Isabelle listened to the sounds of the birds in the trees as she made her way to the river in the early morning light. He watched her walk across the camp from the window, her slim hips swaying and her colorful dress rippling in the breeze. “Leave her alone!” He shouted again. “I’m her father. As they gropped her and forced her legs open, she felt numb acceptance fall over her. “Are you well?” He asked, worried for her. The air was crisp and cold, the late spring bringing a fine silver mist that seemed to chill her straight to the bone. Then he knew no more. “This is your last warning, let the girl go or I’ll have them picking your tripes off your boots!”
“It seems the little ‘ero can’t count. She suddenly felt afraid, they were camping near a village about two days from Paris, and the locals had not been as happy to see them as most.
