“And you sat by and heard that vile wretch so torture a child!” he cried. “Oh, my God! of what stuff are these thy ministers fashioned, that this godly servant of thine did not take such a living fiend by the scruff of his neck and fling him out of the cell?” “Come, come, young sir,” cried Sir William, angrily, “Mr. Mather had not then received the sign that your sister was not bound to the Evil One. I will have not the least discourtesy put upon him in my house, and the wine-mug flung in your wicked passion but just missed my head.” Cotton Mather waited patiently until the disturbance his words had wrought subsided. His ministerial experience had taught him sympathy with the humours of people in trouble. With a compassionate glance, directed toward the student, he continued to relate how he had straightway repaired to the inn, and ordering his horse saddled, had journeyed all night, that he might get a reprieve for the prisoner’s life from Governor Phipps in time. He was delayed in seeing the Governor sooner, as upon entering Boston Town he was summoned to the death-bed of a parishioner. “While all this but the more surely convinces me of the evil reality of this awful visitation of witches,” he ended, “yet we must not put too much faith in pure spectre evidence, for it is proven in this case that the Devil did take upon himself the shape of one very innocent and virtuous maid.” “’Tis a very solemn question, my dear sir,” rejoined the Cavalier, wagging his handsome head. “I remember once talking it over with my very honoured contemporary, Sir Thomas Browne. ‘I am clearly of the opinion,’ said he to me, ‘that the fits are natural, but heightened by the Devil coöperating with the malices of the witches, at whose instance he does the villanies.’” “Sir,” asked Master Ronald of the Governor, “when will you give me the reprieve, that I may start at once for Salem?” “Nay,” cried Lord Christopher, “’twas I who brought trouble on the little maid. ’Tis I shall carry the reprieve.” “Methinks ’twere wisdom that I should go in person, accompanied by soldiers,” spoke the Governor, “lest there be an uprising among the people at the reprieval of one convicted for witchery.” “Little mistress,” said the Cavalier to Abigail, “be pretty-mannered and run and get me the decanter of wine from the living-room that we may again drink the health of the little maid in prison.” Abigail obediently went out into the hall. There she saw the pretty gentlewoman whom she had noticed in the garden, standing by the table, drawing off her gauntlet gloves. Behind her stood a little black Moor dressed in the livery of the Governor’s household, and holding a basket filled with eggs and vegetables fresh from the market. Lady Phipps turned as she heard steps behind her, and revealed a sprightly face with a fresh red colour, and fine eyes, black as sloes. “Lackaday, my pretty child!” she cried, “and prithee who might you be?”