"Kill him!" the mob yelled. "Kill him!" as they surged In fury round their prisoner. Unmoved And unafraid he stood: a constable Of Paris, captured by the Communards. His hands were black with gunpowder; his clothes Were red with blood. A simple, fearless man, Charged with the task of carrying out the law, He gave no quarter, and he asked for none. All the day he had fought against the mob That swept with sword and flame along the streets Of Paris, while the German conqueror Battened on France. A woman sprang at him, And shrieked, "You have been killing us!" "That's true," The man replied. "Come, shoot him here!" she screamed. "No! Farther on! At the Bastille!" "No! Here!" And while the crowd disputed, the man said: "Kill me just where you like; but kill me quick." "Yes!" cried the woman, "shoot him where he stands. He is a wolf!" "A wolf that has been caught," The prisoner said, "by a vile pack of curs!" "The wretch insults us!" yelled the furious mob. "Down with him! Death! Death! Death!" And with clenched fists They struck him on the face. An angry flame Gleamed in his eyes, but, silent and superb, He marched along the street amid the howls Of the ferocious, maddened multitude! God! How they hated him! To shoot him seemed Too light a sentence, as he calmly strode Over the corpses of their comrades strewn Along the street. "How many did you kill?" They shrieked at him. "Murderer! Traitor! Spy!" He did not answer; but the waiting mob Heard a small voice cry: "Daddy!" and a child Of six years' age ran from a house close by, And struggled to remain and clasped his knees, Saying, "He is my daddy. Don't hurt him! He is my daddy--" "Down with the cursed spy! Shoot him at once!" a hundred voices said; "Then we can get on with our work!" Their yells, The clangour of the tocsin, and the roar Of cannon mingled. 'Mid the dreadful noise, The child, still clinging to his father's knees, Cried, "I tell you he's my daddy. Let him go!" Pale, tearful, with one arm thrown out to shield His father, and the other round his leg, The child stood. "He is pretty!" said a girl. "How old are you, my little one?" The child Answered, "Don't kill my daddy!" Many men Lowered their eyes, and the fierce hands that gripped The prisoner began to loose their hold. "Send the kid to its mother!" one man cried, "And end this job!" "His mother died last month," The prisoner said. "Do you know Catherine?" He asked his little boy. "Yes," said the child, "She lives next door to us." "Then go to her," He said, in grave, calm, kindly tones. "No! No! I cannot go without you!" cried his son. "They're going to hurt you, daddy, all these men!" The father whispered to the Communards That held him. "Let me say good-bye to him,