MARY. No, do not let them come! I cannot bear it! I am too weak to bear it! I am dying.
Fails into a trance.
TITUBA. Hark! there is some one coming!
Enter HATHORNE, MATHER, and WALCOT.
WALCOT.
There she lies,
Wasted and worn by devilish incantations!
O my poor sister!
MATHER.
Is she always thus?
WALCOT. Nay, she is sometimes tortured by convulsions.
MATHER. Poor child! How thin she is! How wan and wasted!
HATHORNE. Observe her. She is troubled in her sleep.
MATHER. Some fearful vision haunts her.