TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. [_Terrified._] Aye. Amen! Yiss!
DEACON ROBERTS. [_Clapping his hands to his face._] Stones of Baal, stones of darkness, slimy with ooze, red-hot ooze, thick vapors! Howl ye, howl, ye sinners! [_All moan and groan. Takes a glance at clock, passes hand over face and runs on madly, neck rigid, eyes staring, fat red cheeks turning to purple._] Midday, not midnight, is the hour of hell; its sun never sets! But who knows when comes that hour of hell?
NELI. [_Taking hands from counter and crossing them as she whispers._] Who knows?
HUGH. [_Voice quavering and lifting his Welsh essays._] Who knows?
DEACON ROBERTS. [_Big yellow drops pouring down his face, his voice full of anguish._] I will tell ye when is the hour of hell. [_He points to the clock._] Is one the hour of hell? Nay. Two? Nay. Three? No, not three. Four? Four might be the hour of hell, but 'tis not. Five? Nor five, indeed. Six? Nay. Seven? Is seven the hour, the awful hour? Nay, not yet. Eight? Is eight the hour--an hour bright as this bright hour? Nay, eight is not. [_The_ DEACON _shouts in a mighty voice and points with a red finger at the clock_.] 'Tis comin'! 'Tis comin', I say! Howl ye, howl! Only one minute more! Sinners, sinners, lift up your eyes! Cry for mercy! [_All groan._] Cry for mercy! When the clock strikes twelve, 'twill be the hour of hell! Fix your eyes upon the clock! Watch! Count! Listen! 'Tis strikin'. The stroke! The hour is here!
[_All dropped on their knees and turned toward the clock, their backs to the street door, are awaiting the awful stroke. The book has fallen from_ HUGH'S _hands_. NELI'S _hands are clenched_. MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE _is nodding her old head_. MRS. JONES THE WASH _on her knees, her face upturned to the clock, is rubbing up and down her thighs, as if at the business of washing_. TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP _is prostrate and making a strange buzzing sound between his lips. The wheels of the clever old timepiece whir and turn. Then in the silent noonday the harsh striking begins: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve._
DEACON ROBERTS. [_Yelling suddenly in a loud and terrible voice._] Hell let loose! Howl ye! Howl, ye sinners! [_All cover their eyes. All groan or moan. The clock ticks, the flame in the grate flutters_, NELI'S _bosom rises and falls heavily_.] Lest worse happen to ye, sin no more!