“Is she your daughter?” the stranger asked, addressing old Meg.
“Yes,” she replied.
“How, then, can you treat her so cruelly?”
“She runs away, and we have to whip her hard,” she said, glancing at Crisp, who stood like a cowering criminal, gazing on the ruin he had wrought.
“You whipped her too hard, Crisp,” said Meg, who still seemed to have a spot of pity left in her heart.
Crisp could find nothing to say in self-defense, so remained silent, but the stranger noticed the look of intense hatred on his ugly face, as he gazed at the seemingly 58 lifeless form before him. Zula breathed heavily, then slowly opened her eyes. They rested for a moment on the face of the young man, then with a sudden start and a flood of tears she turned and covered her face with her hands.
“Poor girl!” said the young man. “I am so sorry for you.”
She tried to arise, but was too much exhausted. The pain inflicted by the terrible blows had nearly taken her life, and she sank back, again, white and trembling.
“Oh, I am so ill,” she moaned.
“Go for some water, Crisp, and I will make her some herb tea,” said old Meg, and she followed Crisp from the tent.