Therefore I will not answer.
During the rest of the scene he remains silent.
HATHORNE.
Do you refuse to plead?
--'T were better for you To make confession, or to plead Not Guilty .-- Do you not hear me ?--Answer, are you guilty?
Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you, If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty?
Where is John Gloyd?
GLOYD (coming forward).
Here am I.
HATHORNE.
Tell the Court Have you not seen the supernatural power Of this old man?
Have you not seen him do Strange feats of strength?
GLOYD.
I've seen him lead the field, On a hot day, in mowing, and against Us younger men; and I have wrestled with him.
He threw me like a feather.

I have seen him Lift up a barrel with his single hands, Which two strong men could hardly lift together, And, holding it above his head, drink from it.
HATHORNE.
That is enough; we need not question further.
What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey?
MARY.
See there! See there! HATHORNE.
What is it?
I see nothing.
MARY.
Look! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell, Whom fifteen years ago this man did murder By stamping on his body! In his shroud He comes here to bear witness to the crime! The crowd shrinks back from COREY in horror.
HATHORNE.
Ghosts of the dead and voices of the living Bear witness to your guilt, and you must die! It might have been an easier death.

Your doom Will be on your own head, and not on ours.
Twice more will you be questioned of these things; Twice more have room to plead or to confess.
If you are contumacious to the Court, And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer, Then by the Statute you will be condemned To the peine forte et dure! To have your body Pressed by great weights until you shall be dead! And may the Lord have mercy on your soul! ACT V.
SCENE I.-- COREy's farm as in Act II., Scene I.

Enter RICHARD GARDNER, looking round him.
GARDNER.
Here stands the house as I remember it.
The four tall poplar-trees before the door; The house, the barn, the orchard, and the well, With its moss-covered bucket and its trough; The garden, with its hedge of currant-bushes; The woods, the harvest-fields; and, far beyond, The pleasant landscape stretching to the sea.
But everything is silent and deserted! No bleat of flocks, no bellowing of herds, No sound of flails, that should be beating now; Nor man nor beast astir.

What can this mean?
Knocks at the door.
What ho! Giles Corey! Hillo-ho! Giles Corey!-- No answer but the echo from the barn, And the ill-omened cawing of the crow, That yonder wings his flight across the fields, As if he scented carrion in the air.
Enter TITUBA with a basket.
What woman's this, that, like an apparition, Haunts this deserted homestead in broad day?
Woman, who are you?
TITUBA.
I'm Tituba.
I am John Indian's wife.