There next appeared, a goodly distance behind, a sedan-chair carried by four Moors. The occupant of the chair was a man of great size, whose left leg was bandaged and rested on a pillow. Despite the cool morning the sweat was rolling off his face, and he groaned. But dusty, warm, and in pain as he seemed, he had a most comely countenance. The silken chestnut curls fell on his shoulders, whilst his high and haughty nose bespoke power in just proportion to the benevolence of his broad brow. As the slaves bore him along very slowly, for they were much exhausted, Sir Jonathan Jamieson, making his way through the crowd to join a group of the gentry, crossed the path directly in front of the sedan-chair. Here he paused, lingering a moment, to get a glimpse of the Governor, not turning his head to perceive what was behind him. As he thus paused, the stranger was observed to half rise and draw his sword. But suddenly his face changed colour, his sword arm fell, and he sank back on his pillows, his hand clutching his side. Those near by heard him murmur, “As Thou hast forgiven me, even me.” But the rest of the way to the scaffold not once did he raise his head nor remove his hand from his side. Sir Jonathan passed serenely, swinging his blackthorn stick, all unwitting how nigh death he had been in that short moment. Next there came riding a-horseback, Master Ronald Wentworth, the brother of the condemned maid. His student’s cap was set on the back of his head, his dark locks falling on either side of his white face, his small-clothes and riding boots a-colour with the mud. But doubtless the most astonishing sight of all to the amazed people was a small, mud-bespattered maiden, attired in sad-coloured linsey-woolsey, seated on a pillion behind the Fellow of Harvard, her chin elevated in the air, her accustomed meekness gone. This important personage was the missing Abigail Brewster. When these last arrivals had reached the scaffold, Governor Phipps dismounted, and giving his horse into the care of a soldier ascended the ladder to the platform. His face was pale and his expression ill-favoured, as if he relished not the discomfort he had undergone. The murmurings and whispers had died down. His words were anxiously attended. “My good people,” he commenced solemnly, “it hath become my duty to declare unto you that I came, not to pardon Deliverance Wentworth, but to declare her innocent of the charge brought against her, for the which she has been condemned to death. Circumstances have been so cunningly interwoven by the Evil One as to put upon this young maid, whom I pronounce wholly free and innocent of blame, the character of a witch. Lord Christopher Mallett, Physician to his Majesty the King, hath matter whereof he would speak to you to warn you of the evils attaching to an o’er hasty judgment.