‚ÄúI should not like‚ÅÝ‚Äîto kill you.‚Äù
He looked at her long and steadily as he passed to his desk. Slowly he lighted a cigarette, opened the great ledger, and compared the cotton-check with it.
‚ÄúThree thousand pounds,‚Äù he announced in a careless tone. ‚ÄúYes, that will make about two bales of lint. It‚Äôs extra cotton‚ÅÝ‚Äîsay fifteen cents a pound‚ÅÝ‚Äîone hundred fifty dollars‚ÅÝ‚Äîseventy-five dollars to you‚ÅÝ‚Äîh‚Äôm.‚Äù He took a notebook out of his pocket, pushed his hat back on his head, and paused to relight his cigarette.
‚ÄúLet‚Äôs see‚ÅÝ‚Äîyour rent and rations‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Elspeth pays no rent,” she said slowly, but he did not seem to hear.
‚ÄúYour rent and rations with the five years‚Äô back debt,‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe made a hasty calculation‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúwill be one hundred dollars. That leaves you twenty-five in our debt. Here‚Äôs your receipt.‚Äù
The blow had fallen. She did not wince nor cry out. She took the receipt, calmly, and walked out into the darkness.
They had stolen the Silver Fleece.
What should she do? She never thought of appeal to courts, for Colonel Cresswell was Justice of the Peace and his son was bailiff. Why had they stolen from her? She knew. She was now penniless, and in a sense helpless. She was now a peon bound to a master’s bidding. If Elspeth chose to sign a contract of work for her tomorrow, it would mean slavery, jail, or hounded running away. What would Elspeth do? One never knew. Zora walked on. An hour ago it seemed that this last blow must have killed her. But now it was different. Into her first despair had crept, in one fierce moment, grim determination. Somewhere in the world sat a