Barakah saw and heard as in a trance. She thought herself in Hell, bound fast and gagged while devils taunted her. She was tortured by the memory of English winter evenings, of walking back from church in the long train of orphans, the patter of their feet resounding sadly. That dreariness appeared a state of bliss compared with this luxurious life enclosed in heat. She longed for a cold wind, with rain in it. Remembrance of a garden under sunset came to her; she saw once more a cool verandah with long windows open on an English drawing-room, and heard the earnest voice of Mrs. Cameron entreating her to stay and save her soul. This was God’s punishment. Her life from then till now had been all frowardness and self-indulgence. While basking in it she had been aware that it was baneful. A thousand awful faces rose to sneer, “We warned you!” The glimpses she had had of horrid depths, the scenes of bloodshed and the tales of cruelty, seemed now emphatic warnings of this end. She had sunk downward till she had no faith nor virtue more than beasts have. Her all was in her son, whom God had killed. Crushed, maimed, defrauded, she was flung upon the earth, the scorn of men and angels and the sport of fiends.