"Arise!" said he, scrupling to touch her,
from his superstitious idea of her evil powers.
"It is noonday."

"Where am I?" said she, bewildered at this
unusual wakening, and the array of severe faces
all gazing upon her with reprobation.

"You are in Salem gaol, condemned for a
witch."

"Alas! I had forgotten for an instant," said
she, dropping her head upon her breast.

"She has been out on a devilish ride all
night long, doubtless, and is weary and
perplexed this morning," whispered one, in so low
a voice that he did not think she could hear;
but she lifted up her eyes, and looked at him,
with mute reproach.

"We are come," said Pastor Tappau, "to
exhort you to confess your great and manifold sin."

"My great and manifold sin," repeated Lois
to herself, shaking her head.

"Yea, your sin of witchcraft. If you will
confess, there may yet be balm in Gilead."

One of the elders, struck with pity at the
young girl's wan, shrunken look, said, that if
she confessed, and repented, and did penance,
that possibly her life might yet be spared.

A sudden flash of light came into her sunk,
dulled eye. Might she yet live? Was it yet
in her power? Why no one knew how soon
Ralph Lucy might be here to take her away for
ever into the peace of a new home! Life! Oh,
then, all hope was not over—perhaps she might
yet live, and not die. Yet the truth came once
more out of her lips, almost without any
exercise of her will.

"I am not a witch," she said.

Then Pastor Tappau blindfolded her, all
unresisting, but with languid wonder in her heart
as to what was to come next. She heard people
enter the dungeon softly, and heard whispering
voices; then her hands were lifted up and made
to touch some one near, and in an instant she
heard a noise of struggling, and the well-known
voice of Prudence shrieking out in one of her
hysterical fits, and screaming to be taken away
and out of that place. It seemed to Lois as if
some of her judges must have doubted of her
guilt, and demanded yet another test. She sat
down heavily on her bed, thinking she must be
in a horrible dream, so compassed about with
dangers and enemies did she seem. Those in
the dungeon—and by the oppression of the air
she perceived that they were many—kept on
eager talking in low voices. She did not try to
make out the sense of the fragments of
sentences that reached her dulled brain, till all at
once a word or two made her understand they
were discussing the desirableness of applying the
whip or the torture to make her confess, and
reveal by what means the spell she had cast upon
those whom she had bewitched could be
dissolved. A thrill of affright ran through her;
and she cried out, beseechingly,

"I beg you, sirs, for God's mercy sake, that
you do not use such awful means. I may say
anything—nay, I may accuse any one if I am
subjected to such torment as I have heard tell
about. For I am but a young girl, and not very
brave, or very good, as some are."

It touched the hearts of one or two to see her
standing there; the tears streaming down from
below the coarse handkerchief tightly bound
over her eyes; the clanking chain fastening the
heavy weight to the slight ankle; the two hands
held together as if to keep down a convulsive
motion.

"Look!" said one of these. " She is weeping.
They say no witch can weep tears."

But another scoffed at this test, and bade the
first remember how those of her own family, the
Hicksons even, bore witness against her.

Once more she was bidden to confess. The
charges, esteemed by all men (as they said) to
have been proven against her, were read over to
her, with all the testimony borne against her in
proof thereof. They told her that, considering
the godly family to which she belonged, it had
been decided by the magistrates and ministers of
Salem that she should have her life spared if she
would own her guilt, make reparation, and submit
to penance; but that if not, she, and others
convicted of witchcraft along with her, were to be
hung in Salem market-place on the next Thursday
morning (Thursday being market day). And
when they had thus spoken they waited silently
for her answer. It was a minute or two before
she spoke. She had sat down again upon the
bed meanwhile, for indeed she was very weak.
She asked, " May I have this handkerchief
unbound from my eyes, for indeed, sir, it hurts me?"

The occasion for which she was blind-
folded being over, the bandage was taken off,
and she was allowed to see. She looked pitifully
at the stern faces around her, in grim suspense
as to what her answer would be. Then she spoke:

"Sir, I must choose death with a quiet
conscience rather than life to be gained by a lie. I
am not a witch. I know not hardly what you
mean when you say I am. I have done many,
many things very wrong in my life; but I think
God will forgive me them for my Saviour's sake."

"Take not His name on your wicked lips," said
Pastor Tappau, enraged at her resolution of not
confessing, and scarcely able to keep himself
from striking her. She saw the desire he had,
and shrank away in timid fear. Then Justice
Hathorn solemnly read the legal condemnation
of Lois Barclay to death by hanging, as a
convicted witch. She murmured something which
nobody heard fully, but which sounded like a
prayer for pity and compassion on her tender
years and friendless estate. Then they left her to
all the horrors of that solitary, loathsome dungeon,
and the strange terror of approaching death.

Outside the prison walls the dread of the
witches, and the excitement against witchcraft,
grew with fearful rapidity. Numbers of women,
and men, too, were accused, no matter what
their station of life and their former character
had been. On the other side, it is alleged that
upwards of fifty persons were grievously vexed
by the devil, and those to whom he had
imparted of his power for vile and wicked
considerations. How much of malice, distinct,