In this abode of horror were two human beings—­one, a young maiden of exquisite beauty; and the other, almost a child, and strangely deformed.  The elder, overpowered by terror, was clinging to a pillar for support, while the younger, who might naturally be expected to exhibit the greatest alarm, appeared wholly unconcerned, and derided her companion’s fears.

“Oh, Jennet!” exclaimed the elder of the two, “is there no means of escape?”

“None whatever,” replied the other.  “Yo mun stay here till Granny Demdike cums fo ye.”

“Oh! that the earth would open and snatch me from these horrors,” cried Alizon.  “My reason is forsaking me.  Would I could kneel and pray for deliverance!  But something prevents me.”

“Reet!” replied Jennet.  “It’s os mitch os yer loife’s worth to kneel an pray here, onless yo choose to ge an throw yersel at th’ feet o’ yon black image.”

“Kneel to that idol—­never!” exclaimed Alizon.  And while striving to call upon heaven for aid, a sharp convulsion seized her, and deprived her of the power of utterance.

“Ey towd yo how it wad be,” remarked Jennet, who watched her narrowly.  “Yo ‘re neaw i’ a church here, an if yo want to warship, it mun be at yon altar.  Dunna yo hear how angry the cats are—­how they growl an spit?  An see how their een gliss’n!  They’ll tare yo i’ pieces, loike so many tigers, if yo offend em.”

“Tell me why I am brought here, Jennet?” inquired Alizon, after a brief pause.

“Granny Demdike will tell yo that,” replied the little girl; “boh to my belief,” she added, with a mocking laugh, “hoo means to may a witch o’ ye, loike aw the rest on us.”

“She cannot do that without my consent,” cried Alizon, “and I would die a thousand deaths rather than yield it.”

“That remains to be seen,” replied Jennet, tauntingly.  “Yo ’re obstinate enuff, nah doubt.  Boh Granny Demdike is used to deal wi’ sich folk.”

“Oh! why was I born?” cried Alizon, bitterly.

“Yo may weel ask that,” responded Jennet, with a loud unfeeling laugh; “fo ey see neaw great use yo’re on, wi’ yer protty feace an bright een, onless it be to may one hate ye.”

“Is it possible you can say this to me, Jennet?” cried Alizon.  “What have I done to incur your hatred?  I have ever loved you, and striven to please and serve you.  I have always taken your part against others, even when you were in the wrong.  Oh!  Jennet, you cannot hate me.”

“Boh ey do,” replied the little girl, spitefully.  “Ey hate yo now warser than onny wan else.  Ey hate yo because yo are neaw lunger my sister—­becose yo ’re a grand ledy’s dowter, an a grand ledy yersel.  Ey hate yo becose yung Ruchot Assheton loves yo—­an becose yo ha better luck i’ aw things than ey have, or con expect to have.  That’s why I hate yo, Alizon.  When yo are a witch ey shan love yo, for then we shan be equals once more.”

“That will never be, Jennet,” said Alizon, sadly, but firmly.  “Your grandmother may immure me in this dungeon, and scare away my senses; but she will never rob me of my hopes of salvation.”