Witchcraft: New Style

When she was gone,

Their talk could scarcely raise itself again

Above a grumble. But at last a cry

Sharp-pitcht came startling in from the street: at once

Their moody talk exploded into flare

Of swearing hubbub, like gunpowder dropt

On embers; mugs were clapt down, out they bolted

Rowdily jostling, eager for the event.

All down the street the folk throng'd out of doors,

But left a narrow track clear in the middle;

And there a man came running, a tall man

Running desperately and slowly, pounding

Like a machine, so evenly, so blindly;

And regularly his trotting body wagg'd.

Only one foot clatter'd upon the stones;

The other padded in his dogged stride:

The boot was gone, the sock hung frayed in shreds

About his ankle, the foot was blood and earth;

And never a limp, not the least flinch, to tell

The wounded pulp hit stone at every step.

His clothes were tatter'd and his rent skin showed,

Harrowed with thorns. His face was pale as putty,

Thrown far back; clots of drooping spittle foamed

On his moustache, and his hair hung in tails,

Mired with sweat; and sightless in their sockets

His eyeballs turned up white, as dull as pebbles.

Evenly and doggedly he trotted,

And as he went he moaned. Then out of sight

Round a corner he swerved, and out of hearing.

— 'The law should have a say to that, by God!'