Part
of the building's upper floor remained; everything else was gone.
The walls threw a shadow upon them, and the green flicker, dancing up
and down as they disturbed the inclosure, played curiously on their
faces. The stones suddenly echoed a slap. Tante-gra'mere's struggling
wrath, which Wachique had tried to keep bound in the coverlet, having
found an outlet, was swift as lightning in its reprisal. The stings of
the whiplash had exhilaration and dignity compared to this attack. It
was the climax of her midget rages. She forgot the breeding of a
gentlewoman, and furiously struck her slave in the face.
Wachique started up, her Pottawatomie blood painting her cheek bones.
That instant she was an Indian, not a slave. She remembered everything
this petted despot had done to her, and, lifting her bundle, threw it as
far as her arms could send it across the water floor of the college. The
pitiful little weight sunk with a gurgling sound.
"Sit down, woman!" shouted Colonel Menard.
Wachique cowered, and tried to obey.
Pages:
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167