’Twas cockcrow when I left pacing the shore where we had so often played in childhood; and through the darkness came the howl of M. Picot’s hound, scratching outside the prison gate.

As well reason with maniacs as fanatics, say I, for they hide as much folly under the mask of conscience as ever court fool wore ’neath painted face.  There was Mr. Stocking, as well-meaning a man as trod earth, obdurate beyond persuasion against poor M. Picot under his charge.  Might I not speak to the French doctor through the bars of his window?  By no means, Mr. Stocking assured.  If once the great door were unlocked, who could tell what black arts a sorcerer might use?

“Look you, Ramsay lad,” says he, “I’ve had this brass key made against his witchcraft, and I do not trust it to the hands of the jailer.”

Then, I fear, I pleaded too keenly; for, suspecting collusion with M. Picot, the warden of the court-house grew frigid and bade me ask Eli Kirke’s opinion on witchcraft.

“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” rasped Eli Kirke, his stern eyes ablaze from an inner fire. “‘A man’ also, or woman, that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death.’  Think you M. Picot burns incense to the serpent in his jars for the healing of mankind?” he demanded fiercely.

“Yes,” said I, “’tis for the healing of mankind by experimentation with chemicals.  Knowledge of God nor chemicals springs full grown from man’s head, Uncle Eli.  Both must be learned.  That is all the meaning of his jars and crucibles.  He is only trying to learn what laws God ordained among materials.  And when M. Picot makes mistakes, it is the same as when the Church makes mistakes and learns wisdom by blunders.”

Eli Kirke blinked his eyes as though my monstrous pleadings dazed him.

“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” he cried doggedly.  “Do the Scriptures lie, Ramsay Stanhope?  Tell me that?”

“No,” said I.  “The Scriptures condemn liars, and the man who pretends witchcraft is a liar.  There’s no such thing.  That is why the Scriptures command burning.”  I paused.  He made no answer, and I pleaded on.

“But M. Picot denies witchcraft, and you would burn him for not lying.”

Never think to gain a stubborn antagonist by partial concession.  M. Radisson used to say if you give an enemy an inch he will claim an ell.  ’Twas so with Eli Kirke, for he leaped to his feet in a fine frenzy and bade me cease juggling Holy Writ.

“‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” he shouted. “’Tis abomination!  It shall utterly be put away from you!  Because of this hidden iniquity the colony hath fallen on evil days.  Let it perish root and branch!”

But Tibbie breaks in upon his declamation by throwing wide the library door, and in marches a line of pale-faced ascetics, rigid of jaw, cold of eye, and exalted with that gloomy fervour which counts burning life’s highest joy.  Among them was the famous witch-hanger of after years, a mere youth then, but about his lips the hard lines of a spiritual zeal scarce differing from pride.