Katheline, seated upon the coffin and a spit of sharpened wood, was shod with tight shoes of new leather and set before the fire. When she felt the sharp wooden edge of the coffin and the pointed spit entering her flesh, and when the fire heated and shrank the leather of her shoes, she cried:
“I suffer a thousand pangs! Who will give me black poison?”
“Put her nearer the fire,” said the sheriff. Then questioning Katheline:
“How often,” said he, “didst thou bestride a broom to go to the Sabbath? How often didst thou blast the corn in the ear, the fruit upon the tree, the babe in the mother’s womb? How often didst thou turn two brothers to sworn foes, and two sisters into rivals filled with hatred?”
Katheline would have spoken, but could not, and moved her arms as though to say no. The sheriff then:
“She will only speak when she feels all her witch fat melt in the fire. Put her nearer.”
Katheline cried out. The sheriff said:
“Pray to Satan that he may cool thee.”
She made a movement as though she would take off her shoes that were smoking in the fierceness of the fire.
“Pray to Satan that he pull off thy shoes,” said the sheriff.