rats did carry me to them like a spirit of the air, and I pinched them and thrust sharp pins in them. Aye, the Devil! the Devil! the Devil!”
And then the creature ceased, and shrank back in her chair, crooning away in her own tongue. The judges on their benches shuddered, and many near me whispered:
“She is a witch, indeed.”
Next their honors turned toward Marie, and a sound like a great deep cry came from the maiden near me. I half started from my seat, and had a mind to draw my sword, to do what I could to rescue the beautiful girl who seemed to me to be as innocent as the flowers. But even as I rose, scowling looks met me at every side. Some of the constables hastened in my direction, and Master Willis, with a quick motion, drew me back into my seat. Clearly the town folks were witch-mad, and would brook no interference with their doings. I listened to what the judge was saying.
“Are you a witch?” he asked of Marie. But she did not reply.
“Answer,” commanded the clerk. “Tell his Honor if you be a witch.”
Then in a voice that, though it was weak from fear, yet which seemed like the tinkle of a silver bell, sad and sweet, came the reply:
“I am no witch indeed. You who have known me since I have lived among you know me for but a harmless maid.”
“True enough; she was kind to me when my child was sick unto death,” said a woman near me. But the terror of the scarlet snow of the night before had seized on the minds of all, so that they could not see the truth.
“Confess, and ye die not,” said Judge Hathorne. He leaned over toward Marie, a trace of pity on his face. But Marie only looked down at her cousin, whose lips were moving in silent prayer. “Will ye not confess, and save your soul?” persisted the judge, in some anger at the manner in which the fair prisoner ignored him.
“I can speak in the presence of God, safely, as I may look to give account another day,” said Marie, “that I am as innocent of witchcraft as the babe unborn.”
There was a murmur in the crowd, but it was quickly hushed. The Indian woman was swaying back and forth in her chair, mumbling away, and now and then breaking out into a wild melody. Some near me said she was singing her death song as is the custom of that race.
The judges motioned the jury to retire, and, while they were out I sat looking at Lucille. Her body was shaking with sobs. Marie, on the contrary, did nothing but sit and stare away into vacancy, with wide, unseeing eyes, like a beautiful statue.
It seemed but a short time ere the jury was back again. Once more the constables proclaimed silence. The jurors took their seats. There were the usual questions and answers, and then the leader said:
“We find Tituba, the Indian, and Marie de Guilfort guilty of witchcraft.”
“And the sentence of this court is that you both be taken hence and hanged by the necks until ye both are dead, and may God have mercy on your souls,” came from the judge.
The fatal words scarce were uttered when Lucille rose from her seat. Her face was the color of the white snow outside. She reeled, and would have fallen, had I not sprang toward her, catching her in my arms, and carrying her to the fresh air without. I held her, hardly knowing what to do with the lovely burden, until some women, who had hastened from the court room came up and relieved me. Then like one in a dream I made my way to the tavern. I was aware of a multitude following the prisoners to the gaol, crowding about the unfortunates, as if rejoicing at their distress. Then I left the assemblage behind, and went into the inn, where I drank deep of the ale to try and drive from my mind the memory of what I had observed.
’Twas but a few hours since I had reached Salem, yet I had seen strange sights. I had been near to death, I had been witness to the scarlet snow, and I had heard the words of doom pronounced. Truly events moved with no little speed in this new land.
The day passed, and I did not leave the inn. The darkness fell. There came a confused murmer from the centre of the town. Some men passed the tavern, running in the direction of the little hill, whence I had first found the right path, in my journey of the night before. They were hastening to the place of execution. I went to bed with a heavy heart. And I dreamed strange dreams of horrid witches.
I rose as soon as it was light, but, early as I was, the inn keeper was before me. He told me the two prisoners had been hung that night, and, though I desired greatly to question him concerning Lucille de Guilfort, I forebore. However, he spoke of her soon, telling me that she had been with her cousin to the last. The gaolers had to drag them apart, when they led Marie to the scaffold. After the execution Lucille had gone to her home in great distress, attended by some women folks, who vainly tried to console her. It made my blood boil to think of the matter, and, when my hand fell to my sword hilt, I felt that I would ask no better work than to lay about among some of these witch-finders.
But there was other work ahead of me. I must soon begin to plan for the raising of my men, as desired by Sir William.
CHAPTER IV.
HOW I CAST THE KNIFE.
I soon began to take up the threads of the life in Salem, since it was like that I would be there for some time to come. Now that I look back over it I am constrained to say that in no place had I ever found men and women who made of life so serious a business. Yet, with all, there was much to admire in them. The witch craze appeared to have passed, though it left scars behind, and sad remembrances for some.
I made the acquaintance of many who came to the inn, and learned much of the new land and its people. I resolved, as soon as the weather should grow milder, to look about and see what sort of soldier material I might expect among the recruits. I must also learn something of the country roundabout, as well as of the red men of the forest who inhabited it. Every day I sallied from the inn, and took long walks. The weather was growing mild now, and the snow was melting from off the hills and meadows.
There was some hunting to be had, and I often went out with a fowling piece, and came back with a brace of partridge or squirrels, that made dainty dishes, when Mistress Willis had broiled them over a blazing wood fire, or fried them in sweet butter to a delicate brown crisp.
Sometimes as I walked, or hunted or fished, there would come to me a memory of Lucille de Guilfort, as I had seen her that day in the court room. I had caught but few glimpses of her since, and then she had passed me by with a bow, and a little smile, albeit a sad one. Though to me she seemed the most lovely maid I had ever seen, I was to her, apparently, no more than any one else of the Colony. She bowed to Willis, as she did to me.
At times I would sit idly on a woodland bank, my gun across my knees, the squirrels playing, unharmed, and not afraid, in the trees above me. I pictured to myself Lucille. Her eyes were brown; her hair a deep blue-black, as a fine steel rifle barrel might be shaded. Her face was like--but what it was like, ’tis beyond me to describe. There was love in it, and her lips seemed made to kiss. Her voice was low and clear, like a bell, and made one long, when he had once heard her speak to hear her again.
But it was little use to dwell on such thoughts, I concluded, for, though I would have liked to see her every day, there was but one in seven when I might do so of a certainty. That was on Sunday, when she, with all the other colonists went up to the little meeting house, on the hill. There good Dominie Parris held forth, at no uncertain length on the trials and troubles of this world, and on the necessity of saving the soul from the Devil and the wrath to come. To my shame be it, perhaps, but I am afraid I paid but little heed to the minister, for, from my bench I could catch a glimpse of Lucille, and, sometimes, see her face when she turned about. Full many a Sunday I sat thus, greatly cramped in my body, for my legs ill fitted the small benches, though I felt repaid if she but turned her head once.
The dominie would read page after page of the scriptures, and then expound them at length, while, beneath the pulpit sat the clerk, turning the hour glass, when the sands had run from the top to the bottom.