Awaiting the Dawn

 Awaiting the Dawn

Midnight.

The moon shines brightly, softly through the rusty iron grate of the tiny window. The bright beams spill over the dirty, dark floor, casting eerie shadows and making the patterns dance along the dismal cell. Along the far end, a man paces slowly, back and forth, back and forth. His heart is heavy with grief, for tomorrow-he dies. Yet 'tis not for himself he grieves but his love-his dear wife and child, so close and yet-so far from his reach. For them, his whispered prayer of agony ascends beyond those iron bars to the seemingly-silent Heaven above. And as his lips move in silent prayer, he paces, back and forth, back and forth. Six steps to the far wall and six steps back again.

Midnight.

The brilliant light of the moon shines a little more softly through the darkened window panes, casting different and friendlier patterns on the dark wooden floor. Across this floor a woman paces, back and forth, back and forth. Her gentle, tender heart is racked and torn with sorrow and every thought of her pain wrenches a silent cry of grief from deep within her being. Not for herself do her silent tears fall, but for her dear one-so close and yet so far, for tomorrow-he dies. Her eyes move restlessly to her little one lying peacefully asleep and the pain becomes even more unbearable, for at noon the next day, that little one will be fatherless. Her lips move unceasingly in murmured prayer as she entreats for mercy from Above. She prays that it will be quick, that he will feel no pain, that he will be comforted in knowing that his dear family is safe. And as she lays this petition at the feet of Him who knows all, she never pauses in her pacing, back and forth, back and forth.

Midnight.

The glow of the moonlight shines softly on the pillow where lays the little golden head. The child wakens to hear the quick, light step across the floor, the muffled sobs, the whispered prayers. She does not understand, this little one, but she feels the shadow of a heavy sorrow pass over her soul. Softly, silently, she clasps her hands and murmurs in her childish thoughts a simple prayer. Prays for Daddy, that he may come home soon. For Mommy, that she may no longer be sad. And for her dear friend who only that day had seemed so strangely different, with that new light in his eyes-those whispered words, "A life you love." She wonders what he may have meant by this. She does not realize that a great sacrifice-and that only-is required to lift this cloud of despondency hanging threateningly over her young life.

Midnight.

The moon shines with an achingly unbearable light onto the withered, wrinkled hands clasped in restless agony. The white head is bowed with a sorrow too great to bear, and the old father's heart lies shattered with grief. A dull haze of terror and misery settles foremost in his mind but-behind it all-is the horror that somehow, someway, he has added to this suffering-has caused it! It is too much for him and the cloud settles deeper over him. The hands move nervously, seeking the mindless comfort of what is no longer there. "Where is my work?" he mutters. "Why don't you give me my work?" tears of pain and frustration fill his eyes, he lets them fall down his cheeks as he searches for his long-neglected work. He has given up the struggle with his grief.

Midnight.

The moonlight mingles with the firelight, casting shadows on the clock that ticks slowly on the mantle. Minute by minute, second by second, the hands move, nearing the hour tomorrow at which all must end. The old man sits before the fire, gazing sometimes into the flames, sometimes at the never-ceasing hands of the clock. He shakes his head, dreading the misery that is to come when the hands of that clock reach noon tomorrow. He thinks with sorrow of the child he carried across the channel so long ago, that child now a woman with a woman's heart and a woman's suffering. He thinks also of the young man to whom she was given just a few short years ago in the little church in Soho, that young man now a doomed prisoner. He thinks of their golden-haired daughter, so young and innocent, and of his old friend whose troubled mind unjustly blames himself for this suffering. With a sigh, he lets his head fall in his hands.

Midnight.

The moonlight stops short, unable to penetrate the dingy little office at the prison of the Conciergerie. A single candle burns on the paper-littered desk, the wax dripping slowly down. Nervous, anxious, the spy waits for morning. Well does he know of the sorrow and misery taking place within those very walls and he is troubled by this thought. He longs now to be gone from this place of tears and bloodshed, longs to be back in England once again. He hopes that the man he waits for will come through, for such a foolhardy idea as that man informed him of, he had never even thought possible. Time drags on and he waits, hardly daring to breathe in his anxiety.

