“Who are you?” inquired Mrs. Sheppard, passing her hands over his face, and gazing at him with a look that made him shudder.
“Your son,” replied Jack,—“your miserable, repentant son.”
“It is false,” cried Mrs. Sheppard. “You are not. Jack was not half your age when he died. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery.”
“Oh, God!” cried Jack, “she does not know me. Mother—dear mother!” he added, clasping her in his arms, “Look at me again.”
“Off!” she exclaimed, breaking from his embrace with a scream. “Don't touch me. I'll be quiet. I'll not speak of Jack or Jonathan. I won't dig their graves with my nails. Don't strip me quite. Leave me my blanket! I'm very cold at night. Or, if you must take off my clothes, don't dash cold water on my head. It throbs cruelly.”
“Horror!” cried Jack.
“Don't scourge me,” she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. “The lash cuts to the bone. I can't bear it. Spare me, and I'll be quiet—quiet—quiet!”
“Mother!” said Jack, advancing towards her.
“Off!” she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures.
“I shall kill her if I stay longer,” muttered her son, completely terrified.