O'Brodereque has just
vacated. Her complexion is that of a swarthy Greek; her countenance
is moody and reflective; her feelings are stung with the poison of
her degraded position. This last step of her disgrace broods in the
melancholy of her face. Shame, pain, hope, and fear, combine to goad
her very soul. But it's all for a bit of fun, clearly legal; it's
all in accordance with society; misfortune is turned into a
plaything, that generous, good, and noble-hearted men may be amused.
Those who stand around her are extravagant with joy. After remaining
a few moments in silence, a mute victim of generous freedom, she
turns her head bashfully, covers her face with her hands. Her
feelings gush forth in a stream of tears; she cannot suppress them
longer.
There is a touching beauty in her face, made more effective by the
deplorable condition to which she is reduced. Again she looks
upward, and covers her face with her hands; her soul seems merged in
supplication to the God who rules all things aright. He is a
forgiving God! Can he thus direct man's injustice to man, while this
poor broken flower thus withers under the bane? Sad, melancholy,
doomed! there is no hope, no joy for her. She weeps over her
degradation.
"Stop that whimperin!" says a ruffianly bystander, who orders a
coloured boy to let down her hair. He obeys the summons; it falls in
thick, black, undulating tresses over her neck and shoulders. A few
moments more, and she resumes a calm appearance, looks resolutely
upon her auditors, with indignation and contempt pictured in her
countenance.
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