The Anglo One sit hunched in their foul dungeon with nothing to eat but rat droppings, burning bank shares for warmth and to keep their sanity, reciting from memory old interviews with Marian Finucane.
What is to become of us? they whisper, but no-one listens, for the mob is ahowl and the tumbrels groan on the cobbblestones.
It is the best of times. It is the worst of times.
It is time for sweaty nightcaps.
It is time for all good men to hold their tongues.
It is time.
In the distance, a dog howls, a blade thuds and a urprised head falls into the basket, blinking. Its wig falls on the green.
The old crones knit.
But we are innocent, protest the Anglo One.
It matters not a sous to the toothless jailer. He laughs and scratches his crotch.
Bah! he says.
And yet, there is hope.
One man will not stand by and see these brave Anglo One go to their doom undefended.
Lawyers and scribes who once ate their fill at the banqueting tables of the Anglo One, now eschew and contemn them, but there is one, versed in ways of the old law, who will soon return from his painful Portuguese exile, and he, if none other, will defend the noble Anglo One.
That man, mark ye well his name, is Michael Lynn and he comes with all haste to fight this reign of terror.
He may die in the fight, but fight he will, and the noble Anglo One will walk free, though he may stand on the gallows in their stead.
He may well perish, but it is a far, far better thing he does than he has ever done.