Part 31 (2/2)

She rushes up terror-stricken at the horrible sight. The screaming child is suspended far above her head, the cruel thongs cutting deeply into his flesh.

The sight puts energy and cat-like agility into her limbs. She climbs the tree with all the daring of her orchard days, tearing great rents in her dress, spurred on by the cries of the helpless victim. She creeps on hands and knees along the willowly bough, upon which he hangs till her weight combined with his brings the inevitable result. A crack, a crash, and the two fall together to the ground. Unharmed herself save for a few bruises and scratches, Eleanor releases the unfortunate child, raising his bleeding body tenderly in her arms, binding up the wounds with her handkerchief, and soothing his groans with kisses.

”Oh! dear,” she says, ”I wish I knew where you lived, you poor little darling.”

To her intense surprise the boy replies:

”Up there,” pointing feebly with an injured arm.

Then she sees for the first time he is the child with the European features.

”Will it hurt you if I carry you back?” asks Eleanor.

”Best try,” answers the boy abruptly.

He is heavy for his age, but she staggers forward manfully, while the little aching head drops confidingly on her shoulder.

”You're awful pretty,” he gasps at last, ”and I am dropping no end of blood off my arm on your bodice. Oh! how my leg hurts. Guess I have broken it clean in two.”

At every step Eleanor fears she must give in, the perspiration is standing out on her forehead, while her own wounds smart and ache.

”I am afraid I shake you terribly up this hill; would you like me to rest a moment?”

Eleanor hopes he will say yes, for her strength is giving out.

”Sit on that stone, I'm just dying,” moans the little lad.

Eleanor eagerly a.s.sents, and moves him into a more comfortable position.

”My mother is white like you,” he says at last, raising his head.

”Is she, dear? Are you better? Shall we go on?”

”Yes, please. We may meet father, he is ever so big and dark. I shall be big and dark too, all the good men are black.”

”And the good women?” asks Eleanor, smiling in spite of her load.

”Oh! white of course, white all over like you and mother, hands, feet, everything.”

Eleanor staggers on breathlessly up the hill, the boy seems to grow heavier at every step. She is nearly exhausted. He is like the weight of her sin, which increases with time.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Eleanor staggers on breathlessly up the hill.]

One or twice she stumbles, the boy clutches her round the neck, fearing she will fall upon him, and his hands half choke her. She gasps for breath.

”Is it much farther?” she pants, turning sick and dizzy with the climb.

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