So far, the only sounds she had made at all had been the screams which first alerted the townsfolk to her crimes. The cell they threw her in was dank and tiny. The floor was more mud and filth than wood or stone, and there were no windows for her to see out. Her jailors brought her only water, and every time she thought to lie down upon the filth, someone would rattle the door of her cell, or scream at her, anything to make enough noise to prevent her from sleeping. In response to their noise and threats, the jailors were greeted with eerie silence, but they were hard men set to a hard task, and more than equal to it. They kept her, awake and barely alive, for a full seven days while a commission to try her in St. Andrews was requested and granted by the king. Seven days without sleep or food. Seven nights in a dark, nasty hole. Her jailors were not moved to sympathy or compassion, for they had dealt with witches before: not for a few years, certainly, but accused witches were nothing new in the town of St.
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