Zula Part 3

"Oh, I have," said Zula, with a toss of her head, at the same time placing her finger on the hammer of the pistol.

"Please put it away," June said. "It frightens me to see you handle it."

Zula dropped the pistol carelessly while Scott looked at her in amazement.

"I want you to promise me," said June, "that you will never steal again, or tell a wrong story."

"How can I promise that when mam beats me if I don't steal."

"Well, it's wicked, and G.o.d don't like little girls who do such things; and if you don't stop it you will be punished terribly some time."

"Oh, I don't care. I can't get a worse beating than I get almost every day, no matter where I go."

They had now reached the city limit.

"Which way?" called out the driver.

"I will get out here, if you please," said Zula, in answer to the question.

"Where do you live?" Scott asked.

"Please, I don't want you to know," she answered, looking at him and scanning closely every feature. "I can't tell you how much I thank you. I shall never see you again, but if I should, and you wanted me to die for you, I would. Zula will never forget you--will always remember you both."

She caught a hand of each, and kissing them fervently, dropped from the carriage steps with the agility of a young fawn. She stopped for a moment as she touched the ground with her bare, brown feet, moved her hand in a graceful way above her head, and with repeated good byes to each, tripped lightly over the soft gra.s.s away from the city.

CHAPTER III.

THE CHASTIs.e.m.e.nT.

A band of gypsies seated on the gra.s.s about a mile from the city limits, were lazily washing their breakfast dishes. Two or three young girls were laughing and chatting merrily as they sat in the shade together. Farther away was an old woman, wrinkled, and with a sour look on her face, working at a beaded cushion. Her black uncombed hair hung down her back and around a face ugly in the extreme. A large, broad nose, and a wide, ill-shaped mouth, the latter of which often resembled that of a snarling hyena, gave her a look from which anyone would well turn in disgust. Her dirt-begrimed fingers were covered with rings of every conceivable design. She looked up as she heard footsteps in the gra.s.s, and saw Zula standing before her.

"So you are here at last, you young gypsy?"

"Yes."

"And there is a good flogging here for you, too. Did you find anything on your travels?"

"Yes, I got some money."

"Ah, ha! You did, did you? Well, but you was gone all night; how so?"

"I couldn't get back; I was shut up."

"Shut up. Where?"

"Where I couldn't get out, and only for a kind little lady I would stayed there."

"Ah, ha! you fool, why didn't you look out for that?"

"I couldn't."

"Well, I can look out for you, so make yourself ready."

The girl stood patiently awaiting the old woman's decision, and as she arose from the ground Zula drew from her pocket a silver dollar and gave it to her without uttering a word.

"Here, Crisp, come and give the lazy thing a dozen good, stout lashes."

A young man about eighteen, and closely resembling the old woman, approached Zula with a horsewhip, knotted at the end. As he neared the place where Zula stood she raised her eyes and looked searchingly at Crisp, and not even when the lash descended with full force on her quivering shoulders did she withdraw her gaze or exhibit the least sign of fear. One by one the blows fell, bringing no sound from the girl's lips until the last blow descended, when the look of bitter hatred that gleamed in her eyes was terrible to see, and in a voice trembling with rage she said:

"Crisp, I hate you, and if I can ever do anything to make you cry _I'll do it_, just remember it!"

Another blow descended upon the young girl's shoulders with such force that a groan escaped her.

"Oh, I thought I'd bring tears; your gypsy pride is coming down a little, ain't it?"

"No," she answered, firmly, "you can't make me cry, and I'll let you know it."

"Well, if I can't make you cry I can make you smart."

"I hate you, and I always will!"

The whip was laid down and Crisp moved away. His snake-like eyes, so deeply shaded by s.h.a.ggy black brows, were turned toward the ground, as though he feared the searching gaze of his suffering and wronged sister, on whom he had ever looked with a jealous eye.

"Take yourself off to your tent and stay there till to-morrow night, and not a mouthful will you get till you know how to behave yourself,"

said old Meg, as she gave her a rude push.

Zula obeyed, and, lying down on her straw bed, wept long and bitterly.

"Oh, how I hate him!" she said; "if he is my brother, I hate him, and I hate her, too; I could kill them both. Oh, how those lashes hurt! I know I could kill Crisp. I don't believe that is wicked. Oh, I wish I was dead. I don't believe that sweet little girl ever gets whipped.

How happy she is, as happy as the little birds that fly around out here in the trees. She is out riding in a nice carriage this beautiful morning, and I must stay in this dirty old tent two whole days!"

She had reached this part of her soliloquy when old Meg entered the tent.

"Here, Zula, is work for you," she said in a cross voice; "now see that you keep to it till your time is up."

Zula took the basket, and, wiping away her tears, began her work.

"You'll learn to hurry around next time, won't you?"

Zula made no reply.

"Oh, you need not pout so; you will find out who is master here. Come, you sulky thing, go to work as though you meant to do something. Why don't you talk?"

"I ain't got nothin' to say," said Zula.