Clad in muddy boots and dirty smocks, the peasants brandished murderous axes, pitchforks and sickles. Their cry grew ever more threatening, “This land is ours, Excellency,” they repeated. “Now we have come to claim it.” The Prince stood on the manor steps, his gun raised, a powerful figure of awesome authority. Sophie, terrified, rushed toward him. “Shoot!” she cried. “Shoot! Stop them!” But still the Prince did not move. And the axes and pitchforks and sickles moved ever nearer.
Harlequin Masquerade - # 7
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