Die!—me!—
Yes, poor Martha—you.
Me!—what for?—what have I done?
O that your accusers were not rock, Martha!
Rock!
O that your judges could feel! or any that anybody who knows you would appear and speak to your piety and your simplicity!
Law Sir—how you talk!
Why as for that now, said Jeremiah Smith, who stood by her, wiping his eyes and breathing very hard; here am I, Sir, an’ ready to say a good word for the poor soul, if I die for it; fact is, you see, Mr. Judge Sewall I’ve know’d poor Martha Cory—hai’nt I Martha?—
So you have Jerry Smith.
—Ever since our Jeptha warn’t more’n so high,—