“Why am I brought hither?” demanded Mistress Nutter.

“I will tell you,” replied the familiar.  “You were brought here by order of the King.  Your retreat was revealed to him by Master Potts, who learnt it from Jennet Device.  The sapient sovereign intended to confront you with your daughter Alizon, who, like yourself, is accused of witchcraft; but he will be disappointed—­for when he comes for you, you will be out of his reach—­ha! ha!”

And he rubbed his hands at the jest.

“Alizon accused of witchcraft—­say’st thou?” cried Mistress Nutter.

“Ay,” replied the familiar.  “She is suspected of bewitching Richard Assheton, who has been done to death by Jennet Device.  For one so young, the little girl has certainly a rare turn for mischief.  But no one will know the real author of the crime, and Alizon will suffer for it.”

“Heaven will not suffer such iniquity,” said the lady.

“As you have nothing to do with heaven, madam, it is needless to refer to it,” said the familiar.  “But it certainly is rather hard that one so young as Alizon should perish.”

“Can you save her?” asked Mistress Nutter.

“Oh! yes, I could save her, but she will not let me,” replied the familiar, with a grin.

“No—­no—­it is impossible,” cried the wretched woman.  “And I cannot help her.”

“Perhaps you might,” observed the tempter.  “My master, whom you accuse of harshness, is ever willing to oblige you.  You have a few minutes left—­do you wish him to aid her?  Command me, and I will obey you.”

“This is some snare,” thought Mistress Nutter; “I will resist it.”

“You cannot be worse off than you are,” remarked the familiar.

“I know not that,” replied the lady.  “What would’st thou do?”

“Whatever you command me, madam.  I can, do nothing of my own accord.  Shall I bring your daughter here?  Say so, and it shall be done.”

“No—­thou would’st ensnare me,” she replied.  “I well know thou hast no power over her.  Thou would’st place some phantasm before me.  I would see her, but not through thy agency.”

“She is here,” cried Alizon, opening the door of a closet, and rushing towards her mother, who instantly locked her in her arms.

“Pray for me, my child,” cried Mistress Nutter, mastering her emotion, “or I shall be snatched from you for ever.  My moments are numbered.  Pray—­pray!”

Alizon fell on her knees, and prayed fervently.

“You waste your breath,” cried the familiar, in a mocking tone.  “Never till the brand shall disappear from her brow, and the writing, traced in her blood, shall vanish from this parchment, can she be saved.  She is mine.”

“Pray, Alizon, pray!” shrieked Mistress Nutter.

“I will tear her in pieces if she does not cease,” cried the familiar, assuming a terrible shape, and menacing her with claws like those of a wild beast.