knowingly to the centre of the Place of the Revolution. The execution of today was drawing to a close. The last young man to be taken to the guillotine had blonde hair, delicate features, and a gaze of tristesse, like a maiden. He didn''t resist when they bound him, only before he lay down on the wooden board, he cast a glance down at the crowd with an extremely sentimental and reluctant expression.

"This guy has the face of an angel. Such people are destined to die young," commented one of the spectators in the front row with relish.

When the triangular steel blade fell between the two wooden posts, a young girl with braided hair in the audience let out a low, heartbreaking cry and fainted on the spot.

Somehow, this scene reminded Edith of the assassin from a month ago. The woman he accused Andre of murdering suddenly flashed in her mind once more.

Aren''t these lives that end on the guillotine also someone''s mother or father, wife or husband, lover or dear friend? How much innocent blood might be mixed in with this red and black grimy blood?

Has the Terror gone too far? Everything she always had implicit faith in, everything represented by her Andre like god of light, could it also lead to the path of unrighteousness in the name of virtue?

Several homeless children stood nearby, chatting and laughing. The daily program on this platform was a farce they couldn''t afford to miss.

They would sometimes climb perilously high into the tree canopy or up to the chimney tops just not to miss any detail of the beheading. Thei