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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