_Olive._ I will never wed. _Giles._ Ye will not, hey? Ye will wed with Master Paul Bayley within three weeks. 'Tis the last command your father gives thee. _Olive._ Think you I can wed when you-- _Giles._ Ay, I do think so, lass, and so ye will. _Olive._ Father, I will not. But if you plead I will, I promise you I will. _Giles._ I will not, and you will. Lass, since you be here, I pray you set a stitch in this seam in my coat. I would look tidy at the trial, for thy mother's sake. Hast thou thy huswife with thee? _Olive._ Yes, father. [Olive _threads a needle, and standing beside her father, sets the stitch; weeps as she does so._ _Giles._ Know you every tear adds weight to the stones, lass? _Olive._ Then will I weep not. [_Mends._ _Giles._ Be the child and the old woman well? _Olive._ Yes, father. _Giles._ Look out for them as you best can. And see to 't the little maid's linen chest is well filled, as your mother would have. [Olive _breaks off the thread._ _Giles._ Be the stitch set strong? _Olive._ Yes, father. _Giles_ (_turning and folding her to his arms_). Oh, my good lass, the stones be naught, but this cometh hard, this cometh hard! Could they not have spared me this? _Olive._ Father, listen to me, listen to me-- _Giles._ Lass, I must listen to naught but the voice of God. 'Tis that speaks, and bids me do this thing. Thou must come not betwixt thy father and his God. _Olive._ Father! father! _Giles._ Go, Olive, I can bear no more. Tell me thou wilt wed as I command you. _Olive._ As thou wilt, father! father! but I will love no man as I love thee. _Giles._ Go, lass. Give me a kiss. There, now go! I command thee to go! Paul, take her hence. I charge ye do by her when her father be dead and gone, as ye would were he at thy elbow. Take her hence. I would go to prayer. [_Exeunt_ Paul _and_ Olive. _Olive_ (_as the door closes_). Father! father! Giles Corey _stands alone in cell. Curtain falls._ Act VI. _Three weeks later. Lane near Salem overhung by blossoming apple-trees. Enter_ Hathorne, Corwin, _and_ Parris. _Corwin._ 'Tis better here, a little removed from the field where they are putting Giles Corey to death. I could bear the sight of it no longer. _Hathorne._ You are fainthearted, good Master Corwin. _Corwin._ Fainthearted or not, 'tis too much for me. I was brought not up in the shambles, nor bred butcher by trade. _Parris._ Your worship, you should strive in prayer, lest you falter not in the strife against Satan. _Corwin._ I know not that I have faltered in any strife against Satan. _Parris._ Perchance 'tis but your worship's delicate frame of body causeth you to shrink from this stern duty.