The humid summer heat stirred the miasmal odor of the chamber pot across the cell.
He stood looking from his dark cell through the small hand sized porthole at face level of the thick iron cell door, marveling at the rough laid stone wall, soot marks cast dancing in the flickering torch light across the brightly lit hall.
He thought, 'are not the smallest of things beautiful in the face of death.'
The sound of water trickling echoed ominously through the hall carried by the shrieks of the insane and sobs of the dead man.

His charge; blasphemy.
Beaten and imprisoned for teaching in the streets that the earth was a sphere.
Tried in his majesty's court, and ordered to recant to all he taught in exchange for a lighter sentence of a severed tongue.
Sentenced to death by hanging in the public square upon refusal.
This was his final hour.

What ran through his burdened mind in these final moments were the things in life which he felt passion for. His love for his wife, Ethel Rose. His adoration for his daughter, Lellow. His thirst for knowledge and truth. His devotion to God.
The calm nights his daughter slept peacefully dreaming in the cottage as his wife lay bare breasted beside him as he smoked his pipe after making love to her in the field of the countryside in which he called home....