“Better bobbery nor dance,” answered the imp, looking up earnestly in her face. “M’amselle Fleurette tied safe to howling-tree! Massa Hippolyte, him tall black nigger, floggee criss-cross. So! Make dis good little nigger laugh, why for, I go see!” and away scampered Hercule as fast as his short legs would carry him, followed by Cerise, who felt her cheek paling and her blood tingling to her fingers’-ends. But Aunt Rosalie’s baby never got the _tisane_, for Mademoiselle de Montmirail spilt it all as she hurried on. Coming beyond the rows of negro-houses, she found a large assemblage of slaves, both men and women, ranged in a circle, many of the latter being seated on the ground, with their children crawling about their feet, while the fathers looked over the heads of their families, grinning in curiosity and delight. [Illustration: “CERISE BURST THROUGH LIKE A FLASH.” (_Page 275._)] They were all eager to enjoy one of those spectacles to which the Square, as they chose to call it, was especially devoted. In the centre of this open space, with the saffron light of a setting sun full upon her closed eyes and contracted features, cowered poor Fleurette, naked to the waist, secured hand and foot to a strong upright post which prevented her from falling, with her wrists tied together and drawn to a level somewhat higher than her head, so that she was unable even to contract her shoulders for protection from the lash. Though her shapely dark form and bosom were thus exposed, she seemed to feel less shame than fear; but the reason was now obvious why she had shrunk with such unusual terror from her odious and degrading punishment. Looking on with callous indifference, and holding his black book in his hand, stood Bartoletti, austerely satisfied with this public recognition of his authority, but little interested in the result, save as it affected the length of time, more or less, during which the victim would be incapacitated from service. Behind the girl, and careful to remain at such a distance as allowed room for the sweep of his right arm, was stationed the most hideous figure in the scene: a tall powerful Coromantee negro, African-born, with all his savage propensities intensified by food, servitude, and the love of rum. He brandished a long-lashed, knotted whip in his broad hand, and eyeing the pliant shrinking figure before him, grinned like a demon in sheer desire of blood. He was to take his cue from the overseer. At the moment Cerise rounded the last of the negro-houses and came into full view of this revolting spectacle, Bartoletti’s harsh Italian voice grated on the silence—“One!” Hippolyte, such was the Coromantee’s inappropriate name, drew himself back, raised his brawny arm, and the lash fell with a dull jerk, deadened by the flesh into which it cut. There was a faint moan, and the poor back quivered in helpless agony. Cerise, in her white dress, burst through the sable circle like a flash.