were placed about seven or eight feet from the
justices, and the accusers between the justices
and them; the former were then ordered to
stand right before the justices. All this Lois
did at their bidding with something of the
wondering docility of a child, but not with any hope
of softening the hard, stony look of detestation
that was on all the countenances around her,
save those that were distorted by more
passionate anger. Then an officer was bidden to
hold each of her hands, and Justice Hathorn
bade her keep her eyes continually fixed on him,
for this reason—which, however, was not told
to her—lest, if she looked on Prudence, the
girl would either fall into a fit, or cry out that
she was suddenly and violently hurt. If any
heart could have been touched of that cruel
multitude, they would have felt some compassion
for the sweet young face of the English girl,
trying so meekly to do all that she was bidden,
her face quite white, yet so full of sad gentleness,
her grey eyes, a little dilated by the very
solemnity of her position, fixed with the intent
look of innocent maidenhood on the stern face
of Justice Hathorn. And thus they stood in
silence one breathless minute. Then they were
bidden to say the Lord's Prayer. Lois went
through it as if alone in her cell; but, as she
had done alone in her cell the night before, she
made a little pause before the prayer to be
forgiven as she forgave. And at this instant of
hesitation—as if they had been on the watch for
it—they all cried out upon her for a witch, and
when the clamour ended the justices bade
Prudence Hickson come forwards. Then Lois
turned a little to one side, wishing to see at
least one familiar face, but when her eyes fell
upon Prudence the girl stood stock-still, and
answered no questions, nor spoke a word, and
the justices declared that she was struck dumb
by witchcraft. Then some behind took Prudence
under the arms, and would have forced
her forwards to touch Lois, possibly esteeming
that as a cure for her being bewitched. But
Prudence had hardly been made to take three
steps before she struggled out of their arms,
and fell down writhing as in a fit, calling out
with shrieks, and entreating Lois to help her,
and save her from her torment. Then all the
girls began "to tumble down like swine" (to
use the words of an eye-witness), and to cry out
upon Lois and her fellow-prisoners. These last
were now ordered to stand with their hands
stretched out, it being imagined that if the
bodies of the witches were arranged in the form
of a cross they would lose their evil power. By-
and-by Lois felt her strength going, from the
unwonted fatigue of such a position, which she
had borne patiently until the pain and weariness
had forced both tears and sweat down her
face, and she asked, in a low, plaintive voice,
if she might not rest her head for a few moments
against the wooden partition. But Justice
Hathorn told her she had strength enough
to torment others, and should have strength
enough to stand. She sighed a little, and bore
on, the clamour against her and the other
accused increasing every moment; the only way she
could keep herself from utterly losing consciousness
was by distracting herself from present
pain and danger, and saying to herself verses of
the Psalms as she could remember them,
expressive of trust in God. At length she was
ordered back to gaol, and dimly understood that
she and others were sentenced to be hanged for
witchcraft. Many people now looked eagerly
at Lois, to see if she would weep at this doom.
If she had had strength now to cry she might—
it was just possible that it might—have been
considered a plea in her favour, for witches could
not shed tears, but she was too exhausted and
dead. All she wanted was to lie down once
more on her prison-bed, out of the reach of men's
cries of abhorrence, and out of shot of their
cruel eyes. So they led her back to prison,
speechless and tearless.

But rest gave her back her power of thought
and suffering. Was it, indeed, true that she
was to die? She, Lois Barclay, only eighteen,
so well, so young, so full of love and hope as
she had been till but these little days past. What
would they think of it at home—real, dear home
at Barford, in England? There they had loved
her; there she had gone about, singing and
rejoicing all the daylong in the pleasant meadows
by the Avon side. Oh, why did father and
mother die, and leave her their bidding to come
here to this cruel New England shore, where no
one had wanted her, no one had cared for her,
and where now they were going to put her to a
shameful death as a witch? And there would be
no one to send kindly messages by to those she
should never see more. Never more. Young
Lucy was living, and joyful—probably thinking
of her, and of his declared intention of coming
to fetch her home to be his wife this very
spring. Possibly he had forgotten her; no one
knew. A week before she would have been
indignant at her own distrust in thinking for a
minute that he could forget. Now, she doubted
all men's goodness for a time; for those around
her were deadly, and cruel, and relentless.

Then she turned round, and beat herself with
angry blows (to speak in images), for ever
doubting her lover. Oh! if she were but with
him! Oh! if she might but be with him! He
would not let her die; but would hide her in
his bosom from the wrath of this people, and
carry her back to the old home at Barford.
And he might even now be sailing on the wide
blue sea, coming nearer, nearer, every moment,
and yet be too late after all.

So the thoughts chased each other through
her head all that feverish night, till she clung
almost deliriously to life, and wildly prayed that
she might not die; at least, not just yet, and
she so young!

Pastor Tappau and certain elders roused her
up from a heavy sleep late on the morning of the
following day. All night long she had trembled
and cried, till morning light had come peering
in through the square grating up above. It
soothed her, and she fell asleep, to be awakened,
as I have said, by Pastor Tappau.