Norman Lovel stood by her side, his lips curved, his eyes flashing fire. The two looked strangely akin in their haughty astonishment, as that voice of command sought to arrest their footsteps. CHAPTER XXXVI. SOUL TORTURES. When Elizabeth Parris was left standing on the door-step, and saw every one drift toward the shore, a sensation fell upon her, so strange and even terrible, that she thought herself dying. The blood seemed to stop in her veins, blocking up all the avenues of life. The breath choked up her throat, and from heart to limb she seemed turning to stone. During some heavy minutes, she stood in this position, like a thing of marble, save that her hair had sunshine in it, and her eyes deepened in color till they seemed black. At last she turned, as a statue might have wheeled from its base, and entered the house. A little wing had been added to the building, in which Samuel Parris kept his books, and wrote his discourses. It was dimly lighted, and a sombre gloom hung about it in solemn accordance with the old man's habit of mind. Samuel Parris had spent much time in this apartment after the excitement of returning home; and with a feeling of gentle complacency was looking over some of the familiar books that lay on the table. Engaged with these old friends, he did not observe when the door opened, and his child glided through. Her small hand, pale as wax, dropped heavily upon the open page he was reading, first warned him of the dear presence. The old man gently pushed the hand aside. "It is the Holy Bible," he said, in explanation of the act. "The Bible," muttered Elizabeth, bending down and attempting to read. But the words all ran together and melted into an intangible network of characters under her gaze. She started back with a moan of horror, and clasped both hands over her eyes. The minister looked up in dumb astonishment. "What--what is this?" he said, greatly troubled. "What have I done to make you moan so piteously, Elizabeth?" The young girl dropped her hands from her face, and wrung them in bitter anguish. "Father, I am smitten in my sight. The blood is frozen in my veins. The breath settles in my throat, strangling me when I speak. I scarcely feel your touch. I cannot draw a deep breath. When I bend my looks on the Bible, the pages are striped with ragged, black lines, as if a devil, not God, had written it." "My child, what is this? A little while ago you were quiet and cheerful. What disease can have fallen upon you? What evil thing has touched you?" She fell upon her knees, grovelling on the floor. Her eyes glittered painfully, her lips bluish white. "Father, do not touch me. I am smitten. Lo! I am _bewitched_." The old man began to tremble in all his limbs. He shrunk away from his child, gazing wildly at her, as some holy man might watch an angel changing into a fiend before his eyes. "Elizabeth, daughter Elizabeth," he cried, "oh, my God--my God!"