lash came down, but it was dripping now with blood, and a long wailing shriek arose that would not be suppressed.
"Halte là!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Montmirail, standing in the midst, pale, trembling, dilated, and with fire flashing from her blue eyes. "Take that girl down! this instant! I command it! Let me see who will dare to disobey!"
Even Hippolyte shrunk back, like some grotesque fiend rebuked. Bartoletti strove to expostulate, but somehow he was awed by the beauty of that holy wrath, so young, so fair, so terrible, and he dared not lift his eyes to meet those scorching looks. He cowered, he trembled, he signed to two negro women to obey Mademoiselle, and then slunk doggedly away.
Cerise passed her arm caressingly round Fleurette's neck, she wiped the poor torn shoulders with her own laced handkerchief, she rested the dark woolly head on her bosom, and lifting the slave's face to her own, kissed her, once, twice, tenderly and pitifully on the lips.
Then Fleurette's tears gushed out: she sank to her young mistress's knees, she grovelled at her very feet, she kissed them, she hugged them, she pressed them to her eyes and mouth; she vowed, she sobbed, she protested, and, at least while her passion of gratitude and affection lasted, she spoke no more than the truth when she declared that she asked no better than to consecrate every drop of blood in her body, her life, her heart, her soul, to the service of Mademoiselle de Montmirail.
