The next morning Edith was informed that Seymore had arrived. As soon as he received her letter he travelled with all the rapidity the state of the country permitted, when the journey from Boston to Salem was the affair of a day, as it is now of half an hour.

From all we have learned of the character of Seymore, the reader will not be surprised to find that, although never taking an active part in the persecutions of the time, the character of his enthusiasm was such that he lent an easy faith to the stories he had heard of the possessed, and believed that God was manifesting his power by granting, for a season, such liberty to the prince of evil.

When, however, he received Edith's letter, he felt pierced as it were with his own sword. He trembled when he thought of his almost idolatrous love, and with a faith which he fancied resembled that of Abraham, he believed the time had now come when he must cut off a right hand, and pluck out a right eye, to give evidence of his submission to the will of God.

With this disposition of mind he arrived at the scene of our narrative. In the mean time the tender-hearted elder had become so much interested to save Edith, that he contrived to have Seymore placed on the jury, hoping that his deep interest in her would be the means of returning a verdict of not guilty. Seymore was therefore spared the pain of an interview with Edith, which would probably have convinced him of her innocence, before the trial.

Edith awoke the next morning from a happy dream. She was walking with Seymore by the margin of the great ocean, and his low, deep voice mingled in her ear with the liquid sound of the dying wave. She awoke, a captive and alone: no, not alone, for the faithful Dinah was standing by her bedside, so tearful, so subdued, that the smile the happy dream had left on Edith's lips instantly faded. She remembered it was the day of her trial, and she prepared to meet it.

These trials were held in the meeting-house, and were opened and closed with a religious service. This seems like a mockery to us, but our fathers thought they were performing a sacred duty; and however frivolous or disgusting were many of the details, the trial was rendered more appalling by giving to the whole the appearance of a holy sacrifice.

Edith was far from being insensible to the terrors of her situation, but she found it necessary to assume a cheerfulness she did not feel, in order to soothe the dreadful agitation of Dinah. The poor African trusted in God; but she could not shield her child from the tyranny of human power.

When Edith entered the thronged meeting-house, a paleness, like that of death, overspread her countenance. She requested that Dinah might stand near her to support her, lest she should faint. This was rudely denied. She was answered, "If she had strength to torment that child, she had strength to stand alone."

She could not wipe the tears that gushed into her eyes at this cruel answer, for each hand was extended, and closely held by an officer,—a precaution always adopted in these trials, lest the prisoner should afflict some person in the crowded multitude.

She had no sooner become a little calm, than her eye sought Seymore among the crowd. She was shocked with the change an "o'erwrought spirit" had effected in his person. His pale forehead was traced with veins that were swelled almost to bursting; a fire was burning in his dark, sunken eyes, and crimson spots flushed each cheek.

As Edith looked at him, her heart swelled with an infinite pity. For the moment, her own appalling situation melted away from her thoughts. For the moment, it was of little importance to her whether she lived or died. All she wished was to be near Seymore, to speak to him, to soothe and calm his agitated spirit.

She was recalled to herself by the opening of the trial. The prisoner was first commanded to repeat the Lord's prayer. This Edith did in a low, sweet voice, that sounded to the hushed audience like plaintive music.

It is not my purpose to enter into the details of this trial. It is enough that "every idle rumor, every thing that the gossip of the credulous, or the fertile memories of the malignant could produce that had an unfavorable bearing on the prisoner, however foreign it might be to the indictment, was brought before the jury,"[3] in addition to the testimony of the child, and the falsehood of the old woman.

The cause was at length given to the jury. They did not leave their seats; and when it came to the turn of Seymore, who was the last to speak, the crimson blood rushed to the cheek, brow, and temples of Edith, and then left them paler than before: a sick sensation came over her, and she would have fainted, had she not been relieved by tears, burning hot, that gushed from her eyes.

Seymore had covered his face when he first entered, and had not looked at Edith. So hushed was the crowd, that the word "guilty," wrung as it were from him in the lowest whisper, was heard distinctly through the whole meeting-house. It pierced Edith's ear like the voice of a trumpet; and from that moment the spirit of a martyr entered her breast. She felt herself deserted by the whole of her little world, falsely convicted of a crime she abhorred, and left without human sympathy. She turned to God. "He who seeth in secret," she said, "knows my innocence;" and she bowed her head, and made no further answer.

The trial was closed as it began,—with religious services. A hymn was sung; and Edith, feeling, as I have said, an elevation that she could not herself understand, joined in the devotion. The others stopped; for they would not mingle their voices with one convicted of witchcraft: the very evil one was mocking them. Edith continued alone; and her rich, sweet tones thrilled their hearts like the voice of an angel. She was reminded by a whisper from Dinah that she was singing alone; and, ceasing, she blushed deeply, and covered her face from the curious gaze of the multitude.

As Edith returned to her prison, guarded on each side, and followed by Dinah, she thought of the Lady Ursula, whose cruel fate had moved her so deeply. And was she indeed the same person? The child that had wept her fate so bitterly was now to meet one far more terrible: and she felt strength to meet it. Every wave, as it had passed over her, had brought out the hidden beauty and strength of her soul; and, though there was in her no air of triumph, a tranquil contentment and repose was expressed in her whole person.