A Mr. Brua, one of Brown’s prisoners, Strolled out from the unguarded prison-room Into the bullets, lifted Stevens up, Carried him over to the old hotel They called the Wager House, got a doctor for him, And then strolled back to take his prisoner’s place With Colonel Washington and the scared rest. I know no more than this of Mr. Brua But he seems curiously American, And I imagine him a tall, stooped man A little yellow with the Southern sun, With slow, brown eyes and a slow way of talking, Shifting the quid of tobacco in his cheek Mechanically, as he lifted up The dirty, bloody body of the man Who stood for everything he most detested And slowly carrying him through casual wasps Of death to the flyspecked but sunny room In the old hotel, wiping the blood and grime Mechanically from his Sunday coat,