So strong and bitter was the feeling against the horseflesh fable—­for fable, our anger notwithstanding, we insisted it was—­that thinking meat-eaters began to look upon it as a bad omen, and to wonder why a baseless rumour should stir up so much indignation.  Tales of this kind, whether or not they tallied with probability, had come to be pooh-poohed, to be treated with disdain.  Hence it was rather odd that an anecdote so racy should excite so much ferocity.

Meanwhile, the enemy, unaware of our internal troubles, had placed three new guns on Wimbleton Ridge.  This was ominous; it brought about an armistice; that is, a cessation of hostilities in the war of words against Gorle and his hippophagous designs.  A bombardment was expected; and as we might easily have our teeth incapacitated by the shells, the absurdity of bidding the hoofed gentleman good-day before we met him gave us pause in our campaign against his friends.  But the assault was directed to Kenilworth; the cannon rattled all day with a view to killing the cattle sheltered there.  Our guns, after a while, took part in the firing, and when the smoke cleared away the kine were still there—­on their feet.  A second contingent of Basutos had taken their departure in the morning, and as they did not return we presumed they had passed in safety through the Boer lines.  This accommodating spirit, while their policy of exhaustion was doing so well, must have gone against the Boer’s grain; but then Lerothodi was a sleeping dog; it was important that he should be let lie.

The vindication of the fama was completed on Monday when horseflesh in all its naked iniquity was offered for sale, as horseflesh, at the Washington Market.  Its virtual effect was to reduce our meat ration by a quarter; the authorities with rare consideration refrained from extremities, and started us with small doses of one ounce added to three of ox-flesh.  Perhaps some credit was due to the military for horse-feeding us by degrees; but certain it is, they never got it.  The people generally declined to intermix their curtailed rations with “strange food” of any kind; and the strange food accordingly remained in the shambles to do service another day—­when means could be employed, if need be, to exorcise the demon of fastidiousness that had taken possession of us.

Our historians, our booky men, were on Tuesday glib to inform us that the Siege had now extended to eighty-seven days—­the exact duration of the Siege of Lucknow.  The tribulations of Lucknow were comparatively short and sweet; for our troubles, horseflesh made us feel, were only about to begin.  Our clamour for relief had abated, and, except for an occasional spasmodic outburst, Methuen was left in peace.  Agitation in the wilderness was futile; it could not hasten emancipation from the thraldom of Martial Law.  We developed a lethargy on the broader (Imperial) issue.  The guns still threshed the air, but with