and cold.

WINTHROP.
Here come Caldwell and Blackthorne with a ducking-chair. (Blackthorne
and Caldwell carry between them a rude chair fashioned hastily from
wood on which the bark still clings.) Well and swiftly fashioned,
Blackthorne!

GOODY GURTON.
Mercy! Mercy! Gentle sirs, neighbors, goodwives! I am no witch! I swear
it. I had naught, naught to do with Barbara Williams.

BRADFORD.
A last chance, Goody. Call up your evil powers. Bring back the child,
and it shall be the stocks; but not the pond. Call! Call!

GOODY GURTON.
I have no words. I cannot bring her back. Mercy! Mercy!

BRADFORD
(curtly).
To the pond!

GOODY GURTON
(in a tremulous shriek as Blackthorne and Caldwell begin to bind her in
the ducking-chair).
Oh, no, no, no! I am no witch! I swear it! Will no one speak for me--
will no one----

[Philippe Beaucoeur, who has approached from right but a moment before,
and been partly hidden from view by those in front of him, now steps
forward boldly. The knife in his red sash-belt glitters in the sun. His
dark face is a-light with interest. His bearing is gallantly
determined.

PHILIPPE BEAUCOEUR.
I will speak!

RENOUNCE.
It is Philippe!

PHILIPPE
(boldly).
Stand back, Master Bradford. Be not so swift with your ducking-chair,
Goodman Caldwell. By what right have ye bound this poor old woman?

BRADFORD
(angrily).
By what right can a Jackanapes confront his elders?

PHILIPPE
(coolly).
By the right of free speech in a free country. By the right of seeing
defenseless age that lacks a champion.

GOODY GURTON
(her voice sunk to a low moan).
Mercy! Mercy!

PHILIPPE
(gallantly alert, hand on knife).
You have said your say against her. Is there one who hath spoken a word
for her?

BRADFORD
(blustering).
He has no right to confront us. He is not of Salem.

[Nevertheless, since Philippe is the only one armed, none step forward
to seize him.

PHILIPPE
(with light scorn).
The worshipful Bradford speaks true. I dwell in a kinder place. The
forest accuses neither man nor woman. Nay, do not frown at me, Holdfast
Bradford. My hand is as well matched as yours.

JOHN GILES.
By all the signs she is a witch. The moon rose red, and the wind----

THE CROWD
(not to be cheated).
Aye! Aye!

PHILIPPE.
What if the moon rose red? What if the wind wailed in the chimney? Are
ye children round the nursery fire that such things should be to you as
signs? Ye have seen the same a thousand times be