Guido

Guido pushed and pulled at the people around him. He feared he would lose his footing and be crushed under the feet of this, unsurprisingly, angry mob. Screams and chants issued out everywhere. 'Kill the little pig bastard''throw his traitor, cunt heart to the dogs'. Guido, taken aback by the ferocity and vehemence of the throng, pushed himself through to the boarding house, which lay on the square, and up stairs to his room. He thought that the view from his room would have made good money in any other atmosphere. He followed the flight of the rocks, stones and other flying detritus to find the tumbrel taking the unhappy fellow to his last earthly destination, the guillotine. He was middle aged, lean, a man of the cloth, no doubt a roman catholic clergy man who wouldn't take the oath of loyalty to the nation, a non-jurors. As Guido watched him dodge and weave the garbage thrown at him a stone came in and hit him sickeningly in his eye. Even people in the mob fell silent for a moment as they saw his orbital crush like a chicken under the wheels of carriage. The priest lay down in the cart wholly motionless. Guido walked to the sideboard and poured himself some wine to quell the retch he felt rising in his throat.