“My father will come after me and bring me back,” murmured Deliverance, with quivering lips. “Weep not, dear goody, for he will explain how it be a fever sickness that aileth Ebenezer Gibbs, and no spell o’ witchery.” “Step out ahead o’ me,” commanded the Beadle, as he put the end of his long staff against her back. “There, keep ye at that distance, and turn not your gaze over your shoulder at me. I ken your sly ways.” Solemnly around the house and out of the gate he marched her, and as the latter swung to behind them, he turned and waved his hand to Goodwife Higgins. “Farewell, gossip,” he cried, “I have rid ye o’ a witch.” Down the forest road into the town’s highway, he marched Deliverance. Many turned to look at them and drew aside with a muttered prayer. The little maid was greatly relieved that they met no naughty boys to hoot and call derisively after her. They were already at their books with the schoolmaster. At last they reached the jail, in front of which the old jailer sat smoking. “Bless my soul,” he piped, “’tis a pretty maid to be a witch, Beadle. Bide ye at the stoop a bit until I get my bunch o’ keys.” He hobbled down the corridor inside and disappeared, returning in a few moments jangling a bunch of keys. He stopped half-way down the hall, and unlocking a heavy oaken door, beckoned them to follow. “Step briskly, Mistress Deliverance,” commanded the Beadle, poking her with his staff. The cell to which she was shown was long and very narrow, and lighted by a small barred window set high in the wall opposite the door. An apple tree growing in Prison Lane thrust its twigs and leaves between the bars. A straw bed was the only furniture. An iron chain, nearly the length of the cell, was coiled in one corner. “Beshrew me if I like the looks o’ that chain,” said Deliverance to herself; “I be not at all minded to go in.” She wrinkled her nose and sniffed vigorously. “The place has an ill savour. Methinks the straw must be musty,” she added out loud. “Ye shall have fresh to lay on to-night,” piped the jailer, “but step in, step in.” “Ay,” echoed the Beadle, “step in;” and he poked her again in the back with his stick in a merry fashion quite his own. Sorely against her will, Deliverance complied. The jailer followed her in and bent over the chain. “Take care lest she cast a spell on ye to make your bones ache,” advised the Beadle, standing safely outside the threshold. “I be no feared,” answered the jailer, whom long experience and familiarity with witches had rendered impervious, “but the lock on this chain ha’ rusted an’ opens hard.” “Concern yourself not,” rejoined the Beadle; “the maid be in no hurry, I wot, and can wait.” He laughed hugely at his little joke, and began munching one of the seed-cookies he had brought in his doublet pocket.