"To the best of his remembrance," he said, "he had never met the prisoner but three times in his life: once at his own door, when, by mistake, he for a moment thought her to be Lady Phipps."
Here a low moan broke from the neighborhood of the prisoner; but, if it came from her, the anguish to which it gave voice was instantly suppressed.
Barbara was looking at the witness. The light fell on his face, but hers was in shadow, still and white like that of a marble statue.
"Yes, for a moment," he resumed, "he had mistaken the prisoner for his wife, and in the darkness held her to his bosom for a single moment; during that brief time, a strange swell heaved at his heart, and took away his breath; it subsided into a heavy pain, which hung about him for days, though the woman had departed before he could look upon her face, and he had not heard the sound of her voice. This pain had seized him once before while he stood in that sacred building, with the sacramental wine at his lips; and he was informed afterwards that the prisoner had entered the house just as he took the goblet in his hand. Again her supernatural influence—for he could account for these sensations no other way—had been exerted on him as he entered her place of confinement, for such was the compassion she inspired, had it rested with him, his own hands would have been impelled to open her prison doors and set her free."
As the governor uttered these words, Barbara Stafford's eyes filled with tears, and a glow of exquisite tenderness softened her face. She drew a deep breath, and then the tears began to drop, large and fast, from her eyes, as if her very heart were breaking.
Unimportant as the governor's evidence might seem in these days, it had a powerful effect upon the court. He was known among the people as a stern, proud man, cold as steel, but just beyond question, even to the sacrificing of his own life, had it been forfeited to the law. That he should be influenced to such tenderness of compassion, against his reason, and in spite of himself, was, to the people who listened, deeper proofs of witchcraft than the facts to which Samuel Parris had sworn. He was known as a tender-hearted, visionary old man, half poet, half philosopher, by all the country round. But the governor—whoever supposed that sentiment or imagination could cloud his clear judgment?
Thus, though the governor was guarded in his evidence, which to men less influenced by superstition would have been nothing, it bore heavily against the unhappy woman looking at him so wistfully through her blinding tears.
After this, Norman Lovel was brought to the stand, sorely against his will, for though, in the depths of his soul, he was satisfied that the influence which the noble woman possessed was only such as God always lends to true greatness, he could not, after those who had gone before, urge his convictions on the court, and alas! the facts he had no power to contradict: they were even as Samuel Parris had sworn them to be.
When Barbara Stafford saw his troubled look, she beckoned him toward her, and before the constable could interfere, bade him be of good courage and speak the truth, trusting her with the Lord.
It could not have been otherwise. He did speak the truth, and his very efforts to explain and soften the facts which Samuel Parris had stated, only served to prejudice the jury more deeply. These astute men brightened up, and crowding their heads close together, whispered that it was easy to see the influence of the beautiful witch strong upon him, and, therefore, his words must be weighed with grave caution, as coming directly from the father of lies.