She bent her face downward, shrouding it with her garments, sobbing out, "Do not touch me, father. I am unholy--body and soul I am unholy. God blinds my sight to his word. Fiery fiends have tracked their footprints over His promises. Oh, me--oh, me--the curse is here!" More pale, more terribly stricken than his child, the old man stood up, and, clasping his thin hands, lifted them slowly to heaven. At last he spoke, in a voice of solemn command, which vibrated to the poor girl's heart: "Elizabeth Parris, rise up, and say unto me, who has done this thing--whence comes thy affliction?" Elizabeth arose very slowly, and looked her father in the face. "Come and see!" Uttering only this one sentence, she led the way out of the house and into the open air. On she sped, through the sunshine and along by-paths, toward the sea-shore, looking over her shoulder now and then to be sure that her father followed close, but never turning aside or speaking a word. At last she came out upon a curve of the beach, within sight of the oak tree under which Barbara Stafford was sitting with Norman Lovel. "Behold!" she said, throwing out her hand, with the look and gesture of a priestess. "Behold the strange woman, Barbara Stafford--the evil one cast forth from the depths of the sea to torment us. Behold the WITCH!" After the young girl had uttered these awful words, for awful they were in those days, a dead silence fell upon the father and child. At last they both turned away, slowly retraced their steps, and entered the house together. When they were alone in the library, the minister fell into his chair and began to weep--weep and pray with a troubled abruptness that proved the terrible hold with which his daughter's charge had seized upon him. He saw now the complete change that had come over her, the wildness in her eyes, the deadly white of her face. The inroads, which a week of anxiety had made upon her person, struck him with consternation and irresistible belief. What, save some fiendish influence, could have changed the rosy bloom of her youth into that dull, hopeless look? "Kneel down," he said, at last, "Elizabeth, my child; for if all the evil spirits of the black realm have entered that form, thou art yet my child. Kneel down, and with thy hand upon the Bible, tell me how this strange woman has poisoned thy young life; tell me all, that I may ask the Most High God to help us in this strait." Elizabeth answered more consistently than her state of terror would seem to warrant. She had evidently thought deeply on the matter, and reasoned with an intellect rendered keen by the alarm of a loving heart. She was very pale, and sharp, nervous quivers shook her now and then, but the pretty wilfulness of her character had entirely disappeared. She was like a priestess preparing for some solemn oracle. "First, let me ask you, father, who is this woman whom you and Norman Lovel dragged up from the depths of the sea?"