Of the many that had packed the meeting-house to the full that morning, but one person now remained in it. This was Master Wentworth, the simpler, honoured for his pure and blameless life as well as for his great skill. All that summer noontide he knelt and prayed, unmindful of the heat, the buzzing flies, the garish light streaming through the window. He, knowing that the hearts of men were hardened to his cause, had carried his grief to a higher Tribunal.
When the jailer had turned the key in the door and locked her in, a certain peace came to Deliverance.
The abhorred prison-cell now seemed sweet to her. No longer was it a prison, but a refuge from the stern faces, the judges, and the young minister. Never had the lavender-scented sheets of her little hooded bed at home seemed half so sweet as did now the pile of straw in the corner. Once more the chain was fastened around her ankle. But the clanking of this chain was music to her compared to the voices that had condemned her.
The sunlight came in the window with a green and golden glory through the leaves of the gnarled old apple tree.
Drearily the long afternoon wore away. Deliverance wondered why she did not cry, but she seemed to have no tears left, and she felt no pain. So she began to believe her heart had indeed grown numb, much as her fingers did in cold weather. She longed to know if the stranger she had met in the forest had yet arrived from Boston Town. However, she felt that if he had he would have found her before this. Something entirely unforeseen must have detained him. Had he not said he would return in state in a few days? Toward sunset she heard a rustling in the leaves of the apple tree and the snapping of twigs as if a strong wind had suddenly risen. She looked up at the window. Something was moving in the tree. After a breathless moment, she caught a glimpse of the sad-coloured petticoat of Abigail Brewster. Her heart throbbed with joy. The leaves at the window were parted by two small, sunbrowned hands, and then against the bars was pressed a sober face, albeit as round and rosy as an apple, and two reproachful brown eyes gazed down upon her.
“Deliverance,” asked the newcomer, “might ye be a witch and ne’er telled me a word on it?”
Hope came back with a glad rush to Deliverance and lit her eyes with joy, and touched her cheeks with colour. For several moments she could not speak. Then the tears streamed from her eyes, and she put forth her arms, crying, “Oh, Abigail, I be fair glad to see ye! I be fair glad to see ye.”
“I thought ye would have telled me on it,” repeated Abigail.
“Ye be right,” answered the little maid, solemnly, “I be no witch. I speak true words, Abigail. I ken not how to be a witch and I would.”
“I calculate ye were none,” answered the other, “for ye were ne’er o’er quick to be wicked save in an idle fashion. I calculate ye would ne’er meddle with witches. Ye were gone so daffy o’er the adorning o’ your sinful person that ye had thought for nothing else in your frowardness and vanity.” Severe though the words were, the speaker’s voice trembled and suddenly broke into sobs. “Oh, Deliverance, Deliverance, I ken not what I shall do and ye be hanged! I tell ye a wicked witch has done this, and hanged her evil deeds on ye to escape her righteous punishment.”