“But why, good sir,” said she, “and ye bore me no malice, did ye tell the reverend judges that I had muttered an imprecation, and cast a spell on ye?”
“How did you know the words you spoke, words which filled me with bitterness and pain, unless you have a familiar spirit?” he asked.
“No familiar spirit have I,” answered Deliverance, pitifully. “I be no witch to mutter unco words.”
“I know not, I know not,” said Sir Jonathan, shrugging his shoulders; “but I shall believe you a witch and you be unable to explain those words.”
“Oh, lack-a-mercy-me!” said Deliverance. “Oh, lack-a-mercy-me, whatever shall I do!” And she lifted her petticoat, and wiped her eyes and sighed most drearily.
Sir Jonathan sighed also in a still more dreary fashion.
“This be fair awful,” said Deliverance. “I ken not which to believe, ye or the gentleman in the forest.”
“What said he?” asked Sir Jonathan, eagerly.
“Nay, good sir,” protested Deliverance, “I must have time to think.” Even as she spoke, she recalled the stranger’s smile, the love-light in his eyes as he showed her the miniature of his sweetest daughter. All doubt that he had deceived her was swallowed up in a wave of keenest conviction that only an honest gentleman could so sincerely love his daughter,—even as her father loved her. And all the former distrust and resentment she had entertained toward Sir Jonathan came back with renewed force.