They felt as if there were something grand in this perfectly dispassionate reception of the outrage, and they stood awed and silenced, Sophy leaning on him.
‘It will soon be over now,’ he said, ‘they are poking up the name to receive me.’
‘Hark! what’s that?’
The mob came swaying back, and a rich voice swelled above all the din, ‘Boys, boys, is it burning your friends you are? Then, for the first time, Mr. Kendal started, and muttered, ‘foolish lad! is he here?’
Confused cries rose again, but the other voice gained the mastery.
‘So you call that undertaker-looking figure there Mr. Kendal. Small credit to your taste. You want to burn him. What for?’
‘For being a Nabob and a tyrant,’ was the shout.
‘Much you know of Nabobs! No; I’ll tell you what it’s for. It is because his son got his death fighting for his queen and his country a year ago, and on his death-bed bade him do his best to drive the fever from your doors, and shelter you and save you from the Union in your old age. Is that a thing to burn him for?’
‘We want no Irish papists here!’ shouted a blackguard voice.
‘Serve him with the same sauce.’