I sat, waiting for when my time was called to be sentenced to death. My life was to end today, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was to be hanged, as is fitting for a spy (who are the lowest type of soldier) and would soon see my Maker. I was not given a Bible, nor was I allowed to see a minister; the provost marshal deemed me too “indecent” to have either of these dear commodities to comfort me as I reached my end.

“Your time has come,” one of the lieutenants said sadly, looking into the tent I was housed in. I stood up and smiled wanly, knowing full well what would come next. I followed the lieutenant to the hanging site, and as I walked up the ladder, I could see faces in the crowd with sorrow on their faces. Why do they mourn for a spy ? , I wondered as the noose was placed around my neck.

“Do you have any last words, sir?,” the marshal said, eying me with contempt.

“Memento mori. Remember that you too shall die, and wither with time.” I closed my eyes.

And such was my end.