_Corwin._ Where?

_Mercy._ Whispering in your worship's ear.

_Parris._ May the Lord protect his magistrates from the wiles of
Satan, and maintain them in safety for the weal of his afflicted
people!

_Hathorne._ This be going too far. This be presumption! Who of you
now see the black man whispering to the worshipful esquire Jonathan
Corwin?

_Mercy._ He is gone now out of the meeting-house. 'Twas but for a
moment I saw him.

_Corwin._ Speak up, children. Did any other of ye see the black man
whispering to me?

_Afflicted Girls._ No! no! no!

_Corwin._ Mercy Lewis, you say of a truth you saw him?

_Mercy._ Your worship, it may have been Minister Parris's shadow
falling across the platform.

_Corwin._ This is but levity, and hath naught to do with the trial.

_Hathorne._ We will proceed with the examination. Widow Eunice
Hutchins, produce the cape.