_Martha._ It availeth me naught to say no, your worship. _Mercy_ (_screams_). Oh, a sharp pain shoot through me when I look at the image! 'Tis through my arms! Oh! _Hathorne_ (_examining the doll_). There is a pin in the arms. _Ann._ I feel sharp pains, like pins, in my face; oh, 'tis dreadful! _Hathorne_ (_examining the doll_). There are pins in the face. _Phoebe_ (_sobbing_). No, no! Those are the pins I stuck in for Aunt Corey. Don't let them hang me, Aunt Corey. _Parris._ That is sufficient. She has confessed. _Hathorne._ Yes, methinks the child hath confessed whether she would or no. Goodwife Corey, Phoebe hath now plainly said that she did stick these pins in this image for you. What have you to say? _Martha_ (_courtesying_). Your worship, the matter is beyond my poor speech. [Hathorne _tosses the doll on the table,_ Phoebe _watching anxiously._ _Hathorne._ Go to your place, child. _Phoebe._ I want my doll. _Parris._ Go to thy place as his worship bids thee, and think on the precepts in thy catechism. [Phoebe _returns sobbing._ _Afflicted Girls._ Oh, Goody Corey turns her eyes upon us! Bid her turn her eyes away! _Ann._ Oh, I see a black cat sitting on Goody Corey's shoulder, and his eyes are like coals. Now, now, he looks at me when Goody Corey does! Look away! look away! Oh, I am blind! I am blind! Sparks are coming into my eyes from Goody Corey's. Make her turn her eyes away, your worships; make her turn her eyes away! _Hathorne._ Goody Corey, fix your eyes upon the floor, and look not at these poor children whom you so afflict. _Martha._ May the Lord open the eyes of the magistrates and ministers, and give them sight to discover the guilty! _Parris._ Why do you not confess that you are a witch?