It would seem, then, that another of those fits of senseless weaving back and forth overtook her. She knew the danger of being lost in this great wood, and she had not for a long time seen a footprint. Suddenly she began to run through the woods on those little paths beaten out by animals, hunters, and Indians. She could not pause either to consider her direction or to determine what it was she really sought, for she had almost forgotten the idea of finding Greene. The sun had set and the November night was coming down fast. The gloom and overwhelming silence weighed her down. She began to think that she smelt smoke or saw the glimmer of a fire. Wherever she looked she could see light smouldering in the underbrush. Sometimes she thought there were hundreds of tiny Indian encampments, with teepees but a few inches high, and, because she knew of Goody Greene’s fondness for Indians, she tried to come to these miniature encampments. She also knew that she was lost (although this knowledge did not horrify her as it would a reasonable person), and not only did she wish the goodwife’s company, but she needed the warmth even of the smallest fire, for the night was frosty cold.
At last, after much running, sniffing, and circling, she came to a small cleared spot, where she always maintained she found a fire burning, and over this fire was a great pall of black smoke. So she gathered more twigs and fagots, and built up the fire—not knowing that she only made a heap of rubbish upon the cold wet ground. At least her ‘fire’ seemed to warm and comfort her. She lay back upon the moss and fell quickly into deep sleep.
After some time, she waked, startled, for she heard her name called. ‘Bilby’s Doll! cried the voice, ‘Bilby’s Doll!
‘Yes,’ she answered, springing up from her unhappy bed. There was no answer to her ‘yes.’ Whatever it was, she considered her ‘fire’ was almost out. ‘Who calls?’ she cried, and her voice echoed and the awful silence of night mocked at her in solitude.
Then at last, being wide awake, she realized with terror and dismay that the voice that called her was none other than that of her dear foster father. Yet would he never have called her thus, saying ‘Bilby’s Doll,’ but ‘Doll’ only.
Then she knew that he was dead, and that she would never see him again. It was his lonely spirit, fresh torn from the earthly body, that had stopped this moment on its heavenly flight to cry out to her thus sadly. She flung herself, moaning, upon the ground, unable to shed a tear. Witches, she knew, have no tears, and she realized with horror that her tears had dried up. She began to pray to ‘Dear God in Heaven....’ She heard a rustle in the forest, and then low and malicious laughter. She stopped her prayer. After a moment of writhing and moaning, she prayed again—‘Infinite Master, Lord God of Israel ... I never meant to hurt him. He was the only person I have ever loved. I never meant to kill him....’ ‘Why, then, did you curse him?’ asked a voice, and she again heard malicious laughter. She would have found relief for her remorse in tears, but there were no tears, nor did they ever come to her again.
She felt the presence of a large and probably dangerous animal about, so she flung more wood on her ‘fire.’ She listened to its padded feet, and told herself it was lynx or wolf, yet in her heart she hoped and feared that it might be at last a messenger from that infernal King to whom she now was convinced her parents had promised her. For, between the moment that she heard a voice call ‘Bilby’s Doll’ and that moment in which she had felt a corporeal presence in the wood, she had become fully convinced that she was a witch with all the powers that belong to such an evil estate.
Slyly she made one last appeal to Jehovah, for she thought that He might even for so evil a one as her own self make His awful majesty manifest. ‘O God, who seest all things, who rulest above, O Great God of Israel, give me a sign, give me a sign....’ Then in her impudence she lifted up her impious voice and commanded God, ‘Put back the soul of Jared Bilby, for it is not yet gone far and his body is yet warm. Do this and I will serve You. Desert me now, and I wash my hands of You and Your cruel ways!’ The rustling and the commotion crept nearer. No angel this thing which approached her on its belly. She stared, expecting to see horned head and grinning demon face. She saw nothing. She cried once more to God. The solitude echoed her voice with laughter. Then she cried to the powers of Hell below and to the Prince of Lies, ‘Great King of Hell, if I serve you, you must serve me’ (for she knew this was a stipulation in a witch’s contract). ‘I will do anything, sign any book, if you will but give me back the soul of Jared Bilby.’ But this poor soul was now in the keeping of angel hosts. Not Lucifer himself could snatch it from such guardians. As she thought thus, a windy voice cried, ‘Too late, too late.’ ‘Satan, you shall give me a sign,’ she cried. And there close to the ground were two great cat’s eyes, larger than saucers. They glared at her with a green hellish light that transpierced the darkness and her very soul.
She cried out desperately to those eyes, ‘Whoever you are, step forth. I will do anything, sign any book. Tell me now, in Satan’s name, is there no way back to life for Jared Bilby? For it was I, I, I, who slew him—with a witch’s look. Oh, kind spirit, if you are old, I will be your daughter; if you are young, I will be your bride—stand forth now to me.’