The grass-plot before the jail in Prison Lane, on a certain summer
morning, not less than two centuries ago, was occupied by a pretty large
number of the inhabitants of Boston, all with their eyes intently
fastened on the iron-clamped oaken door.

The door of the jail being flung open from within, there appeared, in
the first place, the grim presence of the town-beadle, and following him
a young woman who bore in her arms a baby of some three months old.

The young woman was tall, and those who had known Hester Prynne before
were astonished to perceive how her beauty shone out. On the breast of
her gown, in fine red cloth, surrounded with an elaborate embroidery and
fantastic flourishes of gold thread, appeared the letter A, and it was
that scarlet letter which drew all eyes, and, as it were, transfigured
the wearer.

A lane was forthwith opened through the crowd of spectators. Preceded by
the beadle, and attended by an irregular procession of stern-browed men
and unkindly visaged women, Hester Prynne set forth towards the place
appointed for her punishment. It was no great distance from the prison
door to the market-place, and in spite of the agony of her heart, Hester
passed with almost a serene deportment to the scaffold where the pillory
was set up.

The crowd was sombre and grave, and the unhappy prisoner sustained
herself as best a woman might, under the heavy weight of a thousand
unrelenting eyes.

One man, small in stature, and of a remarkable intelligence in his
features, who stood on the outskirts of the crowd, attracted the notice