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.

"God was awakening the churches by marvellous signs," said one,
extending a lank, cold hand to salute Eli Kirke.

"Have we not wrestled mightily for signs and wonders?" demanded another
with jaw of steel. And one description of the generation seeking signs
was all but off the tip of my tongue.

"Some aver there be no witches--so fearfully hath error gone abroad,"
lamented young Mather, keen to be heard then, as he always was.
"Brethren, toleration would make a kingdom of chaos, a Sodom, a
Gomorrah, a Babylon!"

Faith, it needed no horoscope to forecast that young divine's dark
future!

I stood it as long as I could, with palms itching to knock their solemn
heads together like so many bowling balls; but when one
cadaverous-faced fellow, whose sanctity had gone bilious from lack of
sunshine, whined out against "the saucy miss," meaning thereby Mistress
Hortense, and another prayed Heaven through his nose that his daughter
might "lie in her grave ere she minced her steps with such
di