"... she was found guilty of felonyes and witchcrafts whereof she stood indicted and sentence of death accordingly passed that she be hanged by the neck until she be dead...." Nat tore his eyes from the man with the scroll and looked at the _witch_. He gasped audibly at what he saw, so that several people nearby looked curiously around. Realizing his error, he stood completely still until the people he had disturbed turned their attention back to the gallows. Again he looked at the woman. She was no half insane old hag, a busybody who had meddled her way into a witchcraft trial, but a bewildered, fearful young woman who couldn't have been more than 18 or 19 years old. Her hands were tied behind her back, pulling her bulky dress tight across her bosom. Her tangled, matted, black hair, the dirt on her face, her wrinkled disheveled clothing could not hide a great natural beauty. But what affected Nat most, was the look on her face. It was that of a frightened, helpless animal, cornered by a vicious, heartless predator. The self-righteous bearing of the tall man, the lack of sympathy and idle curiosity mirrored in the faces of the crowd infuriated Nat. Impulsively he had used his paralysis ray, an instrument that was designed only as a last resort when a time traveler needed to beat a quick retreat unnoticed. While the entire gathering was in a suspended state, he had carried Abby away from the gallows, and clocked away in the time machine. Now, completely confused, he was sitting worriedly in the warm sunshine of 18th century Mexico, wondering what to do. Abby's approach broke his reverie. She seemed almost lost in one of his spare one-piece coveralls. She was carrying her own garments, dripping wet, on her arm. In modesty she had put her own quaint shoes on again. Her dark hair curled wetly about her shoulders, and the exertion of bathing and washing her clothing had left a becoming flush on her cheeks. "Feel better, Abby?" he asked in a light-hearted manner he didn't feel. "Verily, thou art a strange one," she answered, lowering her eyes in an almost obsequious manner. "Though the way thou useth the diminutive of my name is pleasant to my ear." "Well, your pretty face is pleasant to my _eyes_, but it's certainly gotten me into a lot of trouble," Nat answered gruffly. She looked downcast. "Truly I'm contrite if I have caused thee trouble." The penitent look on her face melted Nat's irritability. "Let's eat," he said quickly. "You must be hungry. And while you eat, I'll try to explain what happened and maybe figure out what to do." A week passed, and Nat still was undecided. He was puzzled by a strange restlessness that nagged at him constantly. That is, he was puzzled until the first time he kissed her. The difference in their backgrounds was vast. They were separated by centuries of time. But now, thrown together, facing a common fear of the past and the future, there could be only one outcome.