I peered out of the window to see which ways they took. Dr. Clarke continued in his endeavor to convince Hobbs that the road by the mill was the best, but the wheelwright was stubborn. Suddenly he turned and ran across the snow toward his home. Left there alone in the night, the physician faced about also, and, glancing behind him, as if he feared to see the Devil, he sped on toward the mill.
I was tired and sleepy after my ride, so, with a word to Willis I lost no time seeking my chamber; one of the few that the tavern boasted of. My head was filled with plans for leading men once more to battle. For I loved the strife of war, the clash of steel on steel, the smell of powder, and the shouts of foes and comrades. Well, I was soon to have my fill of it, though I dreamed not that I would have to fight with such foes as presently beset me.
The sun was shining when I arose in the morning, to dash cold water on my face and hands from an ice-ribbed basin in the corner, for the night had been cold, and there was no heat in the room. Yet when I emerged I found the sunlit air warm, and it seemed as if Nature had forgotten her fierce, boisterous mood of yesterday. Willis greeted me as I came from the stable, whither I had gone to see that Kit had had her full measure of corn.
“’Tis little you can do to-day,” he said, “for this cursed witchcraft has so laid hold of men that talk of war and fighting will scarce interest them now, even though the battle be against their mortal foes, the French and Indians.
“A magistrate and a jury will try the two witches to-day at the court house. Since you have nothing better to do come there with me. ’Twill be a sight, I warrant, you have never seen before. Nor have I, though stories of how, in days gone by, witches were tried in Boston have come down to me from my father.”
“Who are the two called witches?” I asked, when breakfast, for which I had a great relish, was finished. While I fastened on my sword, preparing to follow the inn keeper, he answered me.
“One, the elder woman,” he said, “is Tituba, an Indian slave, and there is little doubt that she is a witch. I make no bones but she is familiar with Satan, for I dare not look her in the eyes, yet I count myself afraid of little on this earth. The other, were she not a witch, I could well be sorry for, as she is beautiful to look upon; a girl almost. Yet it but proves how the evil one can use even beauty to gain his ends. Marie de Guilfort is the name of the young witch. She is a French Huguenot, who, with her cousin, Lucille de Guilfort, and the latter’s father, M. Louis de Guilfort, came to Salem some five years back. The old man died, not being able to withstand the rigors of our winters, and the two girls have since lived alone, with an old servant to see after their wants. Both of them are more than passing fair to look upon. Is it not a pity that in such a body, in one so young and lovely, there should be a soul sold to Satan?”
“You saw the purchase made, then?” I asked with some spirit, for I did not like the positive tone of Willis.
“What purchase?”
“Of the soul of the one you call Marie de Guilfort?”