"For two like us there is no other way, Jacques. Don't fail me again."

He rose stiffly, backing away, staring into the mystery of the lights
and shadows in her wide eyes, groping for the meaning of her words.

A friar moved up to take his place, and the jailers dropped their
staffs. But Ann dismissed the friar with a quick shake of her head.

The Code now called for Jacques to leave the platform and walk with
measured steps around the arena before mounting his pedestal in the
execution circle. A signal from the trumpets started him on his way
before he was aware of what he was doing. The habits of a thousand
executions demanded obedience.

Women in the front rows leaned far over the railing. Some reached their
hands down to him, offering flowers and kerchiefs, hoarsely begging him
to wear their favors during the execution. Others sat still, transfixed,
lips parted and moist. The men beside them shrank back in their seats,
looking at him as a sparrow would look at a coiled snake. Vendors of
ribbands and souvenirs, cakes and drink, stood silent as he passed
before them. The flutes, citterns and cymbals, the melodic voices of the
minstrels, picked up the brooding death chanson:

"Farewell my friends, the tyde abideth no man,
I am departed from hence, and so shall ye;
But in this passage the best songe that I can
Is requiem eternam...."

The walk around the arena was an eternity, and then it was over and done
with, and he had mounted his pedestal.

* * * * *

A low crescendo, like the roll of faraway surf, swept across the stands.
Ann was at the edge of the platform. She stepped out of her slippers,
unfastened the velvet robe, handed it to one of the jailers. The
crescendo grew, matching the surge of blood in Jacques' temples. A
breeze swept the translucent death gown tight against her bare body, and
she walked steadily down the steps, across the arena. Her feet stirred
little puffs of grey dust that twisted and whirled away. The friar
followed a few paces behind. At the pedestal, he offered her his hand.
She refused it, stepped up without assistance. Bowing his head, the
friar walked back to the judge's platform.

Jacques' squire and a page boy appeared almost immediately. They walked
part way across the arena together. Each bore one of the pistols on a
black satin pillow. At the edge of the execution circle, their paths
forked toward each of the pedestals. The tremblin