The clerk wrote down what they had—Master Clement’s evidence and Squire Carthew’s, together with the evidence they had gathered from others at Hawthorn, the clergy’s questions and the prisoner’s answers. He copied also Master Harry Carthew’s written testimony, Master Carthew himself being still in bed, fevered of his wound. There was enough and many times enough for the physician’s commitment and most close confinement until assize day—enough to warrant what Carthew and the clergy urged, a petition to the Privy Council that there be especially sent a certain judge known and belauded for his strict handling of such offences, and that, pending assizes, a commission be named to take depositions and make sweeping examination throughout the Hawthorn end of the county—seeing that Satan had rarely just one in his court. Indeed, there were signs in many directions of a hellish activity, whether in pact with the leech or independent of him remained to be discovered. Hawthorn mentioned the afflicted child at North-End Farm, the great number of lamed animals, a barn consumed to ashes, and the hailstorm that had cut the young wheat. “A woman was seen by Master Harry Carthew?” The squire nodded. “Aye. Moreover, this long time Mother Spuraway has been suspect.” The minister of Hawthorn sat, a small, rigid, black figure, his hands clasped upon the board before him, his light-hued, intense eyes seeing always one fixed vision. His voice was unexpectedly powerful, though of a rigid quality and inclined to sing-song. “My mind is not made up as to what brought the plague to Hawthorn and the region north. But I hold it full likely that Satan was concerned to harass a godly and innocent people, godly beyond many in England, if I say it that perhaps should not! It is well known and abundantly proved that his imps and ministers, his infidels, Sadducees, and witches go about to construct a pestilence no less readily than they do a hailstorm or a tempest that miserably sinks a ship at sea. I would have the commission take evidence upon that point also—” The clerk, a thin, stooping, humble man, slightly coughed, then spoke deprecatingly. “If I may make so bold, your worships—the prisoner hath a manner of good reputation among some in this town. He came during the plague and healed many.” “Aye, so?” answered Justice Carthew. “About Hawthorn also may be found a few silly folk who would praise him, though none I think will praise him who were at church last Sunday! But this cargo of damnable stuff we’ve found will beat down their good opinion.” “The unsafest thing,” said a fellow justice, and nodded portentously,—“the unsafest thing a plain man can do is to think and speak well of a heretic.” And with that serving-men from the Boar’s Head near by entered, bearing a collation for the magistrates and clergy assembled....