So with Tom Blacke--after an hour or so the liquor began to _die out in him_, and then came the ghastly reaction. First he thought the room was gloomy and solitary, and he got nearer the child’s cradle for company--the little thing was again asleep, and he adjusted its coverlet more comfortably--ah! that slimy, crawling creature! what is it? so near the infant’s head--he brushed it away with his hand, but swarms of the same loathsome insects came climbing over the cradle, chairs, and furniture. Now they settled on his legs and clothes, and he beat them down and flung them from him by hundreds, shuddering with horror the while; then he looked into the corners of the room, and put his hands before his eyes after each startled glance, for hideous faces grinned and gibbered at him, starting out from the very walls, and mopping and mowing, shifted their forms and places, so that it was impossible to identify them. He could have borne these, but worse still, there was a Shape in the room with him, of whose presence he was fearfully conscious, though whenever he manned himself to look steadily at it, it was gone. He could not bear to have this visitant _behind_ him, so he backed his chair hard against the wall. In vain--still on the side from which he turned his head the grim Shape sat and cowered and blinked at him. He knew it--he felt it--mortal nerves could bear it no longer. He grew desperate, as a man does in a dream. Should he take the child and run for it? No! he would meet It on the narrow stairs, and he could not get by there. Ha! the window! bounding into the air, child and all, he might escape. He was mad now--he was capable of anything. Come along, little one!--they are blocking up the room--they cover the room in myriads--the Shape is waving them on--light and freedom without, the devil and all his legions within--Hurrah!