“No man did,” he answered, half angrily. “Yet it cannot be doubted. For did not the child say that Marie tormented her with pins? And how could these be thrust, Marie not being present, unless the Devil helped her?”
I shrugged my shoulders, for I thought it was little use to argue with a mind that laid stress on such points.
“Will the child’s testimony, and that of the mother, be enough to convict the girl of witchcraft?” I went on, rather curious to know how they managed such affairs in New England.
“There will be other witnesses,” said Willis, “and enough to bring the matter to a close.” We were at the court house steps now, and I ceased my talk to observe what was going on.
The crowd was there before us. They pushed and swayed about the narrow doorway, moving first this way and then that. It was a strange assemblage. None in it was laughing. There was no jesting, no calling from one to another. Instead there was a calm quietness about it, a set, serious look on the faces that partook of a sense of a duty to be performed--one that could not be shirked. Into the room, with its high ceiling and dark oaken beams overhead, the people swarmed, making but little confusion. After some crowding and quiet jostling, Master Willis and I managed to obtain seats near the door. We had scarcely gotten into them before the tavern keeper, peering up, whispered:
“There goes Stephen Sewall, the clerk. Note how proudly he bears his ink horn and quills. He seems to know not any one now, though only yesterday he begged me to trust him for a glass of ale, and I did so. There come the jurors,” added Willis, “and, see! The prisoners! The witches!”
“I see them not,” I said looking all about. There were a few women present, but none of these seemed to be in custody.
“Farther to the left,” said Willis, “mark where Constable George Locker, and his companion, Jonathan Putnam sit?”
“Aye, I see.”
“Note the two women next to them?”