for the information that you have given me, but to me it is well worth the sum. Here it is; take it and leave the city, and remember, Crisp, you must bear her company.”
“You devil,” said old Meg, in an undertone, and looking angrily at Zula, “maybe I’ll get even with you yet. You are only a woman, if you can shoot.”