With her babe clutched close to her, she opened her gown and laid its little head against her soft and snowy bosom, then she stole back, carrying her treasure to her own chamber. Like child that she was, women have much of childish feeling ever in them. In girlish happiness she closed her eyes and felt her way to the gas-light, and turned it up full blast, laughing to herself and saying as she uncovered the baby’s face, “I won’t peep. I’ll see my baby’s beauty all at once.” She opened her eyes and looked! Now, Oh! Mother of the Lord look down! Oh! Christ, who hanging on His cross for the thief could pity feel, have pity now! The thing she held upon her milk white breast was Black—Black with hideous, misshapen head receding to a point; with staring, rolling eyes of white set in its inky skin; and features of an apish cast, increased the horror of the thing. My God! That shriek! It pealed through chamber, dome and hall. Again, again it rang like scream of tortured soul in hell. It roused the horses in the barn, they neighed in terror, stamped upon the floor and struggled to be free. The doves in fright forsook their cot. The dogs began to bark. Yet high above all other sound, that wild, loud scream rang out. When the nurse sprang up she dared not move so wild were Lucy’s eyes. The Doctor, Burton, her grandfather found her standing, hair unbound, glaring wildly at what crying, lay on the floor. “Away, you thieves!” she screamed, and motioned to the door. “You have robbed me of my babe, and left that in its stead.” She pointed at the object on the floor. Her grandfather pallid, tottering, moved toward her. “Back, old man, back! You stole my child away,” she yelled, her blazing eyes filled with insane rage and hate. “My God! She is mad,” the Doctor cried, and rushing forward caught her as she fell. “Thank God! She has fainted; help me place her on the bed.” Burton, petrified by the awfulness of the scene had until that moment stood like some ghastly, reeling statue, now in an automatic manner he came forward and helped the Doctor place her on the bed. “Look to Mr. Dunlap,” cried the Doctor but ere anyone could reach him the old man fell forward, crashing on the floor; a stroke of paralysis had deadened and benumbed his whole right side. Chapman was told next day that James Dunlap was dying. Then, for the first and only time in the life of David Chapman, he disobeyed an order given by a Dunlap and sent the message to Haiti. XIII. “The pilot is mad,” cried one old tar; and said, “The master is drunk, or there’s mutiny aboard that ship.” Thus spoke among themselves a knot of seafaring men who stood on the Boston docks watching a ship under almost full sail, that came tearing before a strong north-east gale into Boston’s crowded harbor.