Kriss was trying to keep a straight face in spite of the wounds she could still feel burning in her flesh. This was a partial success, regularly broken by bouts of sharper pain when a waft of air touched a raw nerve ending. The wound that was causing her the most anxiety was the brand under her heel. It had none of the humiliating and defacing power of the other two, but wounds under the feet were the slowest to heal, if they at all did. Antiseptics, even alcohol were a rare commodity and she would have either to stay in bed with her foot bandaged and regularly washed or risk to lose her foot or even her leg. A snarl briefly twitched her sweaty face.<em>As if I had any choice. I'll have to walk on that wound all the way down to the Battery Fort. I'll make them pay for that!</em><br/><br/>Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted as something blocked her sight. A piece of dirty canvas, a bag had been pulled over her face. She shook her head and even tried to swing her yoke, but it was securely held and she hardly budged, although her muscles bulged like cords around her neck and along her arms. She roared with frustration like a trapped panther. Then something was tightened around her neck, cutting into her wind pipe. Again she tried to shake her head. She contracted the muscles of her neck to fight against the strangling. But this was a losing battle. The thin string was cutting into her skin, tightening bit by bit, and she could only keep her muscles clenched for so much time. Progressively, the coils narrowed around her neck until her breath had been reduced to a laboured hiss. Then she felt the string tied behind her head, way out of reach of her fingers. The bag was securely kept in place. It was hiding her features entirely, except for the end of her red hair that could be seen emerging around her strangled neck.<br/><br/>At this moment, the guards at each end of her yoke pushed her forward and she had to limp on her good foot, resting her weight on the ball of her left foot and as briefly as possible. The yoke was making keeping balance not so easy a task. She was led along an alley bordered by angry Patricks on both sides. They kept spitting and slapping at her helpless body as she passed by them.<br/><br/>The bag was not totally opaque. She could still distinguish some lights through the canvas but it was difficult to make out what they were in the dim luminosity. But it did more than just blind her. With the string choking her, it was increasing the feeling of asphyxia as the air inside the bag was soon stale and thick with her respiration. Not that it had even felt fresh. It had probably be used to carry rotten potato peelings and its stench had made Kriss to retch. It was dusty too and it made the skin of her face and scalp scratchy. In front of her slightly gaping mouth, the bag was moving in rhythm with her jerky breathing.<br/><br/>She heard the creaking of a door pivoting on its hinge and then the cold air of the night made the skin of her arms and belly form goose-bumps. She could even feel some drops of rains. Turning her head around, she tried too determine on which side of the cathedral she was.<em>North, west or south?</em>It would be important to walk in the right direction. But in the middle of the night, with only the torches of her guards to illuminate the place, it was difficult to tell, through the canvas of the bag.<br/><br/>The ground was rough now, dented, cracked, full of pebbles and dirt. Walking one-footed was much more difficult than inside the church. The guards were pressing her forward but did not help her much. They were just making sure she would not break her neck right in front of the cathedral. They made her climb the mound of earth and detritus that surrounded the place and stumble down the other side. Each step was causing the yoke bells to ring loudly in the silent night, echoing among the lofty ruins of the sky-scrapers.