"Who did that?" he roared, tearing his whip from his girdle, while his eyes rolled about as if he were the brother of the hippopotamus whose hide had supplied the lashes of his whip.
But before Valentine could say a word, Jigerdilla had already exclaimed:
"I did it. What does it matter if there be one paltry branch more or less?"
The only misfortune which happened in consequence was this: Ibrahim raised his whip without more ado, and belabored the back of his dear wife with the full force of his fury, and perhaps he would have flayed her from her head to her heels had he not accidently stumbled and fallen on his nose, when the blood spurted out so violently that he had enough to do to stop it till he got home.
But in the meantime, Jigerdilla had endured sufficient stripes to convince Valentine that hot indeed must be the passion felt for him by this woman, who was ready to take a slave's fault on her own shoulders, and suffer the punishment which ought to have been his.
At noon, next day, all three went into the vineyard together.
When Ibrahim had gone to sleep as usual, Jigerdilla called Valentine to her.
"I still feel sore from yesterday's stripes," she said. Then she gave him a silver box of ointment.
"I can't reach the wounds on my shoulder. Rub them for me with this balsam."
With that she let her dress glide down over her shoulders so that Valentine could see her naked, snow-white neck and back; but he also saw great red wheals, as thick as his finger, stretching right across the velvety skin.