assing a clump of trees, we
heard a sudden outbreak of voices, angry and expostulatory; and saw, under
the trees, the savage old Zamiel strike his daughter with his stick two
great blows, one of which was across the head. 'Beauty' ran only a short
distance away, while the swart old wood-demon stumped lustily after her,
cursing and brandishing his cudgel.

My blood boiled. I was so shocked that for a moment I could not speak; but
in a moment more I screamed--

'You brute! How dare you strike the poor girl?'

She had only run a few steps, and turned about confronting him and us, her
eyes gleaming fire, her features pale and quivering to suppress a burst of
weeping. Two little rivulets of blood were trickling over her temple.

'I say, fayther, look at that,' she said, with a strange tremulous smile,
lifting her hand, which was smeared with blood.

Perhaps he was ashamed, and the more enraged on that account, for he
growled another curse, and started afresh to reach her, whirling his stick
in the air. Our voices, however, arrested him.

'My uncle shall hear of your brutality. The poor girl!'

'Strike him, Meg, if he does it again; and pitch his leg into the river
to-night, when he's asleep.'

'I'd serve _you_ the same;' and out came an oath. 'You'd have her lick her
fayther, would ye? Look out!'

And he wagged his head with a scowl at Milly, and a flourish of his cudgel.

'Be quiet, Milly,' I whispered, for Milly was preparing for battle; and I
again addressed him with the assurance that, on reaching home, I would tell
my uncle how he had treated the poor girl.

''Tis you she may thank for't, a wheedling o' her to open that gate,' he
snarled.

'That's a lie; we went round by the brook,' cried Milly.

I did not think proper to discuss the matter with him; and looking very
angry, and, I thought, a little put out, he jerked and swayed himself out
of sight. I merely repeated my promise of informing my uncle as he went, to
which, over his shoulder, he bawled--

'Silas won't mind ye _that_;' snapping his horny finger and thumb.

The girl remained where she had stood, wiping the blood off roughly with
the palm of her hand, and looking at it before she rubbed it on her apron.
'My poor girl,' I said, 'you must not cry. I'll speak to my uncle about
you.'

But she was not crying. She raised her head, and looked at us a little
askance, with a sullen contempt, I thought.

'And you must have these apples--won't you?'