“I will not tell ye,” she said. “Have I not given my good and loyal word? Nay, good sir, I will not tell ye.”
“There are ways to make stubborn tongues speak,” he threatened.
Deliverance pursed up her mouth obstinately, and looked away from him.
Sir Jonathan pondered long.
“There are ways,” he muttered. “Nay, I would not be ungentle. We’ll strike a goodly bargain. Come now, my pretty mistress, tell me the secret the stranger telled you. It has brought you naught but grief. I promise, and you do, that you shall not be hanged. How like you that?”
At these words Deliverance paled. “How could ye keep me from being hanged, good sir?” she faltered, and hung her head. She did not meet his glance for very shame of the thought which made parleying with him possible,—the desire to save herself.
“Ay, trust me,” he replied. “I will be true to my bargain and you tell me the truth. I am a person of importance, learning, and have mickle gold. This I tell with no false assumption of modesty,” he added pompously. “I will tell the magistrates that I have discovered the witch who hanged her evil deeds on you, that the law has laid hold of the wrong person. Then will I demand that you have a new trial.”
Deliverance began to sob, for at his words all her terror of being hanged returned. Suppose Abigail should fail,—she grew faint at the thought.
Was it not better to tell the secret and return to her poor father, to Ronald, and to Goodwife Higgins? So she wept bitterly for shame at the temptation which assailed her, and for terror lest she should be hanged.