Amid all the eyes on her, Hester Prynne finally found relief when she noticed a figure on the edge of the crowd that instantly caught her attention. There was an Indian, dressed in his traditional clothing. While Native Americans weren't rare in the English settlements, Hester barely gave him a second thought. But standing next to him was a white man dressed in a strange mix of civilized and wild clothes.
He was small, with a face marked by age, but not truly old. His features held a sharp intelligence, as if his mind had shaped his appearance. Though he tried to hide it with his mismatched outfit, Hester quickly noticed that one of his shoulders was higher than the other. As soon as she saw him, Hester pulled her baby to her chest tightly, so hard that it made the child cry out. But Hester didn't seem to hear.
Before Hester even saw him, the stranger had fixed his gaze on her. At first, it was a casual look, like someone who's usually lost in their own thoughts and doesn't care much about the outside world. But soon, his look turned sharp, as if he could see straight through her. His face twisted with a look of horror, like a snake slithering across his features. For a moment, the pain was visible, but he quickly controlled it, and his expression became calm again, though the moment of anguish still lingered deep inside.
When Hester's eyes locked onto his, and she seemed to recognize him, the stranger raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. Then, he tapped the shoulder of the man standing next to him and politely asked, "Excuse me, sir. Who is this woman, and why is she being publicly shamed?"
The townsman looked at him curiously and replied, "You must be new here. If you've been around, you'd know all about Mistress Hester Prynne and the scandal she's caused. She's made quite a mess of things in good old Master Dimmesdale's church."
"I see," the stranger said. "I've been traveling a lot, and I've had my fair share of bad luck. I was held captive by the heathens to the south for a long time, but this Indian here has helped me get free. Can you tell me about Hester Prynne's situation? Is that her name?"
The townsman nodded. "Ah, yes, you've got it right. After all your struggles, it must be a relief to be in a place where wrongdoers are caught and punished. In our New England, we make sure justice is done. Hester Prynne, you see, was once married to a learned man, an Englishman who'd been living in Amsterdam. He sent his wife here ahead of him, planning to join her later. But he never showed up. She's been alone in Boston for about two years now, and, well, without her husband around, she…"
"Ah, I understand," the stranger interrupted, a bitter smile on his face. "A learned man should have figured this out too. So, tell me, sir, who's the father of this baby? It looks about three or four months old, I'd guess."
The townsman shook his head. "That's the mystery. Hester won't say a word about it. The magistrates have tried to figure it out, but nothing's come of it. Maybe the guilty man is watching right now, hidden in the crowd, thinking no one knows, but forgetting that God sees everything."
The stranger smirked again. "If he's so learned, he should come forward and explain the mystery himself."
"It would be good for him, if he's still alive," the townsman replied. "Now, listen, Sir. The Massachusetts magistrates, thinking that this woman is young and pretty, and probably tempted into her mistake, and that her husband might be dead at sea, haven't been too harsh on her. The punishment for this kind of crime is death, but out of mercy, they've only made her stand in the pillory for three hours. After that, she'll wear a symbol of shame on her chest for the rest of her life."
"A smart decision!" said the stranger, nodding. "This way, she'll be like a living warning against sin, with the scarlet letter on her even when she's buried. Still, it bothers me that the man who sinned with her isn't up there with her. But don't worry—he'll be found! He will be known!"
He politely nodded to the townsman and whispered something to his Indian companion. Together, they made their way through the crowd.
While this happened, Hester stood on the scaffold, staring at the stranger. Her gaze was so intense that everything else around her seemed to fade away. Facing him like this might have been worse than standing in the hot sun, exposed in front of the whole town, wearing the scarlet letter and holding her baby. But in some strange way, being surrounded by so many people gave her some protection. It felt safer to be exposed in front of a crowd than to face him alone. She almost didn't hear someone calling her name at first, until the voice spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"Hear me, Hester Prynne!" the voice called.
Above the scaffold, on a balcony attached to the meeting house, Governor Bellingham sat with four guards holding halberds, watching the scene. He was an older man, wearing a dark feather in his hat and a velvet tunic. His face showed years of experience. He was exactly the kind of person you'd expect to lead a community that valued tradition and age over youth, where little was expected but a lot was accomplished. The men around him had a serious, almost intimidating presence, as if authority itself was a sacred thing. They were wise and good men, no doubt. But in that moment, Hester couldn't help but feel they were the last people who could understand the complexity of her heart and the mix of good and bad inside it. As she looked up at them, she felt a chill run through her. She knew that the crowd might have some sympathy for her, but she also felt the weight of their judgment from above.
The voice calling out to her belonged to Reverend John Wilson, one of the most respected and well-known clergymen in Boston. He was a brilliant scholar, like many of the ministers of his time, but his kind and caring nature wasn't as developed as his smarts. In fact, he often felt a little embarrassed by it. He stood there, his graying hair poking out from beneath his skullcap, squinting in the bright sunlight, looking like one of those old portraits in books of sermons. He didn't seem like the type who should be dealing with someone's deep personal guilt and pain.
"Hester Prynne," said the reverend. "I've tried to convince this young minister, here beside me,"—he laid a hand on the shoulder of a pale, young man—"that he should speak to you openly, in front of everyone, about your sin, how terrible and dark it is. Knowing your character better than I do, he would be able to find the right words to make you confess the name of the man who led you to this mistake. But he argues, with the softness of youth, that it would be wrong to force you to open your heart to the public like this. He believes that a woman shouldn't be made to expose herself so openly in front of everyone. But I tried to tell him, the shame is in the sin, not in revealing it. What do you think, Brother Dimmesdale? Who should speak to this woman's soul, you or I?"
The crowd murmured, and Governor Bellingham, sitting among the officials above, responded with respect but also authority.
"Good Master Dimmesdale," he said, "the responsibility for this woman's soul falls largely on you. It's up to you to encourage her to repent and confess, as a step toward her redemption."
Everyone in the crowd turned to look at Reverend Dimmesdale. He was a young minister who had come from a prestigious English university, bringing all the knowledge of his time to the new world. His passion and faith had already made him famous, and he was quickly becoming one of the most prominent clergymen. He had a striking appearance, with a pale, noble-looking face, big brown eyes full of sadness, and a mouth that often trembled, showing his emotional depth and inner strength. Despite his talents and education, he gave off a nervous, uneasy vibe, as if he didn't quite understand the world around him and was more comfortable in solitude. Because of this, he often kept to himself, living in the shadows when he could. But when he spoke, he did so with a freshness and purity that many people found angelic.
This was the young minister who had been put forward by Reverend Wilson and the Governor, asked to speak to the public about the mystery of a woman's soul—even though it was stained by sin. The pressure of the moment drained the color from his face, and his lips quivered.
"Speak to her, my brother," Mr. Wilson urged. "This is crucial for her soul, and as the Governor says, it's important for yours too, since you're responsible for hers. Help her to confess the truth."
Reverend Dimmesdale lowered his head in what seemed like a silent prayer, then stepped forward.
"Hester Prynne," he said, leaning over the balcony to look directly into her eyes, "you've heard what this good man says, and you can see the responsibility I have. If you believe that confessing will bring peace to your soul, and make your punishment more meaningful for your salvation, I urge you to speak the name of the person who sinned with you. Don't stay silent out of false pity or concern for him. Hester, believe me—if he were to step down from a high place and stand beside you on this platform of shame, it would be better for him than hiding a guilty heart forever. Your silence only forces him to add hypocrisy to his sin. Heaven has given you this public shame so you can overcome the evil inside you and the suffering outside. Don't deny him, who might not have the courage to face it himself, the chance to take the bitter but necessary path you are now walking."
His voice was soft but strong, full of emotion that made his words resonate deeply with everyone listening. It wasn't just what he said, but the way he said it, that touched their hearts and brought them together in sympathy. Even Hester's baby, who had been quiet before, looked at him, stretching out its little arms with a soft murmur, as if responding to the minister's words. The power of his speech made the crowd believe that Hester would finally reveal the name of the man who had shared her guilt, or that the guilty person, whoever he was, would be drawn out by an undeniable force and have to step forward.
But Hester shook her head.
"Don't push me beyond the mercy of Heaven!" Reverend Wilson cried more harshly than before. "That little baby has a voice to support the advice you've heard. Speak the name! That, and your repentance, might remove the scarlet letter from your chest."
"Never!" Hester answered, looking not at Mr. Wilson but at the younger minister, her gaze meeting his troubled eyes. "It's too deeply branded. You can't take it off. And I wish I could bear his pain as well as mine."
"Speak, woman!" shouted another voice from the crowd, cold and harsh. "Speak, and give your child a father!"
"I won't speak!" Hester answered, her face as pale as death, but responding to that voice, which she knew all too well. "And my child will have a heavenly Father. She'll never know an earthly one!"
"She won't speak!" murmured Mr. Dimmesdale, who had been leaning over the balcony, his hand over his heart, waiting for her to respond. He stepped back, letting out a deep breath. "Such strength and courage in a woman's heart! She won't speak!"
Seeing that Hester wouldn't reveal the truth, the older minister, who had prepared a long sermon for the occasion, began to speak to the crowd about sin in all its forms, but kept referring back to the scarlet letter. He focused on it so much that it started to take on an even darker meaning in their minds, like it was burning with flames from hell itself. Meanwhile, Hester stood on the platform, her eyes glazed over and looking exhausted, like she had reached her limit. Her mind didn't escape through fainting or swooning, though. Instead, she locked herself away in a tough, unfeeling shell, while her body kept going. The preacher's voice thundered on, but it didn't reach her.
During the last part of her ordeal, her baby's cries filled the air. Hester tried to calm it, but it was like she wasn't really connected to its pain. With the same stiff expression, she was taken back to prison, disappearing behind its heavy, iron doors. Some people whispered that the scarlet letter cast an eerie red glow down the dark hallway as she vanished inside.