"Pray, Sir," she asked slowly, and so softly he scarcely heard her, "Art thou the Lord? Or one of His Angels?"
Nat started to laugh, but she looked so pitiful he checked himself. "No, I'm a human being, just like yourself—except that I've never been accused of witchcraft!"
A look of fear crossed her face. "Verily, I testify unto thee that I am no witch, but have the fear of God before mine eyes." She was almost frantic in her statement. She cringed farther into the corner. Nat noticed the raw wounds on her wrists where the irons had chafed her.
"Sure, sure, I believe you," Nat said sharply. "They won't hang you now!" Then he added glumly, "But they'll probably do worse to me if they find out what I've done!"
She looked up at him, wonder in her deep blue eyes, her long lashes blinking slowly. Even her bedraggled appearance and the dirt that literally covered her could not hide from Nat the beauty of her eyes. "Then perhaps thou art an emissary of the Evil One, though thou hast a kind look to thy features that seemeth not to come of the Devil."
This time Nat laughed. He had read the ancient records known as books but hearing someone talk in archaic book fashion was too much. "That was quite a speech, Pretty Eyes. But get it through your head that I'm a normal human who had a momentary lapse and did an abnormal thing. I used the paralysis ray on wide range, stopped the show and hauled you off the gallows. Right now we're in a time machine headed for ... I'm not sure where."
The girl forgot her fear in momentary puzzlement. "Paralysis ray?" she repeated slowly, "Stop the show? Time machine?"
"Oh, skip it," he said. "What we need right now is a chance to get you cleaned up—and I think I know just the place. There's a pretty beach in 18th century Mexico. It's warm, and there's a fresh water stream running into the ocean. You can wash off some of that prison grime."
The sun beat down on Nat's blonde head as he sat on a rock overlooking a river mouth and several miles of Mexican beach. Abby—he'd finally discovered that her name was Abigaile Goodyeare—was behind a clump of bushes beside the stream, vainly trying to wash her voluminous clothing.