Hangs his scythe upon a tree.

GLOYD (aside to the others). 
How strong he is!  It’s supernatural. 
No man so old as he is has such strength. 
The Devil helps him!

COREY (wiping his forehead). 
                 Now we’ll rest awhile,
And take our nooning.  What’s the matter with you? 
You are not angry with me,—­are you, Gloyd? 
Come, come, we will not quarrel.  Let’s be friends. 
It’s an old story, that the Raven said,
“Read the Third of Colossians and fifteenth.”

GLOYD. 
You’re handier at the scythe, but I can beat you
At wrestling.

COREY. 
      Well, perhaps so.  I don’t know. 
I never wrestled with you.  Why, you’re vexed! 
Come, come, don’t bear a grudge.

GLOYD. 
                  You are afraid.

COREY. 
What should I be afraid of?  All bear witness
The challenge comes from him.  Now, then, my man.

They wrestle, and GLOYD is thrown.

ONE OF THE MEN. 
That’s a fair fall.

ANOTHER. 
              ’T was nothing but a foil!

OTHERS. 
You’ve hurt him!

COREY (helping GLOYD rise). 
        No; this meadow-land is soft. 
You’re not hurt,—­are you, Gloyd?

GLOYD (rising). 
                No, not much hurt.

COREY. 
Well, then, shake hands; and there’s an end of it. 
How do you like that Cornish hug, my lad? 
And now we’ll see what’s in our basket here.

GLOYD (aside). 
The Devil and all his imps are in that man! 
The clutch of his ten fingers burns like fire!

COREY (reverentially taking off his hat). 
God bless the food He hath provided for us,
And make us thankful for it, for Christ’s sake!

He lifts up a keg of cider, and drinks from it.

GLOYD. 
Do you see that?  Don’t tell me it’s not Witchcraft
Two of us could not lift that cask as he does!

COREY puts down the keg, and opens a basket.  A voice is heard calling.

VOICE. 
Ho!  Corey, Corey!

COREY. 
              What is that?  I surely
Heard some one calling me by name!

VOICE. 
                         Giles Corey!

Enter a boy, running, and out of breath.

BOY. 
Is Master Corey here?

COREY. 
                      Yes, here I am. 
BOY. 
O Master Corey!

COREY. 
               Well?

BOY. 
                 Your wife—­your wife—­

COREY. 
What’s happened to my wife?

BOY. 
                 She’s sent to prison!

COREY. 
The dream! the dream!  O God, be merciful!

BOY. 
She sent me here to tell you.

COREY (putting on his jacket). 
                   Where’s my horse? 
Don’t stand there staring, fellows. 
Where’s my horse?
                 [Exit COREY.