The knell was at his heart.

No work of man had ever voice like that which sounded there, and warned him that it cried unceasingly to Heaven.

Who could hear that hell, and not know what it said! There was murder in its every note--cruel, relentless, savage murder--the murder of a confiding man, by one who held his every trust.
Its ringing summoned phantoms from their graves.

What face was that, in which a friendly smile changed to a look of half incredulous horror, which stiffened for a moment into one of pain, then changed again into an imploring glance at Heaven, and so fell idly down with upturned eyes, like the dead stags' he had often peeped at when a little child: shrinking and shuddering--there was a dreadful thing to think of now!--and clinging to an apron as he looked! He sank upon the ground, and grovelling down as if he would dig himself a place to hide in, covered his face and ears: but no, no, no,--a hundred walls and roofs of brass would not shut out that bell, for in it spoke the wrathful voice of God, and from that voice, the whole wide universe could not afford a refuge! While he rushed up and down, not knowing where to turn, and while he lay crouching there, the work went briskly on indeed.

When they left the Maypole, the rioters formed into a solid body, and advanced at a quick pace towards the Warren.