How Animals Talk 



the seething mass of humanity charged a squadron 

 of cavalry, striking left or right with the flats of 

 their sabers, raising a new hubbub of shrieks and 

 imprecations as the weaker were trampled down. 

 Fear? That crowd knew no more of fear just then 

 than an upturned hive of bees. They met the 

 charge with a roar, a hoarse, solid shout that seemed 

 to sweep the cavalry away like smoke in the wind. 

 Unarmed men swarmed at the horses like enraged 

 baboons, hurling stones or curses as they went. 

 The rush ended in a triumphant yell, and riderless 

 horses, their eyes and nostrils aflame, went plung- 

 ing, kicking, squealing through the pandemonium. 



There must have been something tremendously 

 animal in the scene, after all; for when I recall 

 it now I see, as if Memory had carved her statue 

 of the event, an upreared horse with a crumpled 

 rider toppling from the saddle; and I hear not the 

 shouts or curses of men, but the horrible scream of 

 a maddened brute. 



It was the night, many years ago, when news of 

 disaster to the Italian army at Adowa broke loose, 

 after being long suppressed, and I learned then 

 for the first time what emotional excitement 

 means when the gates are all down. One had to 

 hold himself against it, as against a flood or a 

 mighty wind. To yield, to lose self-control even 

 for an instant, was to find oneself howling, reach- 



[132] 



