Then you’re the dogs,” he calmly made reply.
“Hark, he insults us!” And from every side
Clenched fists were shaken, angry voices cried,
Ferocious threats were muttered, deep and low.
With gall upon his lips, gloom on his brow,
And in his eyes a gleam of baffled hate,
He went, pursued by howlings, to his fate.
Treading with wearied and supreme disdain
’Midst the forms of dead men he perchance had slain.
Dread is that human storm, an angry crowd: