It was a forest planted with fig trees, apricot trees, and almond trees, with swathes of wine grapes beneath their shade. Grapes were supposed to need abundant sunlight, but the sun here was somewhat too fierce, and the land was so dry that without the shade, the tender green vines would likely have been scorched by the sun.
Not far away, a river flowed quietly. Its waters had originally been fairly clear, and water birds had been searching for food in the mud, but as if they had sensed something, they flapped their wings and flew away.
She sensed it too. She wanted to leave this beautiful, peaceful place before everything turned bad.
Then she opened her eyes and found herself still in the bed where she had lain down before sleeping, with the Belgian scenery still outside the window.
Margarita was sleeping beside her bed. Georgiana tiptoed past her, picked up the cloak hanging nearby, and went out wearing only her morning gown.
She went to the stables, found a horse, and rode it to the lakeshore where Bonaparte had brought her yesterday morning. Mist still shrouded the lake. After dismounting, she walked to the place where she had entered the water yesterday and jumped in without taking off her clothes.
The icy, bone-chilling lake water was very clear, cooling her down from that dry, scorching place in her dream.
No matter how newspapers in France suppressed it, Britain still "revealed" everything that had happened at Acre. No one could deny that it had been one of the cruelest things Bonaparte had ever done.
Yet most of the soldiers present had supported the execution of those Turkish prisoners, because they had killed the envoy sent to negotiate peace. To them, the blood of one of their own soldiers mattered