"And the woman, who was she?" cried Abigail, wringing her hands; for so many painful thoughts rushing together almost drove her mad.
"That woman was Anna Hutchinson, the martyr, who was driven from settlement to settlement, with her children—like a mad dog fleeing with her young. Here chained to a cart, and lashed till her white shoulders ran blood, while the strange man's God was piously called on to sanctify the deed—there driven onward with taunts and jeers, starved, beaten, trampled upon everywhere. At last she fled with her husband and her young children into the wilderness, trusting rather to enemies embittered against her race by wrongs deeper than hers, than to the men who hunted her down like a beast of prey."
"But they killed her—they killed her—the Indians whom she would have trusted—her and her little ones," cried Abigail, interrupting him. "I have heard the story again and again. Her children were all murdered—she left nothing but a dread curse, a curse that makes the old men whom it was levelled against tremble even yet."
"A curse, yes, the terrible curse of a human being tortured to death—a curse that wails through the woods and stalks around your houses forever unappeased, unfulfilled, but which grows deeper and louder every year."
Abigail shuddered.
"But the judges, who sentenced this unhappy woman, were wise and God-fearing men. Among them was old Mr. Parris, the father of Samuel Parris, my uncle; the old man died blessing God, and at peace with all his creatures."
"He persecuted Anna Hutchinson unto death. She was a beautiful, brave woman, whose courage and truth won the hearts of liberal men to her cause. This was her fault; her smiles, her prayers, her powerful reasoning, overwhelmed their sermons, and shook the foundation of their strength. She had disciples—followers—believers—was a woman of great mind; her thoughts were like maple blossoms in spring, bright and pleasant, giving out sunshine; but those of her persecutors always crept along in shadows. This woman was driven upon the knife that stabbed her, by her own brethren. The curse which she uttered in her desperation calls louder and louder upon her children."
"But her children were all slain; she left no human soul to mourn or avenge her—I have heard the story too often; it is written on my memory as with fire; why bring it up here—what has that to do with me, or her?"
Abigail pointed to the grave with her trembling finger—for now she was shivering from head to foot. The story of Anna Hutchinson always affected her thus; from her infancy she had never heard the name without a cold chill.