But his imagination was flooded by the memory of her dark eyes, bright with tears. And did this boy have a son, and a beautiful wife to leave behind? He tried to conjure Eliza as he had last seen her. This wretch was going to die, but so was Jean, at the age of forty-four. But Jean, with his wrists bound, could not give it neither could he find any words of consolation. He pawed at Jean's clothes, seeking the comfort of an embrace before he was sent to his grave. A young man, whose frail body pressed against Jean's, was sobbing. He could not hold up his head before the jeering spectators. He felt neither defiance nor meekness, but true terror. Everyone had heard tales of heroism in the face of execution: men who struggled, defying their fate until the end women who went meekly to their deaths, exposing their white necks to the blade with never a tremble or a cry. My Eliza! Swaying in the cart, his heart filling his chest, Jean felt the cold sweat of fear on his face. These men had been condemned for a careless word or an accident of birth or because they had tried to protect a loved one. Trusting beasts, desperate human being - what did it matter whose blood was shed? Around him, each face told the same story. More and more men were pushed in behind Jean, until the tumbril was crammed as full as those he had seen on his estate in the Marais, crowded with animals on their way to slaughter. He did not want to look at that vast sky, whose brilliance, even on this cold February day, was evidence of the glorious work of the God who had forsaken him. Crouching in the corner, he pressed his head against the cart's wooden rail. His blood buzzed in his ears, louder and louder, in rhythm with the hammer-beats of his heart. God surely knew that all Frenchmen, whether sympathetic or hostile to the Revolution, were now calling these months 'the Terror.' But did God know how much longer the bloodshed would last? Months? Years? Until Jean's beloved France had no more martyrs to make, and no more sacrifices to offer? Now, thrust into the waiting tumbril, his hands tied behind his back, Jean knew that praying was useless. He had reasoned that since God knows everything, He must know that many thousands of innocent men and women had perished beneath the guillotine's blade in the last few months. In the darkness of the prison cell, he had prayed that God would save him.

Then the butt of a guard's rifle landed hard between his shoulder blades, taking his breath away. Paris, 1794 The brightness of the sky smote Jean's eyes so violently that he stumbled.

Cassandra's Sister by Veronica Bennett