“And now,” quoth he, solemnly, lifting high his mug, “we will drink to the health of Deliverance Wentworth, who hath done a mighty service for her King. She shall not go unrewarded, for I speak with authority. For,” swelling his chest importantly, “you behold in me Christopher Mallett, Lord of Dunscomb County and Physician to his Majesty, the King.” Chapter XVI At the Governor’s House While they were still drinking, there came an imperious rap on the door. In response to Lord Christopher’s bidding, the Governor entered, followed by a young minister. Abigail was awed at the sight of the latter, recalling how she had seen him in the forest only a few short hours ago. The student put down his wine-cup and rose, deeply respectful. “I have come to tell you, my dear friend,” said the Governor, addressing himself to the Cavalier, “that a very strange miscarriage of justice calls me at once to Salem.” Ere the Cavalier could reply, his attention was diverted by the strange action of Cotton Mather, who, pausing half-way across the room, was staring at the little maid. “I did see the spectre of that child rise before me in the forest this very morn,” he cried in a curious voice. “Nay, good sir,” cried Abigail, finding voice in her terror, “it was my very living shape ye saw.” “It rose in my path,” spoke Cotton Mather, as if he heard her not. “I, believing it a living child, did glance about to see who accompanied it. When I looked for it again the Shape had gone.” “Nay,” cried Abigail, in mortal terror. “Nay, good sir, nay, it was my living self.” “Ay, reverend sir, it was the little maid you beheld indeed, and no Dead Shape that rose at the Devil’s bidding,” cried Lord Christopher, and the effect of his mellow, vigorous voice was magical. So heartily it rang that the others’ thoughts of spirits and visions grew faint as those visions are disposed to be faint in flesh. All felt it but Cotton Mather. Wrapped in his own thoughts, he still stared at the little maid. “Do you not perceive the child is frightened to be so regarded?” cried the Cavalier, impatiently. “I can swear to you, prove to you, her living self was in the forest this morning. In Salem Town, accused falsely of witchery, there languishes a little maid——” “A little maid,” cried Cotton Mather, still in his strained voice. Suddenly, as if grown faint, he sank upon a chair and covered his eyes with his hands. Thus he remained for several moments, while his companions, awed by his emotion, waited in a silence not unmingled with curiosity. After awhile he took away his hand from his eyes and raised his face. Worn it was by the night’s long ride and lack of food, sad it was, for he had but just come from the death-bed of a beloved parishioner, but above all it was glorified by a transfiguring faith. “A little maid,” he repeated, and now his voice was tender; “she sits in prison on her straw pallet, knitting, and the good God watches over her.”