"Ramsay," she exclaimed, "M. Picot and Mistress Hortense are in jail
charged with sorcery! M. Picot is like to be hanged! An they do not
confess, they may be set in the bilboes and whipped. There is talk of
putting Mistress Hortense to the test."

"The test!"

'Twas as if a great weight struck away power to think, for the test
meant neither more nor less than torture till confession were wrung
from agony. The night went black and Rebecca's voice came as from some
far place.

"Ramsay, you are hurting--you are crushing my hands!"

Poor child, she was crying; and the words I would have said stuck fast
behind sealed lips. She seemed to understand, for she went on:

"Deliverance Dobbins saw strange things in his house. She went to spy.
He hath crazed her intellectuals. She hath dumb fits."

Now I understood. This trouble was the result of M. Picot's threat;
but little Rebecca's voice was tinkling on like a bell in a dome.

"My father hath the key to their ward. My father saith there is like
to be trouble if they do not confess--"

"Confess!" I broke out. "Confess what? If they confess the lie they
will be burned for witchcraft. And if they refuse to confess, they
will be hanged for not telling the lie. Pretty justice! And your holy