Midnight.

The moonlight filters through the bars of yet another window in the dank and dirty walls of the prison, shining on the bowed head of a young girl as she kneels by the ragged straw cot. Tears fill her eyes and her heart beats fast, for tomorrow, she dies. She shivers as she gathers her shawl more closely around her thin shoulders. 'Tis not from the cold she shivers, but from the thought of what must take place on the morrow. With longing, she remembers the little country cottage where her dear little cousin waits for her in vain. She will never return now to that home she loved but must go to an unjust death. She reaches a shaking hand to her hair, wincing as she feels the short ends of her once-long black curls. In the corner of her cell lie the rest of her dark locks, yet another painful reminder of her doom. She closes her eyes, feels the tears slide down her cheeks, feels the lonely, empty ache in her heart as she whispers in defiance, "I am not afraid! I will be strong. I will be strong." and, although she says the words, she cannot believe them for she feels all alone and loneliness makes the pain and fear all the worse.

Midnight.

Through a dingy little window in the dark wine shop of St. Antoine, the soft glow of the moonlight casts a sinister glow. There is no light in the room, no sound but the soft, faint click of knitting needles as a woman, bowed by revenge and hatred, knits unceasingly, thinking with but a cruel triumph of what must come tomorrow. What must bring sorrow to so many will bring a joy and satisfaction to her twisted heart. What might have been if only greedy and selfish human nature had not reared its cruel head! A happy mother, a loving wife, a sweet and womanly heart? But what will be, will be and the click of the knitting needles drone on in their bloodthirsty song.

Midnight.

The street is dark, yet down upon the uneven cobblestones, shines the faint light of the moon. In the distance, the bells chime dolefully the hour of twelve. Not long now, day will break, and the bells will again chime twelve, sounding the death knell, as the rickety tumbrils bear the victims of the revolution down these same streets toward their doom. Slowly down the rough streets, a solitary figure passes in deep contemplation. Often before has this figure passed alone down a dark street, but with his head bowed, his back bent with sorrow. Not so on this night, for he feels with a certain gloomy pride and satisfaction that the morrow which so many dread, will but bring the solitary purpose for which he came into the world. "A life you love," he murmurs, for 'twas he who said those brave words. He holds his head high, stands tall and straight, his eyes filled with a light that outshines the moon. The dark prison of the Conciergerie looms before him but he will not fear to pass through her gates, through which so many innocents are unwillingly dragged. Heretofore has his life been wasted away, tomorrow will bring a glorious ending and a purpose at last.

Midnight.

Far above the light of the moon, far above the stars that shine unpityingly down on an unhappy world, the loving Father heart aches with sorrow. More grief fills his heart than any of the broken ones below as He gazes with loving pity on His erring children. He has tried to teach them to love but they scorn His commands and are filled with hatred, with a thirst for blood. He whispers to them, "Vengeance is mine, I will repay," but they continue on, taking vengeance into their own hands, never satisfied in their lust for death. He hears the whispered prayers, the cries of the innocent, sees the tears fall. He longs to heal the suffering and pain, yet stays His mighty Hand, knowing His children must be allowed to make their own choice. And so, He opens His loving arms to welcome home His innocent ones to a far better rest than ever they have known. This time, He will allow to be different. His mercy will be shown yet again, for another child of His, lately turned from his folly, has made the decision to redeem his past. Through this courageous soul will the Father enact His will. This man the instrument the Father uses to heal the wounding, bleeding hearts that cry out to Him on this night. He knows the pain of the old father, hears the prayer of the young father, sees the tears of the child, the tears of the mother. Through one courageous man, the Father will heal their pain. And in this, will He further His mercy for he hears also the despairing cry of the lonely young girl. Broken, bruised, weary of the world, she will not remain long in it. But in her death, He will provide her comfort. And the man giving up his life, he will receive comfort as well... the love he has always longed for. In their last moments, the Father will bring the lonely girl and the broken-hearted man together. He will guide them safely through their last journey together.