Salem was, in a word, bewitched. A fever of the Devil’s making ran through the town, seizing the hearts of men and women alike, till reason itself was burned to ash.

This small village in the Province of Massachusetts Bay was as godly and industrious as any Puritan settlement, steadfast in their covenant with the Lord. Yet envy and vengeance crept like serpents ‘neath the pews, and soon the name of witch was upon every tongue.

And the cause of such madness? A maid, young and comely, but filled with deceit. She had sinned with a married man—John Proctor, a farmer of good repute and land. He, stricken with guilt, sought to wash his hands of the iniquity; she, consumed by passion, sought to ruin his peace.

Thus she turned her malice upon his wife, crying out that Mistress Proctor consorted with the Devil. The girl and her companions, being of youthful fancy and mischief, had been seen dancing in the forest, uttering strange sounds and mocking the ways of Christians. And when the whip of consequence loomed, they turned their folly into accusation. One by one, the women of Salem were named—neighbors, midwives, and matrons alike—till the gallows awaited near a dozen.

But the girl’s eye lingered ever on one name: Elizabeth Proctor. If the wife were gone, the husband might yet return.

Soon word reached the Proctor household, for Mary Warren—servant to the Proctors and one of the afflicted girls—spoke trembling of the accusations. Mistress Elizabeth’s name had been whispered in the meetinghouse, and she besought her husband to go to Salem, to cry against the falsehoods.

John Proctor’s heart was heavy with sin. “’Tis not so easy,” he muttered, “for my name is all I have in this world, and that name may be blackened if the girl speaks.” Yet his conscience pricked him sorely, and he resolved to confront her in secret.

At dusk he saddled his horse and rode with great haste through the winding paths till he came upon the edge of town, where the maid was keeping her father’s sheep. Without greeting, he turned his horse’s head toward the woods and gave a sharp click of the tongue. She followed, as he knew she would.

When they were deep enough that no ears might overhear, he reined in the beast and dismounted. The girl’s breath came quick, her eyes bright with some unholy hope. He stepped toward her and caught her by the arm, rough in his anger.

“Girl,” he said, his voice low but fierce, “thou wilt cease this madness. Speak no more of witchcraft, nor dare utter my wife’s name in that cursed court. Dost hear me? I’ll not have innocent blood upon thy tongue.”

The maid’s lips trembled, though whether with fear or longing he could not tell. The woods were still but for the horse’s breath, and the sins of Salem hung heavy in the air—like smoke before the flame.