A loud cry from the tortured child interrupted him. She sprang to her feet with arms outstretched. “And when that first stone strikes me,” she cried, “God will take me to Himself! Ye can count the stones the others throw upon me, but I shall never ken how fast they fall!” Cotton Mather was moved to compassion. “Let us use all zeal to do away with these evil sorcerers and their fascinations, good Sir Jonathan, but yet let us deal in mercy as far as compatible with justice, lest to do any living thing torture be a reflection on our manhood.” With gentleness he then addressed himself to Deliverance, who had sunk upon her pallet and covered her face with her hands. “Explain to us why the woman of Ipswich, that was hanged, did seek that you be saved.” Deliverance made no reply. Nor could he prevail upon her in any way; so, after a weary while spent in prayers and exhortations, he and Sir Jonathan rose and went away. At the threshold Cotton Mather glanced back over his shoulder at the weeping little maid. “This affair savours ill,” he remarked, laying his hand heavily on his companion’s shoulder as the two went down the corridor; “my heart turned within me, and strange feelings waked at her cry.” It was late in the afternoon. It would not be possible for the young minister to reach Boston Town until after midnight, so he decided to postpone his journey until the next day. Moreover, he rather seized at an excuse to remain for the morrow’s court, having great relish in these witch-trials. But that night Cotton Mather had a strange vision. Chapter XIII In the Green Forest Seldom has a little girl undertaken entirely alone a more perilous journey than Abigail had started upon. Salem was not more than fourteen miles from Boston Town, but the trip invariably occupied a day, owing to the many patches of spongy ground, quicksands, and streams which intersected the way. Travellers were often aided by fallen trees and natural fordways of stone. Abigail was confident of her way, having made the trip with her father. She soon discovered the original Indian path which was acquiring some semblance to a public highway. Trees had been notched, and now and then the government had nailed notices, signifying the remaining distance to the metropolis of New England. Far more serious dangers than losing her way threatened Abigail. In the wild woods lurked savages and wolves, and the wily Frenchman with unbounded influence over the cruel Indian. When the sun was high in the heavens, Abigail ate her luncheon. To go with what she had brought she found some strawberries, the last of the season, as if they had lingered to give this little guest of the forest a rare treat, daily acquiring a richer crimson, a finer flavour. Abigail was obliged to follow a little stream some distance before she found an available spot to lie down and drink. It was here she missed her way. Confident that she could at will regain the main path, she walked on along a ferny lane.