It was a desolate bit of the Cresswell manor, a tiny cabin, new-boarded and bare, in front of it a blazing bonfire. A white man was tossing into the flames different household articles‚ÅÝ‚Äîa feather bed, a bedstead, two rickety chairs. A young, boyish fellow, golden-faced and curly, stood with clenched fists, while a woman with tear-stained eyes clung to him. The white man raised a cradle to dash it into the flames; the woman cried, and the yellow man raised his arm threateningly. But Zora‚Äôs hand was on his shoulder.
“What’s the matter, Rob?” she asked.
‚ÄúThey‚Äôre selling us out,‚Äù he muttered savagely. ‚ÄúMillie‚Äôs been sick since the last baby died, and I had to neglect my crop to tend her and the other little ones‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI didn‚Äôt make much. They‚Äôve took my mule, now they‚Äôre burning my things to make me sign a contract and be a slave. But by‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúThere, Rob, let Millie come with me‚ÅÝ‚Äîwe‚Äôll see Miss Smith. We must get land to rent and arrange somehow.‚Äù
The mother sobbed, ‚ÄúThe cradle‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas baby‚Äôs!‚Äù
With an oath the white man dashed the cradle into the fire, and the red flame spurted aloft.
The crimson fire flashed in Zora’s eyes as she passed the overseer.
“Well, nigger, what are you going to do about it?” he growled insolently.
Zora’s eyelids drooped, her upper lip quivered.
“Nothing,” she answered softly. “But I hope your soul will burn in hell forever and forever.”