_Hathorne._ What mean you?

_Ann._ To trap the black man, your worship. I knew not what I said,
I was in such torment.

_Hathorne._ Olive Corey, did your mother ever so change your
appearance by her arts?

_Olive._ My mother hath no arts, your worship.

_Ann._ Her cheeks were redder than was common, and her eyes shone
like stars.

_Hathorne._ Olive, did your mother so change your looks?

_Olive._ No, your worship; I do not know what Ann may mean. I fear
she be ill.

_Hathorne._ Mercy Lewis, did you see Olive Corey with the black
man?

_Mercy._ Yes, your worship; and she called out to me to go with
them to the dance, and I should have the black man for a partner;
and when I would not she afflicted me, pulling my hair and pinching
me.

_Hathorne._ How appeared she to you?

_Mercy._ She was dressed like a puppet, finer than I had ever seen
her.