She did not look like a woman who had brought a nation to its knees.
Dark skin hung under her eyes, her wrists rubbed red and raw from the restraints circling them, fingernails bitten to the quick, mouth smeared with blood.
A few months ago she had walked through this same crowd, her spine straight and proud.
Now she stood in front of a crowd calling for her blood, and her lips trembled and her legs shook, but she did not cry. She stood as tall as she could, frighteningly young and oh-so-frightened.
All rebellions start with the young.