A priest stood on the box again, and raised his hands, and spoke some more words. Bertram heard the end of them.
“May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace, Amen.”
Another priest took his place.
“He died as a Christian martyr. His last words were, ‘God save Ireland’!”
A frightful confusion of sound burst forth. No one was kneeling now. The women had risen to their feet, some wailing, some crying in shrill, fierce tones, some weeping noisily, some laughing, even, as one girl near Bertram, with hysteria. Men’s voices sounded among the women’s.
“God save Ireland! To hell with England! May God curse them for this day! The bloody tyrants!”
As in a kind of liturgy, prayers answered the curses.
“May his soul rest in peace!”
“Mother of God, pray for him!”
The soldiers were turning back the crowd with their rifles lengthwise. An officer shouted words of command. An armoured car moved, driving a line among the women. Bertram was pressed amidst a living mass, mostly women, forced along with them. The tress of a woman’s hair, uncoiled in the night, flicked across his face. Hands grabbed at his shoulders for support. A girl swooned and fell against him, and he put his arm about her and helped to carry her. Presently, after a long while, as it seemed, he found himself with elbow-room, able to walk freely, following separate groups of men and women. . . .