There were nods from the lawyers. Two of them put spectacles on their noses to examine papers. The crowd behind Campion murmured.

Caleb Higbed looked back at her, gave her his kindly smile. “We’ll begin, Mrs. Scammell. Can you hear me clearly?”

She nodded.

“Will you speak, Mrs. Scammell? It’s important that the clerks can hear you.” He said this as if he was apologizing for troubling Campion with such an irrelevant manner.

She nodded. “Yes.” It came out as a croak, so she cleared her throat, swallowed, and tried again. “I can hear you.”

“Good! Good!” Caleb Higbed looked toward the ministers. “Mr. Palley? I believe you wished to begin. Please do. And speak up, please!”

The Reverend Palley, a scowling, bald man, stood up and walked to the empty space before Campion. His hands clenched together. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and forceful. “Shall we seek the Lord’s guidance?”

Palley hammered God for ten minutes, praying that the truth would be exposed, that evil would be defeated and the tribunal echoed with amens and praises. When Palley finished he bawled out his own “amen” and then, without drawing breath, turned his heavy face on Campion and shouted at her, “When did you first practice witchcraft?”

She stared at him in fear and astonishment. She could feel tears coming. The question had been bellowed at her, Palley leaning forward with a face distorted by rage. The spittle from his lips specked her face. He waited ten seconds then flung an arm toward the clerks. “Record that the witch refused to answer.”

He stared at her, his arms folded now, and he rocked back and forth on his big black shoes. “Woman!” his voice was like something from the depths of the earth, “it will go better with you if you confess now! Are you a witch?”

“No!” She shouted it defiantly. “No!”

“Ha!” He span round to face the lawyers, his face triumphant. “The devil ever protects his own, gentlemen! You see! She denied it, which is the devil speaking in her!” There were appreciative murmurs from the audience behind Campion at this irrefutable logic. The clerks scratched on their curling paper.

It seemed that the Reverend Palley’s duty was to extract a confession which would spare the tribunal the bother of longer proceedings. He threatened her with the torture chamber, ranted at her, bullied her, but she repeated her simple denial. Each denial, Palley was careful to point out, was further proof of her guilt, and though Caleb Higbed professed himself sympathetic to that point of view, he nevertheless thought it sensible to adduce further proof. The Reverend Palley, defeated, went back to the table he shared with the silent, watchful Faithful Unto Death Hervey.

Caleb Higbed shook his head ruefully. “We have no simple denial, do we?” The lawyers agreed they did not and Higbed looked at Campion. “We must hope for a clear truth, Mrs. Scammell, you do understand that? Otherwise we must seek the truth through pain. I hope that will not be necessary. I’m sure it won’t. Now,” he went back to his papers, “perhaps we can establish some facts? I think so. Is Goodwife Baggerlie in the tribunal?”