Leaning on his stick he pattered up the aisle, and stumblingly ascended the steps of the platform.
“Ye do me great honour, worships,” he cackled, “to call on my poor wit.”
“Give him a stool, for he is feeble,” said the chief justice; “a stool for the old man, good Beadle.”
So a stool was brought and old Bartholomew seated upon it. He looked over the audience and at the row of judges. Then he spied Deliverance. “Ay, there her be, worships, there be the witch.” He pointed his trembling finger at her. “Ay, witch, the old man kens ye.”
“When did you last see the prisoner?” asked the chief justice.
“There her be, worships,” repeated the witness, “there be the witch, wi’ a white neck for stretching. Best be an old throat wi’ free breath, than a lassie’s neck wi’ a rope around it.”
Deliverance shuddered.
“Methinks no hag o’ the Evil One,” said she to herself, “be more given o’er to malice than this old fule, Lord forgive me for the calling o’ him by that name.”
Now the judge in the black silk cap was moved to pity by the prisoner’s shudder, and spoke out sharply. “Let the witness keep to his story and answer the questions put to him in due order, or else he shall be put in the stocks.”