“And so, if you do not confess,” spoke Sir Jonathan’s cold, menacing voice, “you shall not be accorded even the mercy of being hanged, but tied hands and feet, and laid upon the ground. And the villagers shall come and heap stones on you, and I, whom you have afflicted, shall count them as they fall. I shall watch the first stone strike you—”
A loud cry from the tortured child interrupted him. She sprang to her feet with arms outstretched. “And when that first stone strikes me,” she cried, “God will take me to Himself! Ye can count the stones the others throw upon me, but I shall never ken how fast they fall!”
Cotton Mather was moved to compassion. “Let us use all zeal to do away with these evil sorcerers and their fascinations, good Sir Jonathan, but yet let us deal in mercy as far as compatible with justice, lest to do any living thing torture be a reflection on our manhood.” With gentleness he then addressed himself to Deliverance, who had sunk upon her pallet and covered her face with her hands. “Explain to us why the woman of Ipswich, that was hanged, did seek that you be saved.”
Deliverance made no reply. Nor could he prevail upon her in any way; so, after a weary while spent in prayers and exhortations, he and Sir Jonathan rose and went away. At the threshold Cotton Mather glanced back over his shoulder at the weeping little maid.
“This affair savours ill,” he remarked, laying his hand heavily on his companion’s shoulder as the two went down the corridor; “my heart turned within me, and strange feelings waked at her cry.”
It was late in the afternoon. It would not be possible for the young minister to reach Boston Town until after midnight, so he decided to postpone his journey until the next day. Moreover, he rather seized at an excuse to remain for the morrow’s court, having great relish in these witch-trials.
But that night Cotton Mather had a strange vision.