A scene from a story

            They stood alone on the ridge overlooking the town square as the scene played out in front of them.

            Nearly all of the town’s residents had gathered into the square, eager to be close to the action. It was a clear, sunny day. The screech of the gulls carried into the square from the harbor. If not for the hanging, the town’s children would be running through the sand or collecting shells, the men and women busy working on the docks or hawking their wares, enjoying the pleasant weather.

            But no one would miss a hanging, and so the beach was deserted, and the loading docks idle. No raucous voices vied for the attention of passers-by.

            Suddenly a door opened, and he was led out. Shackled at his wrists and ankles, clothes in tatters from months of constant wear during his confinement, his hair hanging dank and unkempt down his back, he shuffled pitifully between two rounded, well-fed guards.

            The guards took hold of his arms and made him pause while the mayor of the town stepped forward, pompous in his sumptuous outfit of a deep blue velvet robe accented by a pendant holding a medal that proclaimed his office.

            From behind the mayor emerged the judge, still aloof and imposing in his white wig and black robe. A couple of town officials stepped through the door behind him, and then two armed guards closed the door. The mayor puffed himself up and stepped forward to lead the procession to the gallows.

            The two observers on the ridge gasped as the procession passed beneath them and they were able to see the prisoner more closely.

            Three months in a dark, filthy cell had not been kind. They could see even from their distance how filthy and aunt he was. When his face turned in their direction, they could see in detail how sunken and hollow his face had become.

            She took an involuntary step forward to go to him, but Remy quickly restrained her.

            “No, we cannot be seen,” he admonished her, “there’s no chance for rescue here.”

            She rounded on him, her anger curling her lips, but then she stopped, and her body slumped.

            “Yes, you’re right,” she admitted, looking upon the scene forlornly. The procession had reached the base of the gallows.