"Lynch him! Lynch him!" O savage cry,Why should you echo, "Crucify!"One sought, sleek-tongued, to pacifyThem with slow talk of trial, law,Established court; the dripping mawWould not be wheedled from its prey.Out of the past I heard him say,"So be it then; have then your way;But not by me shall blood be spilt;I wash my hands clean of this guilt."This was an echo of a phraseUttered how many million daysGone by? Water may cleanse the handsBut what shall scour the soul that standsAccused in heaven's sight?"The Kid."One cried, "Where is the bastard hid?""He is not here." It was a faintAnd futile lie. "The hell he ain't;We tracked him here. Show us the place,Or else . . ."He made an ugly face,Raising a heavy club to smite.I had been felled, had not the sight
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