“But isn’t there some other way?” cried Jeanne. “Do, do, dear Cherie, use some other way of punishment.”
“Jeanne, I beg you to say no more. Am I not capable of administering the affairs of my own household? I want no Yankee notions down here. I understand what she needs.”
Jeanne did not dare to reply. She had never before seen her aunt angry although she knew that the blacks were very much afraid of her. Snowball was taken down into the yard, and soon Jeanne heard the most fearful screams as if a human being was suffering the utmost that a mortal could endure of agony.
She could not bear the cries. She ran down the stairs and out into the yard where she beheld the girl stretched upon the ground on her face, her feet tied to a stake, her hands held by a black man, her back uncovered from her head to her heels. Her aunt was standing by directing a burly negro in his task of applying the lash.
The girl’s back was covered with blood. Every stroke of the instrument of torture tore up the flesh in long dark ridges. With a cry of horror Jeanne caught the man’s arm as it was about to descend for another stroke.
“Stop,” she cried. “For the love of mercy, stop!”
“Go into the house, girl,” commanded Madame Vance in terrible tones. “Who are you that you should interfere with my bidding? Have I not the right to do with my own slave as I wish? I want none of your abolitionism here.”
“But she has been whipped enough,” cried Jeanne. “Surely it is enough. I cannot bear it.”
She burst into tears. For a moment Madame’s face was convulsed with fury, and then a wonderful change came over it. She was once again the smiling, affectionate lady that had greeted the girl on her arrival.
“There!” she said going to Jeanne and putting her arms about her. “You shall have your way. You see that ‘Cherie’ can refuse you nothing. Put up your strap, Jeff. I will let the girl off this time because Miss Jeanne wishes it. But see that you are more careful next time, Snowball. You might not get off so easily.”