In dreadful contrast to this burning silence of Nature is the wrath and hate which are seething in the market-place.

Group talked with restless group, and not a face But wrath made livid, for among them were Death's staunch purveyors, such as have in care To feast him.

Fear had long since taken root In every breast, and now these crushed its fruit, The ripe hate, like a wine; to note the way It worked while each grew drunk! Men grave and grey Stood, with shut eyelids, rocking to and fro, Letting the silent luxury trickle slow About the hollows where a heart should be; But the young gulped with a delirious glee Some foretaste of their first debauch in blood At the fierce news.
Step by step the varying passions, varying with the men of the varied cities of the League assembled at Verona, are smitten out on the anvil of Browning's imagination.

Better still is the continuation of the same scene in the third book, when the night has come, and the raging of the people, reaching its height, declares war.

Palma and Sordello, who are in the palace looking on the square, lean out to see and hear.