Abigail was awed at the sight of the latter, recalling how she had seen him in the forest only a few short hours ago. The student put down his wine-cup and rose, deeply respectful.
“I have come to tell you, my dear friend,” said the Governor, addressing himself to the Cavalier, “that a very strange miscarriage of justice calls me at once to Salem.”
Ere the Cavalier could reply, his attention was diverted by the strange action of Cotton Mather, who, pausing half-way across the room, was staring at the little maid.
“I did see the spectre of that child rise before me in the forest this very morn,” he cried in a curious voice.
“Nay, good sir,” cried Abigail, finding voice in her terror, “it was my very living shape ye saw.”
“It rose in my path,” spoke Cotton Mather, as if he heard her not. “I, believing it a living child, did glance about to see who accompanied it. When I looked for it again the Shape had gone.”
“Nay,” cried Abigail, in mortal terror. “Nay, good sir, nay, it was my living self.”
“Ay, reverend sir, it was the little maid you beheld indeed, and no Dead Shape that rose at the Devil’s bidding,” cried Lord Christopher, and the effect of his mellow, vigorous voice was magical. So heartily it rang that the others’ thoughts of spirits and visions grew faint as those visions are disposed to be faint in flesh.
All felt it but Cotton Mather. Wrapped in his own thoughts, he still stared at the little maid.