Far across
over the tossing host, rearing, leaping, craning dishevelled heads,
went pealing and eddying that hostile, brutal voice.
Gulliver lifted his hand, and a tempestuous silence fell once more.
"Yahoos! Yahoos!" he bawled again. Then he turned, and passed back
into his hideous garden. The gate was barred and bolted behind him.
Thus loosed and unrestrained, surged as if the wind drove them, that
concourse upon the stockade. Heavy though its timbers were, they
seemed to stoop at the impact. A kind of fury rose in me. I lusted to
go down and face the mutiny of the brutes; bit, and saddle, and
scourge into obedience man's serfs of the centuries. I watched, on
fire, the flame of the declining sun upon those sleek, vehement
creatures of the dust. And then, I know not by what subtle irony, my
zeal turned back--turned back and faded away into simple longing for
my lost friend, my peaceful beast-of-evening, Rosinante. I sat down
again in the litter of my bed and earnestly wished myself home;
wished, indeed, if I must confess it, for the familiar face of my Aunt
Sophia, my books, my bed.
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