Part 4 (1/2)
”Well, I'll give you something to say, and you'll be glad enough to say it, too, when you get a chance. Do you understand?”
”Yes,” she said, looking down again, with eyes fast filling with tears.
”Oh, don't try to make believe you feel bad; you can't make me pity you if you do cry; you don't feel half as bad as you pretend.”
”I don't want you to pity me. I don't cry 'cause I'm sorry; I'm mad, and I hate Crisp and I hate----”
”Me, too; why don't you say it?”
”No, I don't hate you, 'cause----”
”'Cause what?”
”'Cause you are my mother.”
”Well, well, that might do to tell; but don't I know you hate me?
Can't I see it in them devilish black eyes? Can't I tell by the way that head shakes? Oh, yes, I know you hate me, but I can take it out of you if I have to bury the lash in your back, and if I can't I know who can.”
”Who, Crisp?”
”Yes.”
Zula rose from the ground, and, with a face pale with rage and eyes full of fiery indignation, advanced a step toward her mother. Her little brown hands were closed tightly together, and in a voice hoa.r.s.e with anger she said:
”If Crisp ever whips me again I'll kill him!”
The old gypsy was startled. She had never seen Zula so enraged before.
Her lips were colorless and came firmly together over the strong white teeth.
”Zula,” the old woman said, ”what do you mean?”
”I mean what I say,” Zula said, sinking back, trembling, on the pile of straw she called her bed.
Old Meg left the tent, soon to return with Crisp. He carried a handful of rope, which he began to unwind, and, advancing toward Zula, he caught her hands and held them tightly while the old woman tied them.
A grin of satisfaction pa.s.sed over the ugly face of Crisp as he fastened Zula's hands behind her, tying them to a small post in the ground. Her feet were tied in the same manner and her basket of bead work taken from her. She knew that resistance was useless, since Crisp had grasped her hands, for he was possessed of herculean strength.
”You have lost your tongue, I guess,” he said, stepping close to her.
She made no reply.
”I can make you talk.” He struck her cheek with a force that made the air ring. The crimson blood mounted to the girl's face, then left it, giving place to a marble-like paleness. Had she been free to act the little revolver might have been called into action, but luckily she was powerless.
All through that weary day Zula sat in that one position. She had eaten nothing and was growing faint with hunger. Once her heart gave a great bound as Crisp entered with a bowl of hot soup, and, holding it close to her face, said:
”Don't you wish you had it?”
She burst into tears, and the next moment said:
”Oh, Crisp, I am so hungry; won't you give me some?”