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In truth
they were such. Among them, quivering to
and fro between gloom and splendor, appeared
faces that would be seen next day at the
council board of the province, and others
which, Sabbath after Sabbath, looked devoutly
heavenward, and benignantly over the crowded
pews, from the holiest pulpits in the land.
Some affirm that the lady of the governor
was there. At least there were high dames
well known to her, and wives of honored husbands,
and widows, a great multitude, and ancient
maidens, all of excellent repute, and fair
young girls, who trembled lest their mothers
should espy them. Either the sudden gleams
of light flashing over the obscure field
bedazzled Goodman Brown, or he recognized
a score of the church members of Salem Village
famous for their especial sanctity. Good
old Deacon Gookin had arrived, and waited
at the skirts of that venerable saint, his
revered pastor. But, irreverently consorting
with these grave, reputable, and pious people,
these elders of the church, these chaste
dames and dewy virgins, there were men of
dissolute lives and women of spotted fame,
wretches given over to all mean and filthy
vice, and suspected even of horrid crimes.
It was strange to see that the good shrank
not from the wicked, nor were the sinners
abashed by the saints. Scattered also among
their pale-faced enemies were the Indian
priests, or powwows, who had often scared
their native forest with more hideous incantations
than any known to English witchcraft.
"But where is Faith?" thought
Goodman Brown; and, as hope came into his
heart, he trembled.
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