Enter Paul Bayley.  Phoebe runs to him.

Phoebe. Oh, Paul, they’ve put Aunt Corey and Uncle Corey in Salem jail while you were gone!  Can’t you get them out, Paul, can’t you?

Paul. Where is Olive?

Phoebe. She is in her chamber.  She stays there all the time at prayer.  Olive!  Olive!  Paul is come.

[Calls at the foot of chamber stairs.

Paul. Olive!

Olive comes slowly down the stairs and enters.

Paul (seizing her in his arms).  Oh, my poor lass, what is this that hath come to thee?

Olive. This is what thou feared when we parted, Paul, and more.

Paul. I but heard of it as I came through Salem on my way hither.  Oh, ’tis devilish work!

Olive. They let me loose, but father and mother are in Salem jail.

Paul. Poor lass!

Olive. Can you do naught to help them, Paul?

Paul. Olive, I will help them, if there be any justice or unclouded minds left in the colony.

Olive. Thou art in truth here, Paul; it is thy voice.

Paul. Whose voice should it be, dear heart?

Olive. I know not.  For a week I have thought I heard so many voices.  The air seemed full of voices a-calling me, but I heeded them not, Paul.  I kept all the time at prayer and heeded them not.

Paul. Of course thou didst not.  There were no voices to heed.

Olive. Sometimes I thought I heard birds twittering, and sometimes I thought there was something black at my elbow, and in the night-time faces at my window.  Paul, was there aught there?

Paul. No, no; there was naught there.  Birds and black beasts and faces!  This be all folly, Olive!

Olive. They saw a black man by my side in the meeting-house—­Ann saw him.  She cried out that the cape I gave her put her to dreadful torment.  Can I have been a witch unknowingly, and so done this great evil to my father and mother?  Tell me, Paul.

Paul. Call up thy wits, Olive!  I tell thee thou art no witch.  There was no black man at thy side in the meeting-house.  Black man!  I would one would verily lay hands on that lying hussy.  Thou art no witch.

[Phoebe rushes to Olive, and clings to her, sobbing.

Phoebe. You are not a witch, Olive.  You are not.  If Ann says so I will pinch her and scratch her.  I will! yes, I will—­I will scratch her till the blood runs.  You are not a witch.  I was the one that got them into jail.  I stuck pins into my doll, but I have made up for it now.  They’ll be let out.  Don’t cry, Olive.

Nancy. Don’t you fret yourself, Olive.  I trow there’s no witch-mark on you.  It’s Goody Bishop in her fine silk hood that’s at the bottom on’t.  I know, I know.  Perchance Paul could loose the stopple in the cider-barrel.  I am needful of somewhat to warm my old bones.  This witch-work makes them to creep with chills like long snakes.