“Good sir!” she cried piteously, “I pray ye tempt me not to be false to my word. I pray ye, leave me.”
Sir Jonathan rose. A fleeting smile of triumph appeared on his face. “Think well of my words, mistress,” said he; “to-morrow at this time I will come for my answer.” He knocked on the door with his walking-stick for the jailer to come and let him out. While he waited, he hummed lightly an Old World air, and brushed off some straws which clung to his velvet clothes.
Deliverance, still weeping, hid her face in her hands, deeply shamed. For she feared what her answer would be on the morrow.
The jailer returned from showing Sir Jonathan out. He picked up the stool to take it away, yet hesitated to go.
“I ha’ brought ye a few goodies,” he said, and dropped the sweetmeats in her lap.
“I thank ye,” said Deliverance, humbly, “but I have no stomach for them.”
Still the old man lingered. “Mayhaps ye confessed to his lordship?”
“I be no witch,” said Deliverance.
The old man nodded. “Ay, it be what they all say. It be awful times. I ha’ lived a long life, mistress, but I ne’er thought to see such sights.” He tiptoed to the threshold, and looked up and down the corridor to assure himself none were near to hear. “I ha’ my doubts,” he continued, returning to the little maid, “I ha’ my doubts. I wot not there ha’ been those that ha’ been hanged, innocent as the new-born babe. Who kens who will next be cried upon as a witch? As I sit a-sunning in the doorway, smoking my pipe, the whilst I nod i’ greeting to the passers-by, I says to myself, ‘Be not proud because ye be young, or rich, or a scholar. Ye may yet be taked up for a witch, an’ the old jailer put i’ authority o’er ye.’” He lifted the stool again. “I ha’ my doubts,” he muttered, going out and locking the door.