She seemed not to have heard. “Bid her look me in the face,” he said brutally to the interpreter. The order was repeated. She turned, raised her painted eyelids, and looked him straight in the eyes, with the apathetic look of the slave, the world over. “But were they Mary Bradford’s eyes?” I cried to him, when he told me. “I don’t know, damn you!” he said. “Mary had never looked at me like that--as if she didn’t see me, and painted like a devil.” He seems to have felt--as far as I can define his feeling--that she was not Mary, but that perhaps he could bully her into being Mary. I do not know how else to explain his unconvinced but perfectly dogged insistence on her identity. He had, of course, been greatly shaken by the extraordinary appearance of the woman. Perhaps he was simply afraid it was she because it would be so terrible if it were, and was resolved not to shirk. Saxe, too, was a New Englander. At all events, he shouted his creed a little louder still. “You are treating me very badly, Mary. I am going in to buy you from the chief; and then you will listen to me.” The woman heard Saxe’s voice and looked at the interpreter. Saxe, stupefied, repeated his speech to the negro, and the latter translated. At this, she threw up her arms and broke into guttural ejaculations. That painted form swayed grotesquely from side to side, Saxe said, and she tore the shells out of her hair, tearing the hair with them. Giving him one glance of devilish hatred, she ran to the chief’s hut. Saxe followed. There was nothing else to do.