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"No!" she screamed with a hoarse voice, terror turning into fury, "Nooo, you're not going to have him again! No, not again! No, I won't let you!"
But even as those words were leaving her throat, she knew the odds favored him being torn to bits by his very own people. Propelled by urgent despair, she pushed her way among the knots of swarthy men and women and tore in the direction of the tall man dressed in white, who stood on a platform surrounded by a fist-shaking, screaming, mob. His blondish-brown wavy hair glistened under the sun and his squared wide shoulders, straight back and strong, calm voice spoke of proud defiance. Her heart ached at the sight of him, for he was the blood in her veins, the flesh upon her bone, and if he'd end up martyred by those he'd fought so hard to lead to a better tomorrow, she'd rather follow him to hell and beyond, then once again mourn his loss....
