Oswald—What was that shouting?
(A silence ensues. The monk puts his palm to his breast and coughs.)
Jardin—(Completing his thought.)—these men aghast here
Calls up to Jardin's mind a night in the wars
When we were storming Acre. The Infidel,
Sallying out, had laid the Lion Heart
Low in the dust. The waves of battle clapped
Over his head. Barred in with dripping spears
Of Turk and Christian, raged the bleeding whelp,
His paws red-clotted in his own hot blood.
Cleaving the gloom, a burst of crimson light
Streamed down the slanting spears and like a prow
Rolled back the waves of war. Between the crests
Of foam-white faces holy St. Augustine
Came walking down the bodies of the dead,
And lifting the Lion, fired him. At once
Rose on the night the planet of his shield
Burning a lane before his falchion fed,
And down the slope into the Turks he swept
Through dropping shields and sabers thrown in air,
A lurid streak of flame. So Jardin now,
Seeing this blessed monk the saints have brought,
Takes fire, and blown with hate of our Lord's foes,
Will lick the crags and leap from peak to peak,
Nor shall the flame go out until the wind
Rain heathen ashes on the pit of hell.
(Roused by the Bailiff's words, four or five of the men spring to their feet. The rest rise slowly and remain mute. Oswald comes down the steps.)
Jardin— (Knocking the men with his sword.)
Line, line up! (A man points down the street.)
Another— We'll fix him, Father!
Another—He'll never strike no holy monk again!
Another—We'll burn the imp!
Another— Father shall see to it, too!
(The Bailiff strikes with his sword. The line marches right, double-quick.)