It was morning, dark grey and dull, matching the assassin's demeaner quite
perfectly, and on this appointed day the guilty-or-not were sent to the 
block in turn for whatever crimes the Queen deamed worthy of death -- in the case
of the assassin, the murder of the beloved King;  out of nervousness the
murderer's shoulders shook wide wavering arcs, his arms vibrating with
exponential consistancy followed suit by his hands, which could hardly be
seen!
    and it was soon after that the queen emerged from her hollow on the side
of the castle:
    an unlit and undecorated hole beset into the mortared wall, revealing a
most unappealing grotto, which ended onto a short unfenced balcony where she
and her lady-in-waiting sat to watch the proceedings--
    and as soon as the eyes of all were upon the doomed man, the king's
once-trusted, once-faithful friend-turned-betrayer brayed out these fleeting
words:
    "I must say that I am proud of what I have done," he said with tears
bubbling from the agonizingly red sockets of his eyes, and looking 
mournfully up to his queen who merely turned away --
    but the assassin continued, though not as gracefully as before:
    "I did this for my queen," he said, his body shaking ever the more, "as
the King was a most cruel and horrid man, and a beater and a luster of 
women, and unfaithful--more so than I to him--to his Queen...I could not
stand to see the way she was suffering,"
    and suddenly the queen seemed to be more at ease, for she now understood
what the young man meant to her--
    and she cried bitterly and remorsefully as the shiney, highly-polished
blade, glimmering in the cloud-hidden sunlight, sliced through the air,
making a terrible racket as it slid through its rough wooden frame, cutting
into the young, handsome assassin's neck with a revolting snap and dropping
his head into a bucket at his feet.