YEAR 1895
The gentle lustre of his eyes lifted to the burning noon sun through the small window. Mathias
Icarius Montgomery leaned over and craned to see the outside world through the iron bars of
the prison that held him. A cloud of dust flew in and then rushed into his eyes and he drew back
irritably but quickly recovered to his earlier position on the window. His last moments of freedom
were these. He had been accused of treason and he was on a death row, sentenced to be hanged the following day.
The failing hope that now possessed his visage was owed to the thoughts of being in this state,
unable to be with his ailing wife with child. He stood, relishing the pallid scene outside. The
people, buried in the turmoil of the usual vending, filled the streets, stretched through every narrow
gate and boulevard, and discharged into a stream of many, making their way to this pitiful scene.