See, too, that girl of thirteen, weeping, yes, weeping, as she thinks of the mother from whom she has been torn.
The drove moves tardily.

Heat and sorrow have nearly consumed their strength.

Suddenly you hear a quick snap, like the discharge of a rifle; the fetters clank, and the chain rattles simultaneously; your ears are saluted with a scream that seems to have torn its way to the center of your soul.

The crack you heard was the sound of the slave whip; the scream you heard was from the woman you saw with the babe.

Her speed had faltered under the weight of her child and her chains; that gash on her shoulder tells her to move on.