"Now," said Mr. Delancey, approaching them, with Voltaire walking behind them: "now, Minny, up with you, and get yourself out of my sight; and, mark me! you may get your back ready for another scourging unless you give me those papers before to-morrow."
"Papa, you know Minny isn't able to walk. Let Voltaire carry her."
"Well, up with her, then. Take her to some of the negroes' rooms, and let her lie there till she repents of her obstinacy."
"Voltaire," said Della, stepping forward, "take her to my room, and put her upon my bed. Go!"
The negro obeyed, and Mr. Delancey offered no opposition. There was a look in his daughter's eye which he had never seen there before, an imperative manner which enforced command, and he allowed the man to pass him, bearing the bleeding and exhausted Minny in his arms.
"Now, Della," said he, turning to his child, "follow her. Until I can get this vile piece of romance out of your head, you shall remain a prisoner in your own room. Shame on you for your want of pride!"
"Thank Heaven, papa, that I have no more."
They parted—father and daughter there—both turning their heads, as they passed, to look back upon each other; then went from sight, silently and coldly.