Notes

Richard slept uneasily. In dreams he heard cries and loud gunshots. The cobbled streets of Boston seemed to slant and blur beneath the recurring sight of fallen bodies. His mother sat weeping over a fallen form. Richard woke with a start. He shakily walked over to the basin of water and splashed the cool liquid onto his sweating brow. He paused, listening, hoping he had wakened no one with his nightmare. All was quiet. The moon shone a pale, cool light through the slats of the window.



Richard threw open the shutters and let the cool air rush in. There was peace and serenity in the moon and the ever pwas renewed. It seemed that a tangible mist of brooding consternation and fear lay heavily on the eaves of every house. The night throbbed with tenseness like a heavily beating heart.



Richard paced restlessly for a moment. The need overcame him to act, to walk, to be engaged in any activity other than this uneasy waiting. Walking to the table by his bed, he carefully wound his father’s watch and slipped in into his pocket. Quietly he slipped past the rooms of his mother and his Aunt and Uncle Davis. It had been five years since the bloody scene and his father’s sudden death in that infamous massacre in the streets of Boston.



He slipped stealthily outside, and the rush of the brisk night air, cool and strong served as a soothing balm to a youthful heart that languished in inactivity. Silently, heresent stars, and he gazed at them a while. Yet, when his eyes at last looked down over the city, the feeling of unrest