"They're selling us out," he muttered savagely. "Millie's been sick since the last baby died, and I had to neglect my crop to tend her and the other little ones—I didn't make much. They've took my mule, now they're burning my things to make me sign a contract and be a slave. But by—"
"There, Rob, let Millie come with me—we'll see Miss Smith. We must get land to rent and arrange somehow."
The mother sobbed, "The cradle—was baby's!"
With an oath the white man dashed the cradle into the fire, and the red flame spurted aloft.
The crimson fire flashed in Zora's eyes as she passed the overseer.
"Well, nigger, what are you going to do about it?" he growled insolently.
Zora's eyelids drooped, her upper lip quivered.
"Nothing," she answered softly. "But I hope your soul will burn in hell forever and forever."
They proceeded down the plantation road, but Zora could not speak. She pushed them slowly on, and turned aside to let the anger, the impotent, futile anger, rage itself out. Alone in the great broad spaces, she knew she could fight it down, and come back again, cool and in calm and deadly earnest, to lead these children to the light.
The sorrow in her heart was new and strange; not sorrow for herself, for of that she had tasted the uttermost; but the vast vicarious suffering for the evil of the world. The tumult and war within her fled, and a sense of helplessness sent the hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She longed for rest; but the last plantation was yet to be passed. Far off she heard the yodle of the gangs of peons. She hesitated, looking for some way of escape: if she passed them she would see something—she always saw something—that would send the red blood whirling madly.