“A plague upon these witch-trials,” cried one of his hearers; “a man dare not glance askance at his neighbour, fearing lest he be strung up for sorcery. And now ’tis a maid. Lord love us! Are they not content with torturing old beldames?” There came a flash into the eyes of the stalwart youth who had first spoken. “’Tis not so long a journey to Salem Town but we might make it in a night.” An answering flash lit the eyes of his fellows as they nodded and laughed at the thought which, half-expressed, showed in the faces of all. But they grew quiet as Master Ronald began speaking once more. “’Tis a matter of life and death. The imprisoned maid is near the age of this little maid, as innocent, as free from guile—.” He broke down and dropped into a chair, folded his arms on the table, and buried his face in them while his shoulders shook with repressed grief. The rest, troubled and embarrassed by his emotion, drew together in a little group and talked in low tones. “Perchance ’tis a relation, a sister,” commented one young man, “a maid, he said, like yonder little lass;” and the speaker indicated Abigail, who had edged over to the door and stood, with burning face, nervously fingering her linsey-woolsey petticoat. “I have no patience with these, our godly parsons,” cried another student, who wore heavily bowed spectacles. “I have here a composition, which with great pains I have set down, showing how weak are the proofs brought against those accused of witchery.” He took off and breathed on his spectacles and wiped them on his kerchief. Then, having replaced them on his nose, he drew a written paper out of his pocket and unfolding it began to read aloud. But he was interrupted impatiently by the rest. “’Tis no time for words but action, Master Hutchinson,” they cried, giving him the prefix to his name, for these young Cambridge men called each other “Master” and “Sir” with marked punctiliousness. “It behooves me ’twere well to inquire into the merits of this case, but I am loath to disturb him,” said one bright-eyed young man, whom his fellows called Philander, glancing at Master Ronald’s bowed head. “Ah, I have it!” he cried, clapping the man nearest him on the shoulder: “we’ll not disturb his moping-fit but let him have it out. Meanwhile we’ll make inquiry of this little maid.” As he drew near Abigail, she, startled, flew to Master Ronald’s side and shook him. “Oh, sir,” she cried, “wake up! They are going to speer me.” At this the gravity of the young men relaxed into laughter so hearty that even Master Ronald, looking up, comprehended the situation and smiled faintly. “They are less amusing and more dangerous than dancing-bears, eh, Mistress Abigail?” he asked, rising to his feet. Abigail did not commit herself by replying. “Let us haste away, sir,” she said; “bethink yourself how Deliverance waits, and you will pardon my rudeness, but, sir, it be no time now for a moping-fit.”