He ended. There was silence in the church; We heard a baby sucking in its sleep At the farthest end of the aisle. Then spoke a man, ‘Now, look to it, coves, that all the beef and drink Be not filched from us like the other fun; For beer’s spilt easier than a woman is! This gentry is not honest with the poor; They bring us up, to trick us.’—‘Go it, Jim,’ A woman screamed back,—‘I’m a tender soul; I never banged a child at two years old And drew blood from him, but I sobbed for it Next moment,—and I’ve had a plague of seven. I’m tender; I’ve no stomach even for beef, Until I know about the girl that’s lost, That’s killed, mayhap. I did misdoubt, at first, The fine lord meant no good by her, or us. He, maybe, got the upper hand of her By holding up a wedding-ring, and then ... A choking finger on her throat, last night, And just a clever tale to keep us still, As she is, poor lost innocent. ‘Disappear!’ Who ever disappears except a ghost? And who believes a story of a ghost? I ask you,—would a girl go off, instead Of staying to be married? a fine tale! A wicked man, I say, a wicked man! For my part I would rather starve on gin Than make my dinner on his beef and beer.’— At which a cry rose up—‘We’ll have our rights. We’ll have the girl, the girl! Your ladies there Are married safely and smoothly every day, And _she_ shall not drop through into a trap Because she’s poor and of the people: shame! We’ll have no tricks played off by gentlefolks; We’ll see her righted.’ Through the rage and roar I heard the broken words which Romney flung Among the turbulent masses, from the ground He held still, with his masterful pale face— As huntsmen throw the ration to the pack, Who, falling on it headlong, dog on dog In heaps of fury, rend it, swallow it up With yelling hound-jaws,—his indignant words, His piteous words, his most pathetic words, Whereof I caught the meaning here and there By his gesture ... torn in morsels, yelled across, And so devoured. From end to end, the church Rocked round us like the sea in storm, and then Broke up like the earth in earthquake. Men cried out ‘Police’—and women stood and shrieked for God, Or dropt and swooned; or, like a herd of deer, (For whom the black woods suddenly grow alive, Unleashing their wild shadows down the wind To hunt the creatures into corners, back And forward) madly fled, or blindly fell, Trod screeching underneath the feet of those Who fled and screeched. The last sight left to me Was Romney’s terrible calm face above The tumult!—the last sound was ‘Pull him down! Strike—kill him!’ Stretching my unreasoning arms, As men in dreams, who vainly interpose ’Twixt gods and their undoing, with a cry