The river lay to their left, an easy signpost to the plaza they had left just days before. There were no more Bourbon lilies on display, no more white banners. Instead, the flag of revolution hung everywhere around them.The town was silent, a curfew obviously in force. They removed their shoes and crept noiselessly toward the square, keeping well in to the side of the street. In the silence the measured tread of approaching sentries gave them adequate warning.On one side of the square stood a tall structure in the dark. “Guillotine!” Renzi whispered.Kydd shivered — the smell of blood hung in the air.A sentry paced slowly by the guillotine. He was militia, dressed raggedly. His Phrygian cap had a tricolor cockade, just as the patriotic prints had it in the shops in England.Timing their movements, Kydd and Renzi worked their way round toward a once grand house, which, as it was the only white building off the square, had to be their destination. The sky was lightening noticeably in the east when they reached it.“Shy a pebble at th’ window,”
