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Topic: Reward (09/27/04)
TITLE: UNMERITED REWARD By Kenny Paul Clarkson 09/27/04 |
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Two oaken doors stood between him and the king. They were immense and intimidating. Rigid sentries, dressed in full armor, drew their swords as he approached. But his black moustache — trimmed to perfection — and his matching goatee were recognized. The guards stood aside, opening the way to throne room. But they did not salute.
“A single arrow, Your Highness,” he warned, nodding to the open window. The king turned to face his guest, but said nothing. He didn’t fear the arrows of his enemies.
“And the accused?” he asked. Again, the king cared to say nothing in reply.
More footsteps were heard and momentarily two others entered the courtroom.
“Ah!” the man turned. “The accused!”
His eyes smiled, but it was a sinister grin. His countenance betrayed a beguiling arrogance. He was confident the prisoner would be condemned. The penalty was death. And he had the evidence to convict him.
Slowly, the king took measured steps to his throne and, draping himself in his regal garb, sat confidently. He, too, stared at the accused.
He was a peasant; his hair disheveled, his face unshaven and his ragged clothes reeked of filth; stark contrast with the one at his side; his advocate.
There they stood; the devilish prosecutor with his perennial proud display of conceit, the helpless beggar facing a penalty of death and the defending attorney.
“Please,” the king pointed to an ornate bench that would grace the finest of cathedrals. The attorney gently took the accused by the arm and led him to be seated.
“He’s guilty, Your Highness,” the prosecutor simply stated. His smile had surrendered to an expression of deepest sincerity.
“He has stolen, murdered, committed every crime and varience thereof. He is a mockery of your law and, by that law, must be condemned to die!”
The king offered a look of concern.
“And who, may I ask, did the accused offend?” he challenged.
Again, the sinister smile.
“Your Highness,” he turned and stretched his arm toward the peasant. “This man has committed all of these offenses…”
He paused until he captured the eyes of the accused, then turned, again, to smile at the king. “Against you!”
The peasant, startled by the seriousness of his own crimes, began to weep. Uncontrollably.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered through his tears. “I didn’t know.”
But his attorney, sitting by his side, placed a firm arm around his client and held him close.
“Not to worry,” the attorney whispered in his ear. “I am the son of the king!”
The peasant looked at his defender. His tears turned to joy. His eyes closed in relief.
“Defender!” the king bellowed. “What say you in defense?”
The lawyer patted his client’s shoulder as a reassuring gesture, then stood to approach the throne. He didn’t bother to acknowledge his adversary, but chose, instead, to stand directly before the king.
The king patiently waited — it seemed like an eternity — for the defending attorney to make his case.
“My client is guilty,” the attorney finally agreed. “He is worthy of death.”
Disbelief swelled across the face of the poor peasant. His hopes were dashed; his mind flooded with thoughts of confusion; he didn’t understand. He buried his face in his hands and, again, began to weep.
“Death!” the king proclaimed.
The doors swung wide open. The sentries entered, grasping the condemned peasant to drag him to his fate.
“But Your Highness,” the defender interrupted.
The king raised his scepter. Silence filled the court room.
“Is there nothing that can be done to save this poor soul?”
“Justice must be done,” the king’s response was forthright. “The offense is without dispute and the penalty is death.”
“Then, Your Highness,” the lawyer turned to look into the eyes of his client. “Justice will be served. The penalty will be paid.”
He turned to look at his father.
“And I will take the punishment of death for the beggar.”