Mr. Romer gave a sign to the policemen and approached a step nearer. The cider-drinkers had already moved off. The crowd began to melt away.
“The very earth,” went on the young man, “cries aloud to you to put an end to this tyranny! Do you realize that this is the actual place where in one grand revolt the men of Mid Wessex rose against the—”
He was interrupted by a man behind him—a poacher from an outlying hamlet. “Chuck it, Phil Wone! Us knows all about this ’ere job.”
Mr. Romer raised his hand. The policemen seized the young man by the arms, one on either side. He seemed hardly to notice them, and went on in a loud resonant voice that rang across the valley.
“It will end! It will end, this evil day! Already the new age is beginning. These robbers of the people had better make haste with their plundering, for the hour is approaching! Where is your priest?”—he struggled violently with his captors, turning towards the rapidly retreating crowd, “where is your vicar,—your curer of souls? He talks to you of submission, and love, and obedience, and duty. What does this man care for these things? It is under this talk of “love” that you are betrayed! It is under this talk of “duty,” that your children have the bread taken from their mouths! But the hour will come;—yes, you may smile,” he addressed himself directly to Mr. Romer now, “but you will not smile for long. Your fate is already written down! It is as sure as this rain,—as sure as this storm!”
He was silent, and making no further resistance, let himself be carried off by the two officials.
The rain he spoke of was indeed beginning. Heavy drops, precursors of what seemed likely to be a tropical deluge, fell upon the broken wood-work, upon the half-burnt bracken, upon the slabs of Leonian stone, and upon the trampled grass. They also fell upon Mr. Romer’s silver match-box as he selected another cigarette of his favourite brand, and walked slowly and smilingly away in the direction of Nevilton.