O very—very—very wicked—
But how—in what way—thee’ll frighten me to death.
Shall I—O I am very sorry—but—but—thee knows I cannot help it—
Cannot help it, Mary Elizabeth Dyer—cannot help what? Speak ... speak ... whatever it is, I forgive thee ... we have no time to lose now; we may never meet again. Speak out, I beseech thee. Speak out, for the day is near, the day of sorrow——
I will, I will—cried Elizabeth, sobbing as if her heart would break, and falling upon her knees and burying her head in the lap of her sister—I will—I will, but—pushing aside a heap of hair from her face, and smothering the low sweet whisper of a pure heart, as if she knew that every throb had a voice—I will, I will, I say, but I am so afraid of thee—putting both arms about her sister’s neck and pulling her face down that she might whisper what she had to say—I will—I will—I’m a goin’ to tell thee now—as soon as ever I can get my breath—nay, nay, don’t look at me so—I cannot bear it——
Look at thee—my poor bewildered sister—how can thee tell whether I am looking at thee or not, while thy head is there?—Get up—get up, I say—I do not like that posture; it betokens too much fear—the fear not of death, but of shame—too much humility, too much lowliness, a lowliness the cause whereof I tremble to ask thee. Get up, Elizabeth, get up, if thee do not mean to raise a grief and a trouble in my heart which I wouldn’t have there now for the whole world; get up, I beseech thee, Mary Elizabeth Dyer.
Elizabeth got up, and after standing for a moment or two, without being able to utter a word, though her lips moved, fell once more upon her sister’s neck; and laying her mouth close to her ear, while her innocent face glowed with shame and her whole body shook with fear, whispered—I pray thee Rachel, dear Rachel ... do ... do let me see him for a minute or two before they put him to death.
Rachel Dyer made no reply. She could not speak—she had no voice for speech, but gathering up the sweet girl into her bosom with a convulsive sob, she wept for a long while upon her neck.
They were interrupted by the jailor, who came to say that George Burroughs, the wizard, having desired much to see Rachel Dyer and Mary Elizabeth Dyer, the confederate witches, before his and their death, he had been permitted by the honorable and merciful judges to do so—on condition that he should be doubly-ironed at the wrist; wherefore he, the jailor had now come to fetch her the said Rachel to him the said George.
I am to go too, said Elizabeth, pressing up to the side of her sister, and clinging to her with a look of dismay.