From The Devil in Massachusetts by Marion L. Starkey:

Now on Tuesday, July 19, came the decisive event for which so many in Massachusetts had been praying, a mass execution of the witches. Five were hanged on Gallows Hill, all women, the five whose trials had begun late in June: Rebecca Nurse, Goody Good, Elizabeth How, Sarah Wild, Susanna Martin.

The ceremony was carried out decently with only one discordant note. That was the snubbing Sarah Good gave the good Noyes when he made one last appeal to her to save her immortal soul by confessing; he reminded her that she well knew she was a witch.

"You're a liar!" said Sarah. "I am no more a witch than you are a wizard! If you take my life away, God will give you blood to drink."

They took away her life and Noyes did have blood to drink, years later, when he lay dying of a hemorrhage, though not so many years later that Sarah's words were not thought of.

The bodies of the witches were thrust into a shallow grave in a crevice of Gallows Hill's outcropping of felsite. But the body of Rebecca did not remain there. Her children bided their time - or so the story goes - and at night when the crowds and the executioners had gone home again, they gathered up the body of their mother and took it home. Just where they laid it none can know, for this was a secret thing and not even Parris, whose parsonage was not a quarter of a mile up the road past the grove where the Nurses buried their dead, must see that a new grave had been opened and prayers said. This was the hour and the power of darkness when a son could not say where he had buried his mother. Yet the hour would pass. Under the trees a granite shaft would one day be raised to Rebecca, and beside it another honoring the names of the neighbors who spoke up for her in a day when it was dangerous to speak.

But now in July, 1692, there were no shafts, there was only a secret grave, and across the fertile, but this year half neglected, fields, there were the children of Rebecca, silently going their way. Not even yet was their cup of sorrow full; their mother's sisters, Mary Esty and Sarah Cloyce, still lay in the hands of what Cary had called "unmerciful men." Yet the whole story had not been told; not for nothing had Elizabeth Procter said to little Abigail, "There is another judgment, dear child."