Maria shuffled along the cobbled lanes. It was cold and her breath hung on the morning air. She clutched a stool in one hand and a bag in the other. She needed to be early to get a good view; she had been coming to the square every time there was such an event. She would soon warm up once her needles were clicking together using her rough spun wool.

The platform and scaffolding no longer held the same mystic as it had on that first day she arrived to see the beheading of so many revolutionaries. The memory was vivid especially as she watched the face of her lover who stared directly at her as 'madam guillotine ' sliced his head from his shoulders. Maria had vowed from that day she would attend all executions. She did not come out of morbid curiosity but to pray for the souls of those who died. She confessed to her closest friends that hand on heart she was not a religious person but she felt if God was looking down on France at this time someone should appear to care. She doubted whether the church really cared but that was another story.

'Madam,' said a soldier as she shuffled into the square and placed her stool close to the basket where the heads would fall.

'Bonjour monsier,' she replied and coughed and spat out some phlegm that gathered in her mouth. She wiggled her backside on the stool to get comfortable. The execution was scheduled for eleven so she had four hours to wait. She slipped a small flask from beneath her skirts and had a quick drink. She let the liquid linger in her mouth before it made its way down her throat burning as it went. Maria rummaged through her bag and began knitting. Time passed quickly. The noise in the square rose in volume as shopkeepers set up their stalls for the gathering crowds. Still Maria sat knitting taking little notice of activity going around her.

As the town clock struck ten Maria was surprised to see the striking bunting of red, white and blue being nailed around the platform. She muttered something to herself and continued knitting. Her space had now been invaded by other observers excited and chatty. A lady close to Maria tried to engage her in conversation but she nodded and said nothing; the lady gave up and turned to someone else.

As the clock struck eleven there was the sound of marching drums. The crowd hushed to an almost reverential level as the soldiers marched into the square and the drums were now ringing in Maria's ears. She stopped knitting and looked at the prisoners being pushed up the scaffolding. There was one who looked vaguely familiar but her eye sight was not as good as it was so shrugging her shoulders she settled down to her knitting. The crowd were waiting in expectation. The first prisoner was brought to the block; he knelt and his head was forced in place and on the signal the guillotine swiftly fell and ended his life. The crowd went wild and cheered loudly. Maria looked from side to side gave then a hateful look and bent her head in quiet prayer.

It was the final prisoner which made Maria watch intently. He was not like the others, he reminded her of someone. He stepped up to the block to jeers and boos. Maria got to her feet to try and get a closer look but was barred by soldiers who were concerned the crowd would get out of control. She remained standing straining her eyes.

It was only as the blade came swiftly down did shock and anguish cross her face. It was her son who had joined the revolution. She had lost touch with him and presumed he had fallen at the storming of the Bastille. Maria gave out such a heart rendering scream as the head of her son bounced out of the basket and landed close to her feet.

She dropped to her feet and embraced the head of her son. A soldier grabbed the head and pushed Maria to one side. She collapsed weeping in the mud. Her anguish was great; had this revolution really achieved anything?

She shuffled away from the square, tears coursing down her face.