“Verily, and in good faith,” answered
Roger Chillingworth, “I knew nothing of the
matter. I had spent the better part of the night
at the bedside of the worshipful Governor Winthrop,
doing what my poor skill might to give him ease.
He, going home to a better world, I, likewise, was
on my way homeward, when this light shone out.
Come with me, I beseech you, Reverend sir, else you
will be poorly able to do Sabbath duty to-morrow.
Aha! see now how they trouble the brain—these
books!—these books! You should study
less, good sir, and take a little pastime, or these
night whimsies will grow upon you.”
“I will go home with you,” said Mr. Dimmesdale.
With a chill despondency, like one awakening, all
nerveless, from an ugly dream, he yielded himself
to the physician, and was led away.
The next day, however, being the Sabbath, he preached
a discourse which was held to be the richest and most
powerful, and the most replete with heavenly influences,
that had ever proceeded from his lips. Souls,
it is said, more souls than one, were brought to the
truth by the efficacy of that sermon, and vowed within
themselves to cherish a holy gratitude towards Mr.
Dimmesdale throughout the long hereafter. But
as he came down the pulpit steps, the grey-bearded
sexton met him, holding up a black glove, which the
minister recognised as his own.
“It was found,” said the Sexton, “this
morning on the scaffold where evil-doers are set up
to public shame. Satan dropped it there, I take
it, intending a scurrilous jest against your reverence.
But, indeed, he was blind and foolish, as he ever
and always is. A pure hand needs no glove to
cover it!”
“Thank you, my good friend,” said the
minister, gravely, but startled at heart; for so confused
was his remembrance, that he had almost brought himself
to look at the events of the past night as visionary.
“Yes, it seems to be my glove, indeed!”
“And, since Satan saw fit to steal it, your
reverence must needs handle him without gloves henceforward,”
remarked the old sexton, grimly smiling. “But
did your reverence hear of the portent that was seen
last night? a great red letter in the sky—the
letter A, which we interpret to stand for Angel.
For, as our good Governor Winthrop was made an angel
this past night, it was doubtless held fit that there
should be some notice thereof!”
“No,” answered the minister; “I
had not heard of it.”
In her late singular interview with Mr. Dimmesdale,
Hester Prynne was shocked at the condition to which
she found the clergyman reduced. His nerve seemed
absolutely destroyed. His moral force was abased
into more than childish weakness. It grovelled
helpless on the ground, even while his intellectual
faculties retained their pristine strength, or had
perhaps acquired a morbid energy, which disease only
