Faustine instinctively knew her fight was over. She was trapped between the vicious mob and the charging Spanish army. She dropped to her knees out of sheer exhaustion, acutely aware of the Spaniard on the black mustang as he raised his gleaming jewel-handled sword--preparing to strike! She closed her eyes tight, feeling the warmth of the sun one last time against her tearstained face as she silently prayed for the strength to remain brave through to the bitter end. She felt a deep ache in her chest as her thoughts turned to her father. He had given her the choice to tagalong on his military campaign that brought the two of them to Madrid. She had been looking forward to spending the summer amid the city's romantic flare. Yet the mood of the capital was anything but friendly as the natives teetered on the verge of a momentous rebellion; due to the French army's bold march across Spain that had transformed the streets into a bloody arena.
At the first sign of trouble, her father did not hesitate to send her out of harm's way--that's how she ended up at the home of her great-aunt, who was a prominent resident of Valencia. It was for that reason: she feared her father would blame himself, when he learned of the Valencian Massacre. Yet there was no way he could have known that the Spanish Uprising would spread like wildfire across every region of Spain.
Or that it would bring about her premature demise as she stared into the face of death.