The speaker, shuddering, paused.
“Lose not precious time,” admonished the chief justice, sternly.
“O’ a sudden I near died o’ fright,” moaned the old yeoman.
A tremor as at something supernatural passed over the people.
“Ay,” continued the witness, “wi’ mine very een, I beheld the prisoner turn an’ run towards her hame, whilst the Devil rose an’ come doone the path towards me, Bartholomew Stiles!”
“And then?” queried the chief justice, impatiently.
“It was too late to hide, an’ I be no spry a’ running. Plump o’ my marrow-boones I dropped, an’ closed my een an’ prayed wi’ a loud voice. I heard Satan draw near. He stopped aside me. ‘Ye old silly,’ says he, ‘be ye gane daffy?’ Ne’er word answered I, but prayed the louder. I heard the vision take a lang draught o’ milk from the bucket wi’ a smackin’ o’ his lips. Then did Satan deal me an ungentle kick an’ went on doon the path.”
“Said he naught further?” asked one of the judges.
“Nae word more, worships,” replied the yeoman. “I ha’ the caution not to open my een for a lang bit o’ time. Then I saw that what milk remained i’ the bucket out o’ which Satan drank, had turned black, an’ I ha’ some o’ it here to testify to the sinfu’ company kept by Deliverance Wentworth.”