University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Already were they about to give judgment of death
upon Rachel Dyer, when two or three of her accusers,
who began to fear that she might escape, had another fit.

Why are these poor women troubled? asked a judge.

I do not know, was her unstudied reply.

But according to your belief?

I do not desire to say what my belief is. It can do no
good, and it may do harm; for who shall assure me that
I do not err?

Don't you think they are bewitched?

No.

Give us your thoughts on their behavior.

No, Ichabod, no; my thoughts can be of no worth to
thee or such as thee. If I had more proof, proof that ye
would receive in law, I might be willing to speak at large
both of them and of their master—

Their master! cried a little man, with a sharp inquisitive
eye, who had not opened his mouth before.
Who is their master?

If they deal in witchcraft or in the black art, Joseph
Piper, thee may know as well as I do.

Woman....are you not afraid of death?

No............not much, though I should like to be spared
for a few days longer.

Not afraid of death!—

No—not much, I say. And why should I be afraid
of death? why should I desire to live?—what is there

to attach a thing of my shape to life, a wretched, miserable,
weary.......

Ah, ha—now we shall have it—she is going to confess
now—she is beginning to weep, said a judge. But he
was overheard by the woman herself, who turning to the
jury with a look that awed them in spite of their prejudice,
told them to proceed.

They'll proceed fast enough, by and by, said another
judge. What have you done to disturb the faculties of
that woman there?

What woman?

Judith Hubbard.

Much. For I know her, and she knows that I know
her; and we have both known for a great while that we
cannot both live. This world is not large enough. What
have I done to disturb her faculties? Much. For that
woman hath wronged me; and she cannot forgive me.
She hath pursued me and mine to death; all that are
very near and dear to me, my poor sister and my—and
the beloved friend of my sister—to death; and how
would it be possible for Judith Hubbard to forgive us?

But your apparition pursues her.

If so, I cannot help it.

But why is it your apparition?

How do I know? He that appeared in the shape of
Samuel, why should he not appear in the shape of
another?

But enough—Rachel Dyer was ordered for execution
also. And a part of the charge proved against her was,
that she had been spirited away by the powers of the air,
who communicated with her and guarded her at the cost
of much human life, on the night when she fled into the
deep of the wilderness in company with George Burroughs
and Mary Elizabeth Dyer; each of whom had a

like body-guard of invisible creatures, who shot with arrows
of certain death on the night of their escape.

And Mary Elizabeth Dyer was now brought up for
trial; but being half dead with fear, and very ill, so that
she was reported by a jury empannelled for the purpose,
to be mute by the visitation of God, they adjourned the
court for the morrow, and gave her permission to abide
with her sister till the day after the morrow.

And so Mary Elizabeth Dyer and Rachel Dyer met
again—met in the depth of a dungeon like the grave;
and Elizabeth being near the brave Rachel once more,
grew ashamed of her past weakness.

I pray thee dear sister, said Mary Elizabeth, after
they had been together for a long while without speaking
a word, Rachel with her arm about Elizabeth's
neck, and Elizabeth leaning her face upon the shoulder
of Rachel, I pray thee to forgive me.

Forgive thee....for what pray?

Do, do forgive me, Rachel.

Why, what on earth is the matter with thee, child?
Here we sit for a whole hour in the deep darkness of
the night-season, without so much as a sob or a tear,
looking death in the face with a steady smile, and comforting
our hearts, weary and sick as they are, with a
pleasant hope—the hope of seeing our beloved brother
Jacob, our dear good mother, and our pious grandmother;
and now, all of a sudden thee breaks out in this
way, as if thee would not be comforted, and as if thee
had never thought of death before—

O, I'm not afraid of death sister, now—I'm prepared
for death now—I'm very willingly to die now—it is'nt
that I mean.

Why now?—why do thee say so much of now? Is
it only now that thee is prepared for death?

No, no, dear sister, but some how or other I do not
even desire to live now, and yet—

And yet what?—why does thee turn away thy head?
why does thee behave so to me....why break out into
such bitter—bitter lamentation?—what is the matter I
say?—what ails thee?—

Oh dear!

Why—Elizabeth!—what am I to believe?—what
has thee been doin'? Why do thee cling to me so?—
why do thee hide thy face?—

O Rachel, Rachel—do not go away,—do not abandon
me—do not cast me off!

Child—why—

No, no!—

Look me in the face, I beseech thee.

No no—I dare not—I cannot.

Dare not—cannot—

No no.—

Dare not look thy sister in the face?

Oh no—

Lift up thy head thy head this minute, Mary Elizabeth
Dyer!—let go of my neck—let go of my neck, I
say—leave clinging to me so, and let me see thy face.

No no dear Rachel, no no, I dare not—I am afraid of
thee now, for now thee calls me Mary Elizabeth—

Afraid of me—of me—O Elizabeth, what has thee
done?

Oh dear!

And what have I done to deserve this?

Thee—thee!—O nothing dear sister, nothing at all;
it is I—I that have been so very foolish and wicked after—

Wicked, say thee?

O very—very—very wicked—

But how—in what way—thee'll frighten me to death.

Shall I—O I am very sorry—but—but—thee knows I
cannot help it—

Cannot help it, Mary Elizabeth Dyer—cannot help
what? Speak....speak....whatever it is, I forgive thee....
we have no time to lose now; we may never meet again.
Speak out, I beseech thee. Speak out, for the day is
near, the day of sorrow—

I will, I will—cried Elizabeth, sobbing as if her heart
would break, and falling upon her knees and burying
her head in the lap of her sister—I will—I will, but—
pushing aside a heap of hair from her face, and smothering
the low sweet whisper of a pure heart, as if she
knew that every throb had a voice—I will, I will, I say,
but I am so afraid of thee—putting both arms about her
sister's neck and pulling her face down that she might
whisper what she had to say—I will—I will—I'm a goin'
to tell thee now—as soon as ever I can get my breath—
nay, nay, don't look at me so—I cannot bear it—

Look at thee—my poor bewildered sister—how can
thee tell whether I am looking at thee or not, while thy
head is there?—Get up—get up, I say—I do not like
that posture; it betokens too much fear—the fear not
of death, but of shame—too much humility, too much
lowliness, a lowliness the cause whereof I tremble to ask
thee. Get up, Elizabeth, get up, if thee do not mean to
raise a grief and a trouble in my heart which I wouldn't
have there now for the whole world; get up, I beseech
thee, Mary Elizabeth Dyer.

Elizabeth got up, and after standing for a moment
or two, without being able to utter a word, though her
lips moved, fell once more upon her sister's neck; and
laying her mouth close to her ear, while her innocent
face glowed with shame and her whole body shook with
fear, whispered—I pray thee Rachel, dear Rachel....do...

do let me see him for a minute or two before they put
him to death.

Rachel Dyer made no reply. She could not speak—
she had no voice for speech, but gathering up the sweet
girl into her bosom with a convulsive sob, she wept for a
long while upon her neck.

They were interrupted by the jailor, who came to say
that George Burroughs, the wizard, having desired much
to see Rachel Dyer and Mary Elizabeth Dyer, the confederate
witches, before his and their death, he had
been permitted by the honorable and merciful judges to
do so—on condition that he should be doubly-ironed at
the wrist; wherefore he, the jailor had now come to fetch
her the said Rachel to him the said George.

I am to go too, said Elizabeth, pressing up to the side
of her sister, and clinging to her with a look of dismay.

No, no —said he, no, no, you are to stay here.

Nay, nay, sister—dear sister—do let me go with thee!

It is not for me to speak, dear, dear Elizabeth, or thee
thould go now instead of me. However—

Come, come—I pity you both, but there's no help for
you now—never cry for spilt milk—you're not so bad as
they say, I'm sure—so make yourself easy and stay where
you be, if you know when you're well off.

Do let me go!

Nonsense—you're but a child however, and so I forgive
you, and the more's the pity; must obey orders if
we break owners—poh, poh,—poh, poh, poh.

A separation like that of death followed. No hope
had the two sisters of meeting again alive. They were
afraid each for the other—and Elizabeth sat unable to
speak, with her large clear eyes turned up to the eyes of
Rachel as if to implore, with a last look, a devout consideration
of a dying prayer.

If it may be, said Rachel turning her head at the

door if it may be dear maiden, it shall be. Have courage—

I have, I have!

Be prepared though; be prepared Elizabeth, my
beautiful sister. We shall not see each other again....
that is....O I pray thee, I do pray thee, my dear sister
to be comforted.

Elizabeth got up, and staggered away to the door
and fell upon her sister's neck and prayed her not to
leave her.

I must leave thee...I must, I must....would thee have
me forsake George Burroughs at the point of death?

O no—no—no!

We never shall meet again I do fear—I do hope, I
might say, for of what avail is it in the extremity of our
sorrow; but others may—he and thee may Elizabeth—
and who knows but after the first shock of this thy approaching
bereavement is over, thee may come to regard
this very trial with joy, though we are torn by it, as by
the agony of death now—let us pray.

The sisters now prayed together for a little time, each
with her arm about the other's neck, interchanged a farewell
kiss and parted—parted forever.

And Rachel was then led to the dungeons below,
where she saw him that her sister loved, and that a score
of other women had loved as it were in spite of their very
natures—for they were bred up in fear of the dark Savage.
He sat with his hands locked in his lap, and chained
and rivetted with iron, his brow gathered, his teeth
set, and his keen eyes fixed upon the door.

There is yet one hope my dear friend, whispered he
after they had been together a good while without speaking
a word or daring to look at each other—one hope—
laying his pinioned arm lightly upon her shoulder, and

pressing up to her side with all the affectionate seriousness
of a brother—one hope, dear Rachel—

She shut her eyes and large drops ran down her cheeks.

—One hope—and but one—

Have a care George Burroughs. I would not have
thee betray thyself anew—there is no hope.

It is not for myself I speak. There is no hope for me.
I know that—I feel that—I am sure of it; nor, to tell
you the truth, am I sorry—

Not sorry George—

No—for even as you are, so am I—weary of this world
—sick and weary of life.

Her head sunk upon his shoulder, and her breathing
was that of one who struggles with deep emotion.

No—no—it is not for myself that I speak. It is for
you—

For me—

For you and for Elizabeth—

For me and for Elizabeth?—well—

And if I could bring you to do what I am persuaded
you both may do without reproach, there would be hope
still for—for Elizabeth—and for you—

For Elizabeth—and for me?—O George, George!
what hope is there now for me? What have I to do on
earth, now that we are a—she stopped with a shudder
—I too am tired of life. She withdrew the hand which
till now he had been holding to his heart with a strong
terrible pressure.

Hear me, thou high-hearted, glorious woman. I
have little or no hope for thee—I confess that. I
know thee too well to suppose that I could prevail with
thee; but....but....whatever may become of us, why not
save Elizabeth, if we may—

If we may George—but how?

Why....draw nearer to me I pray thee; we have not

much time to be together now, and I would have thee
look upon me, as one having a right to comfort thee and
to be comforted by thee—

A right....how George?

As thy brother—

As my brother....O, certainly—

Nay, nay....do not forbear to lean thy head upon thy
brother....do not, I beseech thee. What have we to do
here....what have we to do now with that reserve which
keeps the living apart....our ashes, are they to be hindered
of communion hereafter by the unworthy law of
—ah....sobbing....Rachel Dyer!....can it be that I hear
you—you! the unperturbale, the steadfast and the brave
....can it be that I hear you sobbing at my side, as if
your very heart would break....

No no....

There is to be a great change here, after we are out
of the way....

Where—how?

Among the people. The accusers are going too far;
they are beginning to overstep the mark—they are flying
too high.

Speak plainly, if thee would have me understand thy
speech—why do thee cleave to me so?—why so eager—
why do thee speak in parables? My heart misgives me
when I hear a man like thee, at an hour like this,
weighing every word that is about to escape from his
mouth.

I deserve the rebuke. What I would say is, that the
prisons of our land are over-crowded with people of high
repute. Already they have begun to whisper the charge
against our chief men. This very day they have hinted
at two or three individuals, who, a week before they overthrew
me, would have been thought altogether beyond
the reach of their audacity.

Who are they?

They speak of Matthew Paris.

The poor bewildered man....how dare they?

And of the Governor, and of two or three more in authority;
and of all that participated in the voyage
whereby he and they were made wealthy and wise and
powerful—

I thought so....I feared as much. Poor man....his
riches are now indeed a snare to him, his liberal heart,
a mark for the arrows of death....

Now hear me....the accusers being about to go up to
the high places and to the seats of power, a change, there
must and there will be, and so—

And so....why do thee stop?

Why do I stop....did I stop?

Yea....and thy visage too....why does it alter?

My visage!

Yea....thy look, thy tone of voice, the very color of thy
lips.

Of a truth, Rachel?

Of a truth, George.

Why then it must be....it is, I am sure....on account of
the....that is to say....I'm afraid I do not make myself
understood—

Speak out.

Well then....may I not persuade you, my dear, dear
sister....to....to....in a word, Rachel....

To what pray....persuade me to what?....Speak to me
as I speak to thee; what would thee persuade me to,
George?

To....to....to confess....there!

To confess what, pray?

That's all....

George....

Nay, nay....the fact is my dear friend, as I said before,

I....I....if there be a change here, it will be a speedy one.

Well—

And if—and if—a few weeks more, a few days more,
it may be, and our accusers, they who are now dealing
death to us, may be brought up in their turn to hear the
words of death—in short Rachel, if you could be persuaded
just to—not to acknowledge—but just to suffer
them to believe you to be a....to be a......I forget what I
was going to say—