“If I do not dare thee to it, it is not because I fear thee,” replied Mistress Nutter, in no way dismayed by the threat.  “Thou canst not control my tongue.  Thou speakest of the services rendered by thy lord, and I repeat they are like his promises, naught.  Show me the witch he has enriched.  Of what profit is her worship of the false deity—­of what avail the sacrifices she makes at his foul altars?  It is ever the same spilling of blood, ever the same working of mischief.  The wheels Of crime roll on like the car of the Indian idol, crushing all before them.  Doth thy master ever help his servants in their need?  Doth he not ever abandon them when they are no longer useful, and can win him no more proselytes?  Miserable servants—­miserable master!  Look at the murtherous Demdike and the malignant Chattox, and examine the means whereby they have prolonged their baleful career.  Enormities of all kinds committed, and all their families devoted to the Fiend—­all wizards or witches!  Look at them, I say.  What profit to them is their long service?  Are they rich?  Are they in possession of unfading youth and beauty?  Are they splendidly lodged?  Have they all they desire?  No!—­the one dwells in a solitary turret, and the other in a wretched hovel; and both are miserable creatures, living only on the dole wrung by threats from terrified peasants, and capable of no gratification but such as results from practices of malice.”

“Is that nothing?” asked the familiar.  “To them it is every thing.  They care neither for splendid mansions, nor wealth, nor youth, nor beauty.  If they did, they could have them all.  They care only for the dread and mysterious power they possess, to be able to fascinate with a glance, to transfix by a gesture, to inflict strange ailments by a word, and to kill by a curse.  This is the privilege they seek, and this privilege they enjoy.”

“And what is the end of it all?” demanded Mistress Nutter, sternly.  “Erelong, they will be unable to furnish victims to their insatiate master, who will then abandon them.  Their bodies will go to the hangman, and their souls to endless bale!”

The familiar laughed as if a good joke had been repeated to him, and rubbed his hands gleefully.

“Very true,” he said; “very true.  You have stated the case exactly, madam.  Such will certainly be the course of events.  But what of that?  The old hags will have enjoyed a long term—­much longer than might have been anticipated.  Mother Demdike, however, as I have intimated, will extend hers, and it is fortunate for her she is enabled to do so, as it would otherwise expire an hour after midnight, and could not be renewed.”

“Thou liest!” cried Mistress Nutter—­“liest like thy lord, who is the father of lies.  My innocent child can never be offered up at his impious shrine.  I have no fear for her.  Neither he, nor Mother Demdike, nor any of the accursed sisterhood, can harm her.  Her goodness will cover her like armour, which no evil can penetrate.  Let him wreak his vengeance, if he will, on me.  Let him treat me as a slave who has cast off his yoke.  Let him abridge the scanty time allotted me, and bear me hence to his burning kingdom; but injure my child, he cannot—­shall not!”