Her marble-white face, her large wide-open eyes, gave her the look of a
spirit.

"Perhaps," said I, "the single blessing you asked saved the life of
your dear child. Let this thought comfort you."

"James?" she said. "This child of sin and misfortune? Why, it was
because he was on that train that all those pure and good people had to
die! Oh, accursed was the hour of his birth! No, no; he is not accursed.
I--I, his mother, that gave birth to him, I am guilty! He is innocent;
he could not help it. Oh, _mea culpa_! _mea culpa_!"

She was beating her breast, and rocking herself to and fro, uttering her
incessant "_Mea culpa_!" "Tell me more," she said again, presently;
"show me more dreadful sights, that I may suffer more. I yearn for it;
it will do my soul good--it is like purgatory. Go on!"

I took good care not to feed this religious frenzy further. On the
contrary, I spoke of the practical Englishman and his performances, and
of the artist who had sat there among all the terrible havoc and had
drawn sketch after sketch.

"That picture we must secure, at whatever cost," she said, eagerly. "It
shall be the altar-piece of the chapel which we are about to raise in
memory of the tragic event and of the souls of the slain."

I had formed my own opinion of Mrs Dumany's state of mind. No doubt she
was mentally deranged, and her special craze was religious monomania.
From this arose the deep melancholy which held her own innocent babe
responsible for the misfortune of others. This made the child repugnant