In a delicious languor
between sleeping and waking I listened with imperturbable curiosity
awhile to that voice of the unknown. Indeed, I was dozing again when a
different sound, enormous, protracted, abruptly aroused me. I got up,
hot and trembling, not yet quite my own master, to discover its cause.
Through a narrow slit between the timbers I could view the country
beneath me, far and wide. I saw near at hand the cumbrous gate of the
stockade ajar, and at a little distance on the farther side Mr.
Gulliver and his half-human servant standing. In front of them was an
empty space--a narrow semicircle of which Gulliver was the centre. And
beyond--wild-eyed, dishevelled, stretching their necks as if to see,
inclining their heads as if to hearken, ranging in multitude almost to
the sky's verge--stood assembled, it seemed to me, all the horses of
the universe.
Even in my first sensation of fear admiration irresistibly stirred.
The superb freedom of their unbridled heads, the sun-nurtured
arrogance of their eyes, the tumultuous, sea-like tossing of crest and
tail, their keenness and ardour and might, and also in simple truth
their numbers--how could one marvel if this solitary fanatic dreamed
they heard him and understood?
Unarmed, bareheaded, he faced the brutal discontent of his people.
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