The room had gone silent with this last remark. Finally, Hathorne asked, “Tituba, what’d you say to this?”

“I still say no. But dey say dey’ll make all de children sick and die, same as Mrs. Putnam’s children. Do like how dey kill dem.”

“They said that?” asked Noyes, near breathless. “My God, there is a coven at work in Salem.”

“Said it was dem who killed de Putnams’ babies, yes.”

“Then what’d you do?” asked Corwin, aghast at the story the black woman told.

“Nothing. I didn’t sign.”

“But you told me, Tituba, that you eventually signed,” countered Parris.

“Only did it as a lie!”

“You lied to your master?” Hathorne leaned toward her, eyes menacing.

“No, I lie to de witches! Dey beat me too hard, too long wid hot pokers, so I sign the name Indian, but that not my name! Aw, see? I fool dem witches! My name is L’englesian. I fool dem good!”

“Who was this black man, Tituba? The man with the book?” Hathorne wanted to know. “Give us his name! You must have heard it—at least once after all!”

Tituba’s eyes scanned the room, going from minister to judge and back to minister, and back to judge. For a moment, her gaze settled on Jeremy, and his stomach sank. Suppose Tituba chose to name him? One word from this wretched prisoner in her chains, and he’d find himself in bars tonight in that god-awful cell below the hills. But Tituba’s gaze moved on to Higginson. “He be older,” she began in a whisper, yet her sultry voice filled the room. “Very old like-like Mr. Higginson, but at same time he be strong like giant. He pick up men and women on his arms, and dey swing from his arms like monkeys.”

“A name, a name,” chanted Hathorne. “We must have a name.”

“Bu-Bur-Burrow,” she blurted out.

“God, I knew it,” shouted Parris. “Knew it in my bones! Said as much to Mrs. Parris days ago. Mentioned my suspicions to a number of people, didn’t I, Jeremy?”

This revelation had silenced all the others in the room as each man contemplated what this meant.

Higginson approached Tituba once again. “You began this night, Tituba, saying they blinded you, yet now you say you saw Burroughs? How could you know it was a man named Burroughs since you’ve never met the man?”

“Heard him called Burrow, yes.”

“And did he have a first name?” asked Jeremy, hoping she’d get this wrong.

“George . . . like King George.”

Jeremy cursed under his breath. He imagined how often she’d heard Parris, obsessed with Burroughs, would have heard his name while doing her chores.

“And you saw him, this George Burroughs, balancing grown men and women on his arms?” Corwin’s gaze had not left Tituba since she used Burroughs’ name.

“Only like black shadows.”

“Burroughs, a former minister in the village,” mused Corwin between sips of brandy, “had been a gymnast at Harvard, or so I was told.”

Noyes added, “Man was known to challenge grown men to hang from his biceps.”

Hathorne stood at the hearth now, outlined against the fire. “Saw this myself up close on Sabbath eve. The man lifted a pew filled entirely with people as a joke in mid-sermon. I was on that pew. Gave the impression he cared little for his work in the parish.”

“I remember his debtor case,” Corwin thoughtfully said. “There seemed a conceit in the man, and a contempt for our procedures.”

“Hold on, please, everyone.” Jeremy went to Tituba and said, “These so-called witches blinded you from seeing them, you said.”

“Yes, they blind me.”

“But now you’re pointing a finger at Reverend Burroughs, who is hundreds of miles away, and somehow you saw Osborne and Goode?”

“How did Burroughs get here nightly?” asked Higginson, dovetailing on Jeremy’s words and attempting to add some logic to the skewed thinking here.

“He flew, of course,” returned Noyes.

“You are a disappointment to me, Nicholas,” Higginson said to his apprentice, the man who, upon Higginson’s passing, would be taking charge of the First Church of Salem—his church.

Noyes looked stricken at the old man’s words, and he shrank into a shadowed corner of the room.

Jeremy again questioned Tituba. “Had you ever heard of Burroughs before that night?”

“Yes, no . . . I ain’t sure.”

“I’ve heard Mr. Parris speak of him in your home—speaking ill of him, as have you, Tituba. Are you sure of your identification when you have confessed to having been made blind by these people?”

Tituba’s back straightened and her eyes bore into Jeremy. Teeth bared, he got a glimpse of the angry lioness. “It is Burrows.”

“All right, what of this dead baby of yours?” Jeremy put it to her. “Do you want to tell us that story?”

Parris stepped in, taking Jeremy by the arm. “I think the prisoner’s had enough for one night.”

“I for one would like to hear her answer,” countered Higginson.

“She is cooperating. She can be questioned at another sitting.” Parris urged Noyes to go to the door and call Williard inside. “Tell him to take this witness back to the jail.”

Noyes did as requested, going to the door, opening it, and saying to Sheriff Williard, “Come in, John, and take charge of your prisoner.”

“Don’t be a fool, Hathorne,” said Higginson. “You can’t send this woman back to the Salem Jail, not after what she’s said.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I assume you have Goode locked up there. That woman is likely to kill her if they’re sharing the same jail.”

Williard, who’d waited on the porch outside below the eaves, had not completely escaped the windblown rain. He dripped on the floor where he stood, asking, “Judge, you want us to place this one in separate quarters?”

“That’ll do just fine, yes.”

When Williard untied Tituba from the chair, she dropped to her knees, grabbing hold of Parris’ leg, her chains rattling, and she pleaded like a child. “Not put me in de jail no more! I confess everything I done, but I did it to help Betty, so dey never gonna hurt dat child.”

Parris looked stricken and tried to pry her loose.

“Den send me back by Barbados den! Please!”

“Take charge of your witness, Sheriff, now!” ordered Hathorne.

“You continue to cooperate with us, Tituba,” Parris promised without looking down at her, “and I’ll see you get back to Barbados.”

“Williard, do your duty, man!” shouted Hathorne again, even as the Sheriff struggled with Tituba, his withered arm about her throat, his other about her middle as he tried his humane best to get her out the door.

“Use the chains, man!” shouted Corwin. “It’s what they’re for!”

Jeremy had seen the light of pity in Sheriff Williard’s eyes as he hefted her to her feet. Saw it in his manner as he led her by her chains for the door. Jeremy could not imagine a sadder looking scene as the two went out into the gray darkness of the overcast evening.

# # # # #

Judge Jonathan Hathorne lit a cigar and began smoking. Corwin poured himself another brandy. Noyes called for a prayer for the safety of all Salem, which Hale thought appropriate, asking that Beverly be included. Higginson coughed throughout the prayer, and Jeremy contemplated the superstitions filling the room, and the mendacity in the mind of Samuel Parris. They both knew that Tituba’s welts and scars had not been inflicted by George Burroughs from hundreds of miles away, but another black man with a black book—Parris himself.

“Gentlemen, I suggest we swear out a warrant for the ar-rest of the Osborne woman,” began Corwin, slurring his words. His nose and cheeks rosey-hued from drink. “Who’d care to sign the complaint alongside my signature?”

“Goode has given up a name as well—Bridget Bishop,” Parris added.

“The innkeeper on North Ipswich Road?” asked Noyes as if he might jump. “I was just in her place for hot broth.” He swallowed with the memory and fear, as if he thought himself possibly poisoned.

“The other one whose husband died under mysterious circumstances,” commented Hathorne. “And then she . . . “

“Became sole proprietor of his holdings,” added Corwin with a little shake of the head. “Fine Inn and a key location that. Does quite a business.”

“That’s the one,” Parris replied.

Corwin shook his head even more. “So who’s to fill out these warrants? We need an accuser’s name on the warrant, gentlemen.”

“Why don’t you sign, Jeremy?” asked Parris, as if baiting his apprentice. “You’ve nothing to lose.”

Jeremy met his eyes. “I have no trust in the nature of the evidence presented here, and I’ll not be a part of a blasted witch-hunt.”

“You’re young, Mr. Wakely. Perhaps when you’ve had more experience with this sort of thing,” returned Parris.

“Perhaps but not tonight, thank you.”

“What about you, Mr. Higginson?” asked Parris who’d become suspect of the two having aligned against him tonight.

“I have no stomach for it any more than does this young man, Samuel. Besides, you’ll have no scarcity of men who’ll do your bidding, like Noyes here.”

“Noyes?” asked Parris. “Who’s side are you on?”

“I-I wish to be on the side of righteousness, of course.”

“And you, Mr. Hale?”

John Hale, minister at Beverly, had remained silent throughout the evening. “I will need a night to consider these proceedings and what I’ve seen and heard here.”

“Ah-yes, sleep on it.” Parris slapped Hale on the back. “Not a bad idea.”

“Exactly.” Hale grabbed his coat and hat and made for the door. Higginson followed, his coachman coming in on orders from Hale, to help the old man into his overcoat and out the door. Jeremy placed his empty brandy glass on the fireplace mantel and followed the parade out the door, but at the threshold, Hathorne’s booming voice stopped him. “Mr. Wakely, we will convene here tomorrow evening, same time, to continue this discussion.”