Xvi

At which last "If" There flew at his throat like a mastiff One Spare-Horse--another and another! Such outbreak of tumult and pother, Horse-faces a-laughing and fleering, Horse-voices a-mocking and jeering, Horse-hands raised to collar the caitiff Whose impudence ventured the late "If"-- That, had not fear sent Pacchiarotto Off tramping, as fast as could trot toe, Away from the scene o£ discomfiture-- Had he stood there stock-still in a dumb fit--sure Am I he had paid in his person Till his mother might fail to know her son, Though she gazed on him never so wistful, In the figure so tattered and tristful. Each mouth full of curses, each fist full Of cuffings--behold, Pacchiarotto, The pass which thy project has got to, Of trusting, nigh ashes still hot--tow! (The paraphrase--which I much need--is From Horace "per ignes incedis.")