While at our drawing, we saw the swarthy face, sooty locks, and old
weather-stained red coat of Zamiel, who was glowering malignly at us
from among the trunks of the forest trees, and standing motionless as a
monumental figure in the side aisle of a cathedral. When we looked again he
was gone.
Although it was a fine mild day for the wintry season, we yet, cloaked as
we were, could not pursue so still an occupation as sketching for more than
ten or fifteen minutes. As we returned, in passing 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.
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