Audrey sat in the sunshine upon the stone steps with her head bowed upon
her arms. The morning that was so bright was not bright for her; she
thought that life had used her but unkindly. A great tree, growing close
to the house, sent leaves of dull gold adrift, and they lay at her feet
and upon the skirt of her dress. The constable spoke to her: "Now,
mistress, here's a gentleman as stands for the King and the law. Look up!"
A white hand was laid upon the Colonel's arm. "I came to make sure that
you were not harsh with the poor creature," said Evelyn's pitying voice.
"There is so much misery. Where is she? Ah!"
To gain at last his prisoner's attention, the constable struck her lightly
across the shoulders with his cane. "Get up!" he cried impatiently. "Get
up and make your curtsy! Ecod, I wish I'd left you in Hunter's Pond!"
Audrey rose, and turned her face, not to the justice of the peace and
arbiter of the fate of witches, but to Evelyn, standing above
her,--Evelyn, slighter, paler, than she had been at Williamsburgh, but
beautiful in her colored, fragrant silks and the air that was hers of
sweet and mournful distinction. Now she cried out sharply, while "That
girl again!" swore the Colonel, beneath his breath.
Audrey did as she had been told, and made her curtsy. Then, while father
and daughter stared at her, the gentleman very red and biting his lip, the
lady marble in her loveliness, she tried to speak, to ask them to let her
go, but found no words. The face of Evelyn, at whom alone she looked,
wavered into distance, gazing at her coldly and mournfully from miles
away. She made a faint gesture of weariness and despair; then sank down at
Evelyn's feet, and lay there in a swoon.