The cell had now grown so dark that a flash of orange-light showing in the crack beneath the door, startled her, reminding her that the jailer was making his nightly rounds. Alarmed lest the kitten should be discovered, she pushed it under the straw. She was none too soon, for in another moment the door was flung open and revealed the jailer with his lantern, which made a circle of yellow light around him and showed the feet of another person following. This personage was none other than Sir Jonathan Jamieson. The light shone on the tip of his long nose, his ruddy beard, the white ruff above his sable cape. As he was about to cross the threshold, he started and drew back. The jailer also started and his knees knocked together. “Methought I heard a strange noise,” said Sir Jonathan with dignity. “I will investigate.” The jailer clutched his cape. “My lord, my lord, meddle with no witch, lest ye tempt the Devil.” Again they heard the strange sound. The lantern’s circle of light fell half-way across the floor of the cell. Beyond, and concealed by the shadow, Deliverance, terror-stricken, held the outraged Thomas firmly under the straw. “It sounds like a cat,” quaked the jailer, and he straightway forgot all his previous doubts as to the guilt of the prisoner. “The witch be turning herself into an imp o’ Satan.” While Sir Jonathan still hesitated, there came a long-drawn-out, blood-curdling cry. Bravely, he raised his walking-stick and tapped stoutly on the floor. “Scat!” he cried in a voice that shook slightly, “scat!” “Miow,” answered the angry Thomas. Shudderingly, the jailer reached in past Sir Jonathan, pulled the door to and locked it. Then, grown too weak to hold the lantern, he set it on the floor, and leant against the wall, his knees knocking together even more violently than before. “Oh, miserable doubter that I ha’ been!” he chattered, “’t be a judgment come upon me.” Sir Jonathan leant against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor, with his knees shaking also. “Since it troubles you, goodman,” he said, “I shall not persist in entering, although I cling to the opinion that when one is sufficient exalted in spiritual things, the Devil has no power over him.” “I ha’ been a miserable doubter,” chattered the jailer; “the Lord ha’ mercy on my soul!” From the cell came again that terrible cry, a wailing, mournful sound, so wild and eerie as to strike terror to stouter hearts. “The witch be calling on her Master, Satan,” chattered the jailer. “Ay, pray,” muttered Sir Jonathan; “you must have an ill conscience, goodman, to be so afeared. But let me haste away; the time waxes apace and the night watchman will be making his rounds.”