Without a warning and an admonition
That time is on the wing, and we must quicken
Our tardy pace in journeying Heavenward,
As Israel did in journeying Canaan-ward!

They rise.

HATHORNE.
Then let us make all haste; and I will show you
In what disguises and what fearful shapes
The Unclean Spirits haunt this neighborhood,
And you will pardon my excess of zeal.

MATHER.
Ah, poor New England! He who hurricanoed
The house of Job is making now on thee
One last assault, more deadly and more snarled
With unintelligible circumstances
Than any thou hast hitherto encountered!
[Exeunt.

SCENE III. -- A room in WALCOT'S House. MARY WALCOT seated in an
arm-chair. TITUBA with a mirror.

MARY.
Tell me another story, Tituba.
A drowsiness is stealing over me
Which is not sleep; for, though I close mine eyes,
I am awake, and in another world.
Dim faces of the dead and of the absent
Come floating up before me,--floating, fading,
And disappearing.

TITUBA.
Look into this glass.
What see you?

MARY.
Nothing but a golden vapor.
Yes, something more. An island, with the sea
Breaking all round it, like a blooming hedge.
What land is this?

TITUBA.
It is San Salvador,
Where Tituba was born. What see you now?

MARY.
A man all black and fierce.

TITUBA.
That is my father.
He was an Obi man, and taught me magic,--
Taught me the use of herbs and images.
What is he doing?

MARY.
Holding in his hand
A waxen figure. He is melting it
Slowly before a fire.

TITUBA.
And now what see you?

MARY.
A woman lying on a bed of leaves,
Wasted and worn away. Ah, she is dying!

TITUBA.
That is the way the Obi men destroy
The people they dislike! That is the way
Some one is wasting and consuming you.

MARY.
You terrify me, Tituba! Oh, save me
From those who make me pine and waste away!
Who are they? Tell me.

TITUBA.
That I do not know,
But you will see them. They will come to you.

MARY.
No, do not let them come! I cannot bear it!
I am too weak to bear it! I am dying.

Fails into a trance.

TITUBA.
Hark! there is some one coming!

Enter HATHORNE, MATHER, and WALCOT.

WALCOT.
There she lies,
Wasted and worn by devilish incantations!
O my poor sister!

MATHER.
Is she always thus?

WALCOT.
Nay, she is somet