He fought back the tears that threatened to engulf him. His mind had painted a tableau of what had gone on outside as he heard every pitiful sound of the boy being taken to his death. The small window was too high to see out of even though he’d dragged the wooden cot with its riempie-laced base beneath it. The thought had even occurred to him that the provost was slack in his duties. A determined and desperate man could have fashioned a noose from the bed’s leather cords. And do what with them? The one rafter supporting the tin roof was probably beetle-infested like every other piece of wood in the damned country. It would snap if any weight were brought to bear. Despite the slit of a window letting in the daylight the room already felt like a tomb. He had to control the panic otherwise he would die. There was always a chance for life and he had to seize it. Slowly but surely he regained control of his emotions, wiped the sweat from his face and calmed his breathing. He dried his palms on his tunic.
