I glanced up at the burning deck. It looked as if a child had been reduced to ashes in a heap of dead warriors, all fallen in the fight against the rebellion. At a glance, I saw the whole tragedy: the holy miracles vanished at once, embracing death with a gallant touch. It was a burning flame that would never fade, restoring its own light forever.
The young girl stood as the last symbol of hope. To guide and protect her, a virtual fortification arose. She was the leading soul, sweet as marmalade, yet deeply rooted like the flower plants and herbs in a garden—growing everlasting with courage.
She inflamed the spirit when all hopes and aspirations seemed unfulfilled. She was willing even to starve to survive with glory and chastity, rather than be shaken off like a thief or a hoarder who presses their sins upon the uninvoked. In the end, the sinners and the fusiliers both stood shy, dying scornfully with no one left to protect them. To force them into rest was virtually impossible.
