The trees were leafless, and snow lay thick on the ground, when Barbara Stafford was brought from the prison where she had been kept in close captivity, and presented for trial in the North Church of Boston. A trial for witchcraft was considered somewhat in the light of an ecclesiastical tribunal, and thus the sacred edifices of Boston and Salem were frequently used in such cases. But this was the first legal assemblage that had ever entered the North Church, for the governor's attendance and membership there gave it a prestige over all other places of worship. Besides it had of late been doubly consecrated by the baptism of the chief magistrate in the very plentitude of his power; and for common witches, such as had been tried, hung and drowned, by dozens during the year, the place would have been considered far too holy.

But Barbara Stafford was no common offender. She had been a guest in Governor Phipps's mansion. The people of Boston had seen her seated, side by side, with Lady Phipps in the state carriage, with servitors and halberts, right and left. It was known far and wide that she had come to the country in a strange ship, heaved up, as it were, from the depths of a raging storm; that the elements had battled against her and overwhelmed her in the deep, wrecking the boat in which she strove to reach the shore, and swallowing her up in whirlpools, lashed into fury doubtless by her evil presence.

From all this peril it was known that Samuel Parris, the minister of Salem, had rescued her. The studious, holy man of books and prayer, who had saved her life, was now ready to stand forward as her chief accuser.

Many remembered that her garments had been of a texture more rich than those of the governor's lady, while many who had been present at the baptism of Sir William Phipps were impressed by the grandeur of her countenance, and the almost unearthly stateliness with which she had glided through the throng of worshippers on that memorable day.

All these things made a great impression on the people, the more because of the profound silence which had reigned regarding her, since she was placed in the prison at Boston. It was said that, during the first three days of her incarceration, she had been visited by Governor Phipps, who, urged by the solicitations of his young secretary, had consented to see her. But the interview had been brief and unsatisfactory. When apprised of his coming, the lady had protested, and by every means in her power sought to avoid the visit; but young Lovel hoped to gain her a potent friend by persistence, and overcome by his persuasion she submitted.

Her dungeon was badly lighted, and Barbara sat in the darkest corner, with her face bowed and her form muffled in a large shawl. She lifted her eyes as the governor approached, and he felt their glance coming out from the darkness without really meeting it with his eyes. The thrill, that ran through his form, warned him of the diabolical power which the woman was said to possess, and it was with a solemn reserve that he drew near her.

She neither spoke nor moved, but her form shrunk together, and her garments began to tremble, as if she were suffering from cold. He spoke to her, but she did not answer. He stooped down to address her, and the shivering fit came on again. His stern heart was filled with compassion, and yet she had not spoken a word. A gush of strange, tender pity swelled his breast, and he turned away, with dew in his eyes—such dew as had not sparkled there in twenty years.

He went back and bent over her; the velvet of his cloak swept her lap, his breath almost stirred her hair.

She gave him one wild look, and dropped her head again, while, with her two hands, she grasped a fold of his cloak, and pressed it to her lips. The hands fell to her knees, the cloak swayed back to its natural folds, and he was all unconscious of the movement. In his earnestness, and compelled by a power that endowed him with momentary eloquence, he was pleading with her to give her true name and history, in order that he and those who wished her well might find some means of defence when she should be brought to trial.

She heard him, like one in a dream—a sweet, wild dream—for her lips parted with a heavenly smile, and she held her breath, as if it had been a delicious perfume, which she would not permit to escape from the bosom it thrilled. A shiver still ran through her frame. It was no longer as an expression of pain, but like the exquisite tremor which the south wind gives to a thicket of roses.

She could not have spoken, had the whole world depended on her voice; so his pleading was all in vain. Had she uttered a sound, it would have been a cry of wild thanksgiving. Had she moved, it would have been to throw herself at his feet. She did move, and half rose from the wooden bench on which she was seated, but, seeing young Lovel at the door, fell back again, shrouding her face in the shawl, and murmuring prayers of entreaty and gratitude that she had escaped a great peril. The shawl muffled her voice, but the governor saw that she was praying, and retreated toward the door.

"Tell her to think of what I have said—to send me any information—I will not ask it to be a confession—on which she may found a defence before the judges," he said, addressing young Lovel; "she is frightened by my presence and has no power to speak; persuade her to confide in you, Norman. Surely, as the Lord liveth, this woman has some great power, for good or for evil. Those who visited Peter in his prison must have felt as I do now."

"Hear how she sobs!" said the young man, deeply moved. "Oh! your excellency, go back; her heart is softened; she may speak to you now; I never heard her weep so passionately before."

"No," said the governor, gently, "I will not force myself upon her grief. Give her time for thought, and opportunities for prayer. The devil had power over the Holy One forty days and forty nights. It may be that this poor lady is going through a like probation. She may come forth with the radiance of an angel at last."

"She is an angel," answered Lovel, with tender enthusiasm. "Oh! if she could but be brought to confide in you."

"We can at least delay the trial, and give her time," said the governor. "Perhaps this scourge of the evil one may pass away without crushing her, if she is protected till the power has reached its climax."

The governor went away, after saying this, a thoughtful and saddened man. His intellect was clear, and his strength of character too powerful for that profound faith in witchcraft which influenced many of the clergy and judges of the land. He was not a person to join men, who should have stood between the superstition of ignorance and its victims, but rather gave this superstitious frenzy the force of their superior intelligence, and such dignity as sprang from position. The commotion which this subject had created in his government—the solemn trials held upon helpless old men and women, followed by bloodshed and terror—had already filled his mind with misgiving. Though, for a season, he was borne forward by the public clamor, and had in his own experience no strong proof against the phenomena produced in confirmation of witchcraft, he had never entered heartily into the persecutions of the courts. Nor had he risen up against them, because in his own soul there was doubt and misgiving.

Barbara Stafford had not spoken a word in his presence, yet her silence and the very atmosphere of truth that surrounded her had affected him deeply. After this interview he began to doubt more than ever if the great excitement of the day might not merge into persecution; if the pure and the good might not possibly suffer with those given over to the prince of darkness.