“Are you a witch?” he asked of Marie. But she did not reply.
“Answer,” commanded the clerk. “Tell his Honor if you be a witch.”
Then in a voice that, though it was weak from fear, yet which seemed like the tinkle of a silver bell, sad and sweet, came the reply:
“I am no witch indeed. You who have known me since I have lived among you know me for but a harmless maid.”
“True enough; she was kind to me when my child was sick unto death,” said a woman near me. But the terror of the scarlet snow of the night before had seized on the minds of all, so that they could not see the truth.
“Confess, and ye die not,” said Judge Hathorne. He leaned over toward Marie, a trace of pity on his face. But Marie only looked down at her cousin, whose lips were moving in silent prayer. “Will ye not confess, and save your soul?” persisted the judge, in some anger at the manner in which the fair prisoner ignored him.
“I can speak in the presence of God, safely, as I may look to give account another day,” said Marie, “that I am as innocent of witchcraft as the babe unborn.”
There was a murmur in the crowd, but it was quickly hushed. The Indian woman was swaying back and forth in her chair, mumbling away, and now and then breaking out into a wild melody. Some near me said she was singing her death song as is the custom of that race.
The judges motioned the jury to retire, and, while they were out I sat looking at Lucille. Her body was shaking with sobs. Marie, on the contrary, did nothing but sit and stare away into vacancy, with wide, unseeing eyes, like a beautiful statue.
It seemed but a short time ere the jury was back again. Once more the constables proclaimed silence. The jurors took their seats. There were the usual questions and answers, and then the leader said: