me!
Here is my body; ye may torture it,
But the immortal soul ye cannot crush!
[Exeunt.

SCENE III-- A street in the Village. Enter GLOYD and others.

GLOYD.
Quick, or we shall be late!

A MAN.
That's not the way.
Come here; come up this lane.

GLOYD.
I wonder now
If the old man will die, and will not speak?
He's obstinate enough and tough enough
For anything on earth.

A bell tolls.

Hark! What is that?

A MAN.
The passing bell. He's dead!

GLOYD.
We are too late.
[Exeunt in haste.

SCENE IV. -- A field near the graveyard, GILES COREY lying dead,
with a great stone on his breast. The Sheriff at his head,
RICHARD GARDNER at his feet. A crowd behind. The bell tolling.
Enter HATHORNE and MATHER.

HATHORNE.
This is the Potter's Field. Behold the fate
Of those who deal in Witchcrafts, and, when questioned,
Refuse to plead their guilt or innocence,
And stubbornly drag death upon themselves.

MATHER.
O sight most horrible! In a land like this,
Spangled with Churches Evangelical,
Inwrapped in our salvations, must we seek
In mouldering statute-books of English Courts
Some old forgotten Law, to do such deeds?
Those who lie buried in the Potter's Field
Will rise again, as surely as ourselves
That sleep in honored graves with epitaphs;
And this poor man, whom we have made a victim,
Hereafter will be counted as a martyr!

FINALE

SAINT JOHN

SAINT JOHN wandering over the face of the Earth.

SAINT JOHN.
The Ages come and go,
The Centuries pass as Years;
My hair is white as the snow,
My feet are weary and slow,
The earth is wet with my tears
The kingdoms crumble, and fall
Apart, like a ruined wall,
Or a bank that is undermined
By a river's ceaseless flow,
And leave no trace behind!
The world itself is old;
The portals of Time unfold
On hinges of iron, that grate
And groan with the rust and the weight,
Like the hinges of a gate
That hath fallen to decay;
But the evil doth not cease;
There is war instead of peace,
Instead of Love there is hate;
And still I must wander and wait,
Still I must watch and pray,
Not forgetting in whose sight,
A thousand years in their flight
Are as a single day.

The life of man is a gleam
Of light, that comes and goes
Like the course of the Holy Stream.
The cityless river, that flows
From fountains no one know