“Ey darena, Master Richard,” she replied, shaking her head; and then she added firmly, “Ey winna.”

Finding it useless to reason with her, and fearing also that the infuriated crowd might attempt to put their threats into execution, Richard turned to his cousin Nicholas, and said:  “We must get her away, or violence will be done.”

“She does not deserve your compassion, Dick,” replied Nicholas; “she is only a few degrees better than the old hag who has escaped.  Sparshot here tells me she is noted for her skill in modelling clay figures.”

“Yeigh, that hoo be,” replied the broad-faced beadle; “hoo’s unaccountable cliver ot that sort o’ wark.  A clay figger os big os a six months’ barn, fashiont i’ th’ likeness o’ Farmer Grimble o’ Briercliffe lawnd, os died last month, war seen i’ her cottage, an monny others besoide.  Amongst ’em a moddle o’ your lamented brother, Squoire Ruchot Assheton o’ Downham, wi’ t’ yeod pood off, and th’ ‘eart pieret thro’ an’ thro’ wi’ pins and needles.”

“Ye lien i’ your teeth, Simon Sparshot!” cried Nance; regarding him furiously.

“If the head were off, Simon, I don’t see how the likeness to my poor brother could well be recognised,” said Nicholas, with a half smile.  “But let her be put to some mild trial—­weighed against the church Bible.”

“Be it so,” replied Potts, jumping down; “but if that fail, we must have recourse to stronger measures.  Take notice that, with all her fright, she has not been able to shed a tear, not a single tear—­a clear witch—­a clear witch!”

“Ey’d scorn to weep fo t’ like o’ yo!” cried Nance, disdainfully, having now completely recovered her natural audacity.

“We’ll soon break your spirit, young woman, I can promise you,” rejoined Potts.

As soon as it was known what was about to occur, the whole crowd moved towards the church porch, Nan Redferne walking between Richard Assheton and the beadle, who kept hold of her arm to prevent any attempt at escape; and by the time they reached the appointed place, Ben Baggiley, the baker, who had been despatched for the purpose, appeared with an enormous pair of wooden scales, while Sampson Harrop, the clerk, having visited the pulpit, came forth with the church Bible, an immense volume, bound in black, with great silver clasps.

“Come, that’s a good big Bible at all events,” cried Potts, eyeing it with satisfaction.  “It looks like my honourable and singular good Lord Chief-Justice Sir Edward Coke’s learned ’Institutes of the Laws of England,’ only that that great legal tome is generally bound in calf—­law calf, as we say.”

“Large as the book is, it will scarce prove heavy enough to weigh down the witch, I opine,” observed Nicholas, with a smile.

“We shall see, sir,” replied Potts.  “We shall see.”

By this time, the scales having been affixed to a hook in the porch by Baggiley, the sacred volume was placed on one side, and Nance set down by the beadle on the other.  The result of the experiment was precisely what might have been anticipated—­the moment the young woman took her place in the balance, it sank down to the ground, while the other kicked the beam.