Thirteen-pence more—faith!
The same to you—said the outlandishman. Sharp work, hey?
Fool—fool—if it depended upon me I say, her life and that of her boy, I would order them both to the scaffold! Ye are amazed at what you hear; ye look at each other in dismay; ye wonder how it is that a mortal man hath courage to speak as I speak. And yet—hear me! Fathers of New-England, hear me! beautiful as the boy is, and beautiful as the mother is, I would put the mark of death upon her forehead, even though his death were certain to follow, because if I did so, I should be sure that a stop would be put forever to such horrible stories.
I thought so, said major Gidney—I thought so, by my troth, leaning over the seat and speaking in a whisper to judge Saltanstall, who shook his head with a mysterious air, and said—nothing.
Ye would save by her death, O, ye know not how much of human life!
Brother Burroughs!
Brother Willard!—what is there to shock you in what I say? These poor people who are driven by you to perjury, made to confess by your absurd law, will they stop with confession? Their lives are at stake—will they not be driven to accuse? Will they not endeavor to make all sure?—to fortify their stories by charging the innocent, or those of whom they are afraid? Will they stop where you would have them stop? Will they not rather come to believe that which they hear, and that of which they are afraid?—to believe each other, even while they know that what they themselves do swear is untrue?—May they not strive to anticipate each other, to show their zeal or the sincerity of their faith?—And may they not, by and by—I pray you to consider this—may they not hereafter charge the living and the mighty as they have hitherto charged the dead, and the poor, and the weak?
Well—
Well!
Yes—well!—what more have you to say?