Outside, it took Ronald a moment to climb into the carriage. His legs felt unsteady and weak. “To Magistrate Corwin’s house,” he said.

Chester urged the horse forward. He wanted to ask about Elizabeth but he dared not. Ronald’s distress was much too apparent.

They rode in silence. When they reached the corner of Essex and Washington streets, Ronald climbed down from the carriage. “Wait,” he said laconically.

Ronald rapped on the front door, and when it was opened he was relieved to see the tall, gaunt frame of his old friend Jonathan Corwin standing in the doorway. As soon as Jonathan recognized Ronald, his petulant expression changed to one of sympathetic concern. Immediately he ushered Ronald into his parlor, where he requested his wife give them leave to have a private conversation. His wife had been working at her flax wheel in the corner.

“I am sorry,” Jonathan said once they were alone. “’Tis a sorry welcome for a weary traveler.”

“Pray tell me what to do,” Ronald said weakly.

“I am afraid I know not what to say,” Jonathan began. “It is an unruly time. There is a spirit in the town full of contention and animosities and perhaps a strong and general delusion. I am no longer certain of my thoughts, for recently my own mother-in-law, Margaret Thatcher, has been cried out against. She is no witch, which makes me question the veracity of the afflicted girls’ allegations and their motivations.”

“At the moment the motives of the girls are not my concern,” Ronald said. “What I need to know is what can I do for my beloved wife, who is being treated with the utmost brutality.”

Jonathan sighed deeply. “I am afraid there is little to be done. Your wife has already been convicted by a jury serving the special court of Oyer and Terminer hearing the backlog of witchcraft cases.”

“But you have just said you question the accusers’ veracity,” Ronald said.

“Yes,” Jonathan agreed. “But your wife’s conviction did not depend on the girls’ testimony nor spectral demonstration in court. Your wife’s trial was shorter than the others, even shorter than Bridget Bishop’s. Your wife’s guilt was apparent to all because the evidence against her was real and conclusive. There was no doubt.”

“You believe my wife to be a witch?” Ronald asked with disbelief.

“I do indeed,” Jonathan said. “I am sorry. ’Tis a harsh truth for a man to bear.”

For a moment Ronald stared into the face of his friend while his mind tried to deal with this new and disturbing information. Ronald had always valued and respected Jonathan’s opinion.

“But there must be something that can be done,” Ronald said finally. “Even if only to delay the execution so I have time to learn the facts.”

Jonathan reached out and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “As a local magistrate there is nothing I can do. Perhaps you should go home and attend to your children.”

“I shan’t give up so easily,” Ronald said.

“Then all I can suggest is you go to Boston and discourse with Samuel Sewall,” Jonathan said. “I know you are friends and classmates from Harvard College. Perhaps he may make a suggestion with his connections with the Colonial Government. He will not be disinterested; he is one of the justices of the Court of Oyer and Terminer, and he has voiced to me some misgivings about the whole affair, as did Nathaniel Saltonstall, who even resigned his appointment to the bench.”

Ronald thanked Jonathan and hurried outside. He told Chester his intentions and was soon outfitted with a saddled horse. Within an hour he set out on the seventeen-mile journey. He traveled via Cambridge, crossing the Charles River at the Great Bridge, and approached Boston from the southwest on the highway to Roxberre.

As Ronald rode the length of the Shawmut peninsula’s narrow neck, he became progressively anxious. His mind tortured him with the question of what he’d do if Samuel was either unwilling or unable to help. Ronald had no other ideas. Samuel was to be his last chance.

Passing through the town gate with its brick fortifications, Ronald’s eyes involuntarily wandered to the gallows from which a fresh corpse dangled. The sight was a rude reminder, and a shiver of fear passed down his spine. In response he urged his horse to quicken its pace.

The midday bustle of Boston with its more than six thousand inhabitants and more than eight hundred dwellings slowed Ronald’s progress. It was almost one by the time Ronald arrived at Samuel’s south end house. Ronald dismounted and tethered his horse to the picket fence.

He found Samuel smoking tobacco from a long-stemmed pipe in his parlor following his noonday meal. Ronald noted that he’d become significantly portly over the last few years and was certainly a far cry from the rakish fellow who used to skate with Ronald on the Charles River during their college years.

Samuel was happy to see Ronald, but his greeting was restrained. He anticipated the nature of Ronald’s visit before Ronald even broached the subject of Elizabeth’s ordeal. In response to Ronald’s questions, he confirmed Jonathan Corwin’s story. He said that Elizabeth’s guilt was unquestioned due to the real evidence that Sheriff Corwin had seized from Ronald’s house.

Ronald’s shoulders slumped. He sighed and fought off tears. He was at a loss. He asked his host for a mug of beer. When Samuel returned with the brew, Ronald had recovered his composure. After a long draft he asked Samuel the nature of the evidence used against his wife.

“I am loath to say,” Samuel said.

“But why?” Ronald asked. He studied his friend and could see his discomfiture. Ronald’s curiosity mounted. He hadn’t thought to ask Jonathan about the evidence. “Surely I have a right to know.”

“Indeed,” Samuel said, but still he hesitated.

“Please,” Ronald said. “I trust it will help me understand this wretched affair.”

“Perhaps it is best if we visit my good friend Reverend Cotton Mather,” Samuel said. He stood up. “He has more experience in the affairs of the invisible world. He will know how to advise you.”

“I bow to your discretion,” Ronald said as he got to his feet.

They took Samuel’s carriage and went directly to the Old North Church. An inquiry with a charwoman told them that Reverend Mather was at his home on the corner of Middle Street and Prince Street. Since the destination was close, they walked. It was also convenient to leave the horse and carriage in Charles Square in front of the church.

Samuel’s knock was answered by a youthful maidservant who showed them into the parlor. Reverend Mather appeared posthaste and greeted them effusively. Samuel explained the nature of their visit.

“I see,” Reverend Mather said. He motioned to chairs and they all sat down.

Ronald eyed the cleric. He’d met him before. He was younger than Ronald and Samuel, having graduated from Harvard in 1678, seven years after they had. Age notwithstanding, he was already evidencing some of the physical changes Ronald saw in Samuel and for the same reasons. He’d put on weight. His nose was red and slightly enlarged, and his face had a doughy consistency. Yet his eyes sparkled with intelligence and fiery resolve.

“You have my loving solicitude for your tribulations,” Reverend Mather said to Ronald. “God’s ways are often inscrutable for us mortals. Beyond your personal torment I am deeply troubled about the events in Salem Town and Salem Village. The populace has been overcome by an unruly and turbulent spirit, and I fear that events are spinning out of control.”

“At the moment my concern is for my wife,” Ronald said. He’d not come for a sermon